Offering sandcastles as their most intimidating line of defense, the beaches of Normandy today present a dramatic contrast to the grainy newsreels and blurred photography that have become the collective D-Day memory of 60 years ago.

Utah, Omaha, Gold, Juno and Sword are names that have seared an image of blood and death into the consciousness of one generation. To another, they represent little more than points on a map or randomly placed markers and monuments.

Children taunt the same surf that once concealed mines, beach obstacles and defenses. The staccato report of gunfire and the panicked cries of the wounded have been replaced by gleeful shrieks and playful banter.

Beachcombers meander aimlessly while dogs dart and run as if dodging the cacophonous exchange of shells that once pummeled these shores. Today’s most threatening shells are from the oysters harvested at Utah Beach.

Beyond the hot dog stands, seaside bistros, ice cream parlors and holiday houses, however, lies a deeply rooted and unyielding respect for the memory of an invasion that liberated so many people.

Unspoken emotion resonates from the subtlety of D-Day-themed street names to the lavishness of museums with interactive technology and multimedia displays. From the predictable commercial exploitation of souvenir stalls to the perfectly manicured cemeteries, there is a presence here to move even the cynical.

In the Norman countryside, the hedgerows, once formidable impediments to Allied advances, today are less strategic advantages for the enemy and more garnishments to a placid landscape.

Inconsistent with the bucolic setting is a regular presence of crumbling concrete bunkers. From roadsides, pastures, cliffs and beaches, they cast a weary, hollow-eyed stare to the sea. Stripped of all armaments, they have, nonetheless, held their ground.

Some have been preserved in monuments and memorial parks, some have become public restrooms, some have assumed a more utilitarian function of shed or barn, and others yield to the elements of time and decay advanced by trash and graffiti, a less than dignified life sentence for all that remains of Adolf Hitler’s once imposing Atlantic Wall.

Many of the towns and villages woven into the fabric of the D-Day story continue to celebrate the Allied invasion.

Bayeux, for centuries known primarily as the home of the 11th century Bayeux Tapestry – more than 200 feet of embroidered linen depicting the Norman invasion – routinely toasts its status as the first town liberated. Surviving the war unscathed, this quaint medieval town of about 10,000 is host to an impressive museum boasting every war relic and artifact imaginable.

Nearly 5,000 dead are introduced with the simple phrase, “There name liveth forever more” in Bayeux’s Commonwealth Cemetery. As the final resting place for war dead from the United Kingdom and 10 other countries, including Germany, the expanse of Normandy’s largest commonwealth graveyard offers little preparation for the emotional toll exacted by the American Military Cemetery at St. Laurent-sur-Mer, about 10 miles to the northwest.

A nearly deserted stretch of Omaha Beach serves as a backdrop for a cemetery that has entered American consciousness through the opening scene of “Saving Private Ryan.” Acres of white marble headstones arranged in perfect symmetry attract visitors who meander among the nearly 10,000 graves.

The German cemetery at La Cambe, also northwest of Bayeux, is haunting in its solitude, lacking the steady flow of tourism. Absent any grand statuary or architectural flourishes, the more than 21,000 soldiers buried here have simple grave markers, modestly landscaped grounds and burial directories common to all the military cemeteries, extending an honorable gesture to a vanquished foe.

At Ste-Mere-Eglise, a 12th century church, legions come not to worship but to view a uniformed mannequin suspended from the bell tower, meant to represent American parachutist and local folk hero John Steele. His chute snagged by a spire on his descent, Steele feigned death while witnessing the action unfolding below. As the first town invaded by Allied forces, this community of 1,500 has made D-Day the center of its economy.

Overshadowed by the drama of Omaha Beach and the American airborne and ranger assaults was a small victory to the east at Benouville. By securing a bridge now known as Pegasus and a nearby house, British glider forces scored the day’s first successes. Relocated to a nearby museum and memorial site to accommodate a newer, larger bridge, the original structure with its bullet holes and strafing survives as part of the Pegasus Memorial exhibit. The house, now a small cafe and gift shop managed by the daughter of the D-Day-era occupants, is dedicated to the memory of its liberators.

Certainly one of the most enduring images of D-Day is that of the U.S. Army Rangers scaling the cliffs of Pointe du Hoc on Omaha Beach. A narrow footpath threads through shell craters softened by weeds and grass and among fractured concrete slabs and musty concrete caves.

If 60 years has taken its toll on these relics, it has done little to fade the memory of the liberators and even less to erode the appreciation of the liberated.