I stood on the concrete pier on Monday in a cold wind. The parade was small, a few old soldiers, some Boy Scouts, a couple of honor guards carrying the flags, and out in front two bag pipers with the hauntingly beautiful sound of America’s songs. My eyes focused on an old man, he could have been 80 or 90 years old more or less, wearing an old Army uniform coat, walking unsteadily on a cane. The jacket was adorned with a chest full of medals, not just the colored bars we see so frequently, but the kind that hang from ribbons, gold or bronze, and he wore a smile…