And We Remember: Reflections on Memorial Day

Memorial Day.  With summer peeking her head around the corner, the last Monday in May is marked as a day for parades and cookouts, with front porch flags lining the streets of small-town America.  As with other holidays, it’s easy to get so wrapped up in the gathering together for a party that we forget why it’s a holiday – or, as the word initially meant, a holy-day.   Memo to self – Memorial Day is a time set aside to remember those we have lost, those who have served, those who have sacrificed. 

What do we remember?  I start with my peers, the oh-so-young men (and a few women) who went to Vietnam – 2.7 million of them, 9% of our generation, mostly those a bit older than me, as my high school cohort hit the tail end of Vietnam.  By the time we graduated in 1973, the draft was over, and while we were still in the war until the fall of Saigon in 1975, it was generally our older siblings and cousins who made that life-changing trek to the jungles so far away.

We wore the MIA bracelets for those who didn’t return.  Mine was Major John Held, 4-17-68. Although the broken pieces of the bracelet have been consigned to the bottom drawer of my jewelry box for many years, his name comes to mind easily.  We trace his name and all the names of those who died on a wall in Washington and we remember. 

My father’s adult life began with a stint in the U.S. Army.  He was 18 in 1941, just a kid who ate his meal quickly so he got dessert.  Harboring a dream of life as a paratrooper, he drove truck and peeled potatoes as he served his country.  Spared the horrors of D-Day in Europe, his war occurred in the Philippines, as his unit moved among a people devastated by the Japanese invasion of their country.  We receive the flag of our country in his honor and we remember.

Much of our current context for military service is framed by deployments to Iraq and now Afghanistan, although many serve on bases scattered across the world.  With the wonders of Skype, we no longer watch the mailbox for the pale blue airmail letters, but those we love are still far away and still serve in dangerous situation. We watch the send-off of our area’s finest men and women – not all as young as those who went to World War II or Vietnam – and we remember.

My parents modeled what it means to remember as they faithfully tended the gravesites of their parents and other relatives at Elmlawn and Mt. Olivet, and then traveled to North Tonawanda for my dad’s family plots. My siblings and I would run and play among the tombstones and markers, searching for silly names and sticking our feet in the fountain. We weren’t especially reverent, but the visits to the cemetery were an accepted part of the rhythm of life growing up in the 60’s. 

After all those years of cemetery visits, my mother decided to scatter my father’s ashes in the Niagara River and have a tree planted in his memory along the bikepath he dearly loved.  I like that.  It helps to think of my dad pedaling alongside the river, checking out the family of ducks and nodding to greet friends along the way, rather than boxed in among rows and rows of dead people.  Nothing against cemeteries, but this was a good choice for my dad. Regardless of location, at the end of the day we can pause at a tree, a gravesite, a photo album, and we remember.  

This Memorial Day, my family will be together as we remember.  I’m not sure if we’ll get to the cemetery to honor our ancestors, but we’ll be sure to visit Grandpa’s tree along the bikepath, listen for the 6 a.m. cannon blast (not sure why that commemorates Memorial Day in Tonawanda, NY, but it’s tradition), and crank up the ice cream freezer.  We’ll lick the dasher for you, Dad, and amidst the laughter and stories, we’ll not forget the empty chairs, the empty arms, the empty hearts:  we remember.