The United States Military Academy graduated its Class of 2025 recently, as has did many colleges and universities throughout the land. I attended my grandson’s University of Maine graduation. As is somewhat tradition, the sitting president or VP speaks upon the occasion at West Point. They usually stick around to shake hands to congratulate the graduates.

Alas, not this year. There was golf to get to.

Curiously, I was moved to think about Mr. and Mrs. Reilly this week. Mr. Reilly was our neighborhood milkman in New Jersey back in the days when neighborhoods had them and kids drank milk (a time before Mountain Dew or Red Bull). The Reillys were the quintessential middle-class parents. They were “Ozzie and Harriet,” except Mr. Reilly had a job.

Mrs. Reilly baked wholesome chocolate layer cakes. Their son was one of my closest friends. The Reillys had an “ice dock” rather than a garage. We’d sneak into it to cool off on a hot summer day, surrounded by glass milk bottles, 3-gallon tubs of ice cream and a deck of pinochle cards.

We attended grammar school together, after which the younger Reilly went off to an elite prep school. I would have followed him, but I’ll be damned if they didn’t require a level of scholastic achievement. Nor would they budge when my grandmother offered to write a check. Alas, I strove to achieve average, and was thrilled when I arrived at that plateau. Thank God, Morris Catholic accepted Gramma’s check.

I vividly recall our crew schlepping around town on the evening of Nov. 22, 1963. We shot baskets up at city hall. No one had much to say. As young Catholics, President John F. Kennedy was our hero. Forget Democrat or Republican — he was a Catholic. Fugeddaboudit! In 1962, President Kennedy spoke at West Point. I can only imagine how his eloquent words might have soared over the Hudson River Valley:  “… and certainly our economy must not become dependent on an ever-increasing military establishment.” Whoa! Imagine saying that back then. Or now.

In 1966, my friend applied to, and was accepted to, West Point. While we were all proud of our pal, I can’t imagine how proud Mr. and Mrs. Reilly must have felt. Sometime that first year, I vividly recall the night that same crew mustered in New York City at Mamma Leone’s — Manhattan’s Italian restaurant de rigueur at the time. The line to get in was backed up to Queens. But when the doorman noticed our splendidly uniformed friend (and the only one of us sober) we were escorted right in. It was like “Goodfellas” but instead of a “union delegate,” we were with a cadet. OK, a “plebe” — but a cadet, capiche? (I went for the veal scallopini — superb.)

Back to Mr. and Mrs. Reilly. And thousands of parents back then and now — heads and hearts filled with pride for an exemplary son or daughter, graduating and receiving their commission from West Point as newly minted officers in the United States Army. Resplendent in the elegant uniforms of the Long Gray Line.

Imagine them having to endure the misfortune of listening to a far lesser person in his own uniform of red MAGA hat and pink tie. He who carried on for a grueling, surely painful hour about “trophy wives” and lamenting unfortunate business failures (of someone else, of course). Asketh the speaker: “Trophy wives — can I say that?” Sure you can, dude! No one knows more about them. Moreover, few have more experience with business failures, salacious behavior, falsehoods or self-flattering fanfare.

Which brings me to the big, beautiful “parade” on June 14.  A dictatorial, self-ego-infused spectacle to celebrate one’s birthday. Hang the cost! Tune in to see what insanity looks like — before his administration blows out the candles on our democracy.