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.