Uncle Ed, as we called him, was born in Puerto Rico, served 22 years in the United States Air Force including active time in Vietnam, earned a college degree and went on to become a successful businessman. But if that’s all I told you, you’d miss what really made him a hero.
What stood out at his memorial service is that Ed was the original American hero. The kind that never asks for recognition but earns it every single day. Married to the love of his life for 65 years, Ed and his wife raised four boys. He stayed involved in their lives, stayed close, stayed relevant - a word I’ve come to hold close in these later years of my own life. That’s what I want: to stay relevant, to be close, to matter in the lives of my children and grandchildren.
Ed mattered. And his family knew it. In the final year of his life, after a stroke left him homebound, his wife cared for him with a love and strength that is nothing short of heroic itself. And when the end was near they had a plan - just a simple text code his wife would send their boys. She sent it. And within ten minutes of his passing one night in April, all four sons were at his bedside
That’s a life well-lived. That’s a legacy. Ed was the kind of man this nation should honor.
One of the clearest expressions of Ed’s love for his family came before he even set foot in Vietnam. In the early 1970s, as he prepared to deploy with the Air Force, he made the decision to move his entire family from New York, back to Rio Piedras, Puerto Rico. He wanted them living right next door to his sister’s family; my wife’s mother and father. He left clear instructions: if something were to happen to him, he wanted his sister and brother-in-law to step in and care for his family. Of course, they would have done so without question. But the fact that he made that move to make sure his wife and sons would be surrounded by love and support in case the unthinkable happened, speaks volumes. That kind of sacrifice isn’t flashy, but it’s profound. And that act had a lasting impact, my wife and her sisters grew up with their cousins like siblings, and the bond between the two families remains strong to this day. That’s the kind of man Ed was. Always thinking ahead. Always doing the hard thing, quietly, for the good of others. You don’t see that kind of character much anymore. But that’s what made his generation different.
One of Ed's sons gave a moving eulogy, and told us what we knew, that Ed was a man who sacrificed not just for his country, but for his family. For decades. And what gave his family comfort in those final days was knowing that Ed was a man of faith. A Christian man. He read his Bible. He loved God. And he lived out his faith in the way that matters most: not with showy religiosity, but with quiet strength, daily integrity and positivity, and unwavering commitment. He didn’t preach at people. He simply lived the kind of life that made people want to know what he believed.
And then there was this small but to me a striking moment in the eulogy: his son mentioned that Ed never left the house without a tie. In today’s world of Crocs and pajama pants in the grocery store and CEOs in hoodies, that may seem like a minor point. But it’s not. It speaks to a generation of men who believed that how you present yourself mattered. It wasn’t about vanity for them. It was about dignity. About respect. My dad was the same. It was about always striving to be your best, because that’s what men of Ed's generation did. Ed brought that mindset to everything: as a husband, as a father, as a serviceman, and as a businessman. There was no “good enough” with him. There was only, “Be the best you can be.” And even if you couldn’t be the best, by God, you’d better try to be the best you could possibly be. That was Ed. That was his generation.
During my years in corporate America and in government civil service with the Navy and even in high school and post-secondary education, I always noticed a pattern: the men and women who impressed me most, who were disciplined, level-headed, steady, wise; they were almost always veterans who had long military careers. There’s something about military service that forms a person in a way nothing else does. And for those of us who haven’t served, I think we instinctively know it. We can’t always describe it, but we see it. There’s a depth of character, a quiet strength, a perspective that doesn’t come from boardrooms or degrees. It’s forged through sacrifice, through brotherhood, through hardship and discipline of military service. You can’t teach it in a classroom. You can’t simulate it in a corporate workshop. And I dare say, there’s something uniquely American about it.
And through it all, Ed had a simple mantra: “The best is yet to come.” He said it often, and he meant it. That kind of optimism is contagious, especially when it comes from a man who’d walked through war, built a life from the ground up, and finished his race surrounded by the love of his family. And as a man of faith, he believed those words were true even in his final days. Because for him, the best truly was yet to come.
The most moving part of the memorial service, for me, was the military honors. Two young men in crisp Air Force dress blues slowly and reverently unfolded the American flag. Then came the solemn notes of “Taps,” echoing like a final goodbye. A rifle squad fired their salute, jarring in the best possible way. And then, with the same careful precision, the flag was refolded and presented. One of the Airmen knelt before Ed’s wife, looked her in the eye, and expressed the nation’s gratitude for her husband’s faithful service. It was a sacred moment, simple, dignified, unforgettable.
So today, while we honor our military service men and women and express our national gratitude, I hope we also remember the quiet heroes. The ones like Ed who never made the news, never wrote a book, never ran for office. The ones who served, then came home and kept serving: at dinner tables, in small businesses, on ballfields, and in the steady routines of family and faith.
Men like Uncle Ed, Edwin Mario Pacheco.
The loudest kind of heroism is often quiet. This Veteran's Day, I give thanks for men like Uncle Ed who lived it every day.
