Today’s Memorial Day “Pic of the Day” captures a striking moment of transition: young Navy recruits receiving their first uniforms at boot camp, likely in Great Lakes, Illinois, during the 1950s. Stripped of civilian clothes, individuality, and privacy, these men stood vulnerable as they were issued military gear—a symbolic rebirth into the rigid discipline of service. This ritual, captured in stark black and white, reminds us that military sacrifice begins long before the battlefield. It starts in moments like these, where young men are shaped into soldiers, sailors, and Marines—often scared, often brave, and always changed. Many of them would go on to serve in wars far from home, some never to return. On this day of remembrance, we honor not only the fallen, but all who gave themselves, body and soul, to the uniform.
“In war, there are no unwounded soldiers.” — José Narosky
On this Memorial Day, when we pause to honor those who gave their lives in service to our country, I find myself drawn not just to the names etched in stone or the solemn rows of white crosses, but to a single image: a black-and-white photograph taken in Korea in 1953. A Marine sits in the mud of a makeshift trench, his pistol at his side, his helmet on his knee. In his hands is a tiny, orphaned kitten, and he is using a medicine dropper to feed her. The Marine is Sgt. Frank Praytor. The kitten’s name is “Mis Hap.”
The photo became famous—circulated around the world and published in Life magazine—as a symbol of unexpected tenderness in a brutal war. It offered a glimpse of compassion in the midst of chaos, a reminder that humanity survives even on the bloodied edges of conflict. The image would later help define the Korean War in popular memory, a “forgotten war” made suddenly more intimate through a moment of care.
What few people know is the full story behind that photograph—and the man behind the camera.
Frank Praytor was a journalist before he was a Marine. Born in 1927, he had been a copy boy for The Birmingham News,and while attending Birmingham Southern College he was a sports writer for The Birmingham Age-Herald. When war broke out, he volunteered for the Marine Corps, and thanks to his background, he was assigned to a press unit where he worked as a combat correspondent and photographer.
His job was to document the war—but his heart was never far from the human stories unfolding around him. When a fellow Marine’s cat was killed by a mortar shell, two orphaned kittens were left behind. Praytor took one in, fed her, cared for her, and named her “Miss Hap”—a play on “mishap,” the unfortunate accident that orphaned her. He later joked that she had “earned her name by almost being stepped on a dozen times.”
The photo of Praytor and Mis Hap would become an emblem of compassion, but it nearly cost him his career. According to later accounts, he was almost court-martialed by a commanding officer who believed the photo projected weakness and distracted from the image of Marine toughness. Fortunately, cooler heads prevailed. The Marine Corps ultimately embraced the image, recognizing that in an age of rising television and photojournalism, humanity had become part of wartime narrative. Praytor was spared, and the photograph went on to become one of the most reproduced images of the Korean War.
After the war, Frank returned home and continued his life in journalism, working for The Albuquerque Tribune and The Associated Press. He married, raised a family, and remained a storyteller at heart. He died in 2018 at the age of 90.
Sgt. Frank Praytor didn’t die in war, but he gave a part of himself to it. His service—like so many others—was not only in bullets and orders, but in moments of grace. On Memorial Day, we rightly remember the fallen, but we also honor those who carried the burden home. Some came back with wounds you could see. Others carried scars deeper and quieter. Men like Praytor showed us that even in war, gentleness is not weakness. It is courage of another kind.And sometimes, the most lasting legacy of a soldier is not a battle won, but a kitten fed.
“You, my brothers and sisters, were called to be free. But do not use your freedom to indulge the flesh; rather, serve one another humbly in love.” — Galatians 5:13
On Memorial Day, we pause not just to wave flags or grill burgers, but to remember—solemnly and with reverence—those who laid down their lives in service to this country. They died in deserts, on beaches, in jungles and skies, in places known and forgotten. Each one was a person, not just a name etched into stone.
Among them were LGBTQ+ Americans who, in every generation, answered the call to serve—even when their nation would not serve them in return.
Some lived and died in silence, hiding their full selves to avoid dishonorable discharge, imprisonment, or violence. Under policies like Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell, they were forced into shadows, where honesty could mean disgrace. Yet they still fought. Still bled. Still gave everything.
Others served proudly after the policy ended in 2011—openly gay, lesbian, and bisexual service members who finally could wear their uniforms and their identities without fear. Their courage was not only on the battlefield, but in living truthfully in spaces where truth had long been forbidden.
And still today, many transgender service members fight battles on two fronts—one abroad, and one at home. While their competence and valor are unquestioned, their right to serve remains under political siege. Recent Republican-led efforts to reinstate a transgender military ban have made this painfully clear. These attempts to erase or exclude are not just policy debates—they are messages that say, “You do not belong.”
But in God’s eyes, they do belong. They always have.
“Greater love has no one than this: to lay down one’s life for one’s friends.” — John 15:13
This verse reminds us that the greatest act of love is not found in slogans, but in sacrifice. LGBTQ+ service members—whether in silence or with open pride—have made that sacrifice. And on this Memorial Day, we must speak their names, even if history tried not to record them.
They were called to be free, just as we are called to be free. But let us not use that freedom to forget. Let us use it to serve one another humbly in love—as Paul writes in Galatians—and to advocate for those whose service has been overlooked, whose dignity is still contested.
It’s been far too long since I’ve had a proper evening out—good food, good company, and a reason to dress up a little. One thing you should know about me: I love clothes. I love the search for the perfect outfit, the anticipation of debuting something new, and the quiet confidence that comes from getting dressed up for something special. An old friend used to call me a fashion plate. I’m not sure I’d go that far, but there’s no denying I enjoy the ritual of putting together a look for a night on the town.
Tonight’s outing is long overdue. My friend and I haven’t had a dinner out together in months—perhaps not since my birthday last November. She’s my closest friend here in Vermont. We both moved here around the same time, and we’re both originally from the same part of Alabama, so we share a lot of common ground. But this past semester has been a whirlwind for us both—busy schedules, long days, and not enough energy left for social plans. Until now.
We’ve had this dinner on the calendar all week, and we’re both looking forward to it. It’s not just the company—it’s the destination. The restaurant we’re heading to is a favorite of ours, set along the banks of a cascading river. The sound of rushing water over rocks has always had a calming effect on me. It’s the kind of place where the setting enhances the whole evening.
The ambiance inside is just as appealing: a harmonious blend of industrial and rustic design, softened with modern lighting and eclectic furnishings. It strikes that perfect balance—classy without being stuffy, hip without trying too hard. The crowd is always mixed, which gives it a lively, unpredictable energy that I love.
In the past, I would have picked an outfit well in advance, something I’d been waiting for the right occasion to wear. But lately, with my weight loss, I’m at that in-between stage—too small for many of my old clothes, but not quite ready to invest in a whole new wardrobe. Still, I have a few pieces that fit well and make me feel good. Tonight’s look is simple but springlike: a muted yellow oxford shirt and crisp, light khaki pants. Fresh, clean, and just dressy enough.
Whatever I wear and whatever I eat tonight, the real joy will be sharing the evening with a friend who understands me, in a place that feels both comforting and a little bit special. After all, sometimes the best nights out aren’t about anything extravagant—they’re about reconnecting, relaxing, and remembering how good it feels to just be.
I’ve been on vacation this week, and honestly—it’s been really nice. Except for having to go into work on Thursday this week and next (the museum is short-staffed during the summer), it’s been a true break. I’ll be the only one there, which makes things easier, and while today might bring an art shipment and a backlog of emails, I’ve done my best to stay away from my inbox. Out-of-office reply firmly in place.
What’s been especially lovely is not having to get up and rush anywhere. Isabella, of course, still insists on waking me up between 4 and 4:30 a.m., but without the usual morning scramble—deciding what to wear, prepping for the day—it’s felt like a small luxury. I’ve still gone to Planet Fitness, but my trainer has been under the weather this week, so I’ve kept it simple and just walked on the treadmill. Hopefully, he’s back tomorrow so we can return to our regular sessions.
In other news, some of you may remember that my doctor referred me to a gastroenterologist, but the earliest appointment I could get was in November. I asked to be put on the cancellation waitlist, though I was warned I was near the bottom and not to get my hopes up.
Well, surprise! On Tuesday morning, they called and asked if I could come in that afternoon. I was there by 1 p.m.
I’m really glad I got to see him. This liver issue has been weighing on my mind. He explained all the different potential causes for the scarring shown on my ultrasound and liver elastography. But here’s the good news: he doesn’t believe the test results are accurate. The techs who performed the exam apparently had difficulty getting proper measurements, and he said liver elastography isn’t always reliable—especially since my bloodwork has never shown any major liver issues. Some numbers have been mildly elevated now and then, but nothing alarming.
He said there are two more accurate ways to assess liver damage: a liver MRI or a biopsy. I’ve had an MRI before (of my brain, no less), and he assured me this one would be much easier. As for the biopsy—he said it’s more involved and, frankly, about as unpleasant as it sounds. It’s usually a last resort.
He ran a few blood tests, checking for Hepatitis A and a genetic condition called hemochromatosis (which causes iron overload). The results came back clear—perfect iron levels and an unexpected bonus: I apparently have immunity to Hep A. I’m not sure how, but I missed his call and got that info from a voicemail.
His overall impression was reassuring. With my recent weight loss and commitment to healthier habits—eating better, regular gym visits—he believes the liver scarring may heal on its own. That sounds like good news to me.
Now it’s time to get ready for work. Wishing everyone a good day—and if you’re on vacation too, I hope it’s as restful as mine has been.
🐈⬛
I almost forgot the Isabella Pic of the Week. Even she knows she’s pretty and can’t stop looking at herself.
Joe
The Closet Professor 