"Are you going to follow any of us old timers around and listen to our stories?"

With a notebook and pen in my hand and a bag with a camera, camcorder and mini laptop strapped around my shoulder, I turned to locate the source of the question. I recognized the man, remembering his face when he and I boarded the King Coal Tour bus earlier that morning - I had made a mental note at 7 a.m. to talk to him later in the day.

I barely had a chance to tell the father and son duo of whom I had been taking photographs that I would catch up with them before this gray-haired fellow started sharing his story with me. In the pleasant October weather that accompanied us in the nation's capital, I swiftly placed the pen tip against the paper and started documenting his story.

"I lost too many friends... Too many. I wonder sometimes if they were alive today, if they'd say it was all worth it. I wonder sometimes myself if it was worth it," he said on the grounds of The National World War II Memorial.

There were tears in the corner of his eyes and he spoke slowly, his voice full of emotion. I didn't even know this man's name yet, and here he was sharing such intimate details. I could tell, as I attempted to jot down everything he said, that even though he was sifting through 80-plus years worth of memories, these moments, these war-time recollections, were right there on the surface.

When I was given the assignment to travel with 40 veterans and some of their family members to the war memorials of Washington, D.C., my first reaction was one of excitement. After all, it's not every day I get to try out new company equipment (our "Netbook" mini-laptop) or take a free trip to the nation's capital. It was only after I learned that many of the veterans would be seeing these war memorials for the first time - some even seeing the city itself for the first time - that I was apprehensive.

The veteran's name, I soon learned, was John Yost, an 86-year-old Elysburg man who was drafted into the U.S. Army 30th Infantry Division at the age of 19 in 1944. He was discharged in 1945 after three injuries from battles in France and Germany. He was seeing the monument for the first time.

He reminded me a lot of my grandfather, George T. Hunt - or Pop, as I affectionately called him. Pop, too, was a World War II veteran of the Army, serving with the 405th Field Artillery, 8th Armored Division, in the European Theater for 18 months. Pop was a storyteller, too, who could converse with just about anyone for hours at a time. His stories were long ones, with eccentric hand waving and loud clapping. Shamefully, I rarely listened to his tales, and before I grew old enough to realize it should mean something to me, it was too late. Pop died three years ago from a heart attack at the age of 81.

I wish I would have listened to his stories more.

Looking back and reviewing my notes, I can imagine Pop thinking or saying some of the things John had told me. John explained how war was completely different in the 1940s compared to current times, saying, "Everybody was in it, not like today. Everything goes on like nothing has happened." John even wondered if people still remembered what he and his generation had to do to preserve freedom.

"I don't know if people care about it anymore," he admitted.

John and I walked silently around the memorial until we reached the Pennsylvania pillar. I offered to take his photograph with his disposable camera so he would have something by which to remember the trip. I then captured a few moments of my own with my work camera. After several minutes, I thanked him for allowing me to talk to him, shook his hand and moved on.

Immediately, I ran into the gentlemen I had promised to catch up with, Andrew Szoke, a 90-year-old World War II veteran from Kulpmont, and his son, Jeff, of Wilkes-Barre. With awe on his face, Andrew told me how multiple people who had noticed his VFW post commander hat had approached him and thanked him for his service. It had been his first time at the memorial as well.

It was only a minute before another middle-aged woman approached Andrew and asked, "Are you a World War II veteran?" When he said that he was, she bent lower - he was in a wheelchair for the day - took his wrinkled hand in her own and thanked him.

I talked to Andrew and Jeff a few moments later outside the memorial on a park bench and would later eat dinner with them at a restaurant in Maryland. Both were amazed at the kindness of complete strangers. Andrew would continuously wonder if the day we went - Thursday, Oct. 22 - had any special significance to explain people's actions.

"A lot of these people, it happened before their lifetime," he said on the bench, suggesting that perhaps they were just now realizing how important the sacrifice of his generation was.

What I do for a living is listen to people's stories and interpret them for a larger audience. Some tales are harder than others to tell, but, sometimes, when you're lucky, a story like John's or Andrew's or one of the other veterans on the trip falls into your lap, and the story practically writes itself.

Since today is Veterans Day, take a moment yourself and listen to a veteran's story. Remember what they did. Remember what they gave. Remember what they sacrificed. Remember.

Because you never know when it might be too late to hear their stories again.