We Remember

Memorial Day weekend. Summer is on our doorstep, the iris are blooming, and we pause to remember.

Until 1971, the day was known as Decoration Day, named for the practice of decorating the graves of those who died in the War Between the States. No war, before or since, would exact such a high cost on the people of America. It had been a terrible war, and there were too many graves to decorate, 620,000 of them, casualties of a conflict where 2% of the population died during the war. Some survived the battle, only to succumb to the terrors of dysentery and typhoid fever. As we read the history books, as we toured Gettysburg, as we decorated the graves, we remembered.

There was a rhythm to Decoration Day, as my family followed the familiar script of honor. First, we joined our neighbors at the parade, where veterans squeezed into freshly-pressed uniforms, and old and young alike stood to salute the flag as it passed by our curbside seats. Some veterans proudly marched, while others consigned war to their past life, content as postal workers and painters, farmers and physicians.   

A visit to the cemetery followed the parade, to trim the grass and arrange the flowers, planting a tiny American flag on the graves of those who served. Often, as we paused at the gravesites, my mother would repeat the words committed to memory as a girl, penned by John McCrae in the early days of the Great War (World War I). “In Flanders fields the poppies blow between the crosses, row on row, that mark our place, and in the sky the larks, still bravely singing, fly scarce heard amid the guns below.” I probably stopped paying attention after the first line, as I’d heard it all before. But its middle stanza is chilling: “Short days ago we lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow, loved and were loved, and now we lie in Flanders fields.” No wonder McCrae’s words were worthy of memorization.

After the annual duty of remembrance had been fulfilled, there was time for the picnic, for the homemade root beer, freshly churned ice cream, and croquet on the lawn. The backyard pool was ready for use as well, although the water temperature seemingly hovered around freezing. The years I marched two miles in a heavy wool band uniform, the water felt just right.

As the years have continued to roll past us, the rhythm of the day has altered. In communities across our country, the marchers still gather, led by the high school band, but the old guard, the WWII vets, are nearly gone. Few remain who stood shoulder to shoulder with the more than 400,000 who lost their lives in WW II. My peers, veterans of Viet Nam, still rev up their motorcycles in salute, but they’re genuine card-carrying Golden Buckeyes in 2016. And as we thank God for our younger brothers and sisters who serve today, we give thanks that fewer coffins are arriving at Andrew Air Force Base than in the decades of the twentieth century.

Many of us have moved from our childhood communities, and for us, there are no graves under our town’s elms with the family name, no granite tombstones to decorate with lilacs, peonies, or geraniums. I won’t get to my hometown this weekend, but I trust my siblings will visit the tree along the bike path that remembers my own father and mother, and trim the grass and plant a miniature Stars and Stripes before they churn the ice cream, drink the root beer, and brave the chilly pool water.

I’m not sure my mother recited her beloved poem much in recent years, but this Memorial Day, she is no longer among us to do so. So I’ll finish the poem as together we remember. “To you from falling hands we throw the torch, be yours to hold it high. If ye break faith with us who die we shall not sleep, though poppies grow in Flanders fields.” Grateful this Memorial Day weekend for those who served and for those who still serve; for those who lived, loved and were loved. We remember.

Kids in the White House

The film is grainy, the image iconic. Instead of balloons and birthday cake in the White House, John F. Kennedy Jr. marked his third birthday with a brief salute to his father’s casket; then rubbed his eyes, a tired little boy in need of his afternoon nap.

As I recently read of Malia Obama’s impending high school graduation and her acceptance into Harvard, my thoughts wandered back to my early memories of the young residents of the White House, beginning with the Kennedy children. I was enchanted by toddler John-John, peeking out from under his father’s desk, his older sister Caroline and her pony Macaroni, and the handsome president known to sneak bubble gum to his children when the First Lady wasn’t looking. Their stay at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue was tinged with tragedy, as their baby brother Patrick Bouvier Kennedy died shortly after birth in August 1963, and John’s poignant salute following his father’s assassination marked the end of their residency within its walls.

Caroline wasn’t the first presidential child to ride a pony on the grounds of the White House, but she stopped short of the antics of Teddy Roosevelt’s six children. Historian Bonnie Angelo suggests that “Roosevelt’s sons were fantastic scoundrels,” full of pranks and tricks. To comfort a sick brother, Quentin coaxed Algonquin, his pony, into the White House elevator and down the hall to Archie’s bedroom. Not sure what the President thought about that particular escapade, but he did say, “I don’t think that any family has ever enjoyed the White House more than we have.”

The Johnson and Nixon daughters were older than Caroline and John when their fathers entered the oval office, so the eyes of the American people turned to the details of White House weddings, eager to see the beautiful brides on the arms of their famous fathers. But children returned to its halls when the Carters entered the White House with ten-year-old Amy. Later, the twelve-year-old Chelsea Clinton, code name “Energy,” came to Washington, and then George and Laura Bush brought us a set of college-bound “first twins,” Jenna and Barbara Bush. And now, Malia and Sasha Obama, ten and seven on move-in day, are growing into beautiful young women before our eyes.

As a child, I was enchanted by these special children. How fun to be a First Kid, with a Secret Service code name, a presidential tree house, and an Easter egg roll on your lawn. It wasn’t until I was a mother in my own mini-fishbowl of a pastor’s family that I gave much thought to the parenting challenges faced by POTUS and FLOTUS, or by other families living in the public eye. No way would I want to live through an adolescent meltdown in the Rose Garden.

As Barack and Michelle Obama prepared to enter the White House more than seven years ago. Malia and Sasha were still young children. How could they provide stability for their daughters? How to maintain some level of privacy? Could the girls have a Facebook page? How could they protect the innocence of their childhood? Apparently they got some advice from former First Parents, and they get a helping hand with day-to-day companionship from grandmother Marian Robinson, who has lived with the family since inauguration day.

I’m convinced that parents in Ashland Ohio and in Washington, D.C. share similar hopes and dreams for our kids – and grandkids. Here’s what the father who happened to be president wrote to his children in 2009: “These are the things I want for you – to grow up in a world with no limits on your dreams and no achievements beyond your reach, and to grow into compassionate, committed women who will help build that world. And I want every child to have the same chances to learn and dream and thrive that you girls have. That’s why I’ve taken our family on this great adventure.”

Learning, dreaming and thriving: a hope for Caroline, Amy, Chelsea, Jenna, Barbara, Malia and Sasha; for the lovely Madelyn Simone and the delightful Elizabeth Holiday; and for children near and far, no matter the color of their house.

So Long, Farewell

“The jury is in.” With those fateful words, the very existence of Peter Florrick and his somewhat less than good wife Alicia was left hanging in the balance until tomorrow night, when the television drama “The Good Wife” will come to an end. I know it’s not real life, but I’ll miss Alicia and the cast of supporting characters we’ve welcomed into our living room on Sunday evenings for the past few years.

I grew up in the pre-cable TV era, and early on associated television programs with nights of the week, especially during the long Buffalo winters. No DVRs, Netflix, or on-demand in those days. Sundays gave us Lassie and Bonanza, along with Walt Disney and his signature music, “When You Wish Upon a Star.” Wednesdays juxtaposed Lost in Space with the Beverly Hillbillies, while Thursdays’ favorites included The Munsters, Gilligan’s Island and Bewitched. And on Saturday nights, I’d set up stools of varying heights in preparation for Dick Clark and his American Bandstand, interactive television at its roots.

I’ve tried telling the lovely Madelyn Simone that when I was her age, the TV programs were in black and white, we only had one television in the house, and everybody watched the same show - together. She cannot fathom that cartoons were only available on Saturday morning, rolling her eyes in disbelief.

Back in those days, we connected with the characters on our television sets. Watching Petticoat Junction, I begged to change my name to Amy Jo so I could be like Billie Jo, Betty Jo, and Bobbie Jo of Hooterville. And it just wasn’t the kids. Early in our marriage, Larry and I came to visit his parents one day and his mother was in tears. “I’m so upset,” she told us. “My friend died today.” “Oh, I’m so sorry. How did you know her?” I asked. “She’s on my story (meaning soap opera).”

Like Larry’s mother, America had a hard time saying goodbye to its favorite shows and their familiar characters. When Sam had to tell a late-night patron that Cheers was closed, we mourned the demise of the place where everybody knows your name. St. Elsewhere left us shaking our heads over the image of a little boy and a snow globe. The ending montage for Six Feet Under was a keeper, as death’s icy fingers stretched far into the future. And when Mary Tyler Moore turned off the lights in the WJM newsroom for the last time, we all reached for the box of tissues.

Then there was MASH. Millions of us, dressed in scrubs and fatigues, gathered together on the night of February 28, 1983 to bid farewell to the life-like characters of the 4077^th MASH. We’d truly miss Hawkeye, Hotlips Houlihan, the cross-dressing Klinger, and the long-suffering Colonel Potter, who finally got to go home to his beloved Mildred.

Whether it’s Cheers, Breaking Bad or Downton Abbey, our viewing preferences may change, but our identification with the characters remains strong. I may not want to be one of the “Jo” sisters of Hooterville anymore, but on The Good Wife, I’m drawn to Luca’s strength and pragmatism, and Elsbeth Tascioni’s quirky brilliance. I love how Diane can maintain her composure under any circumstance, and I’ve enjoyed Marissa’s growth from Alicia’s body woman to a prospective law school student.

As for Alicia, my feelings for her are summed up in early dialogue, when her mother-in-law said, “I am doing the best I can,” to which Alicia responded, “Well, join the club.” As Alicia experiences the confusion arising from the tension between her own desires and her responsibilities, I silently scream “don’t do it” or shout, “you go, girl!” Don’t judge me (smiley face emoticon).

To engage my readers in meaningful thought beyond pleasurable television memories, I’ll draw upon the wisdom of G. K. Chesterton from “What I Saw in America” to conclude. “I wish we could sometimes love the characters in real life as we love the characters in romance. There are a great many human souls whom we should accept more kindly, and even appreciate more clearly, if we simply thought of them as people in a story.” Good counsel for 1922 – and 2016.