Memorial Day
My earliest
recollections of Memorial Day were fashioned on by the great oxbows of the
Oddly these
memories go back, not to the lilac days of late May but to the slush and ice of
early March when year after year some old man would stand at town meeting and ask
that $150.00 be spent for the “observance”
Memorial Day. This appropriate was always “warned” and listed in the town
report as Article three.
It was always
approved. Without dissent.
For me Memorial
Day was always fun. There was celebration in the air. Adults would become
preoccupied with the holiday and in that vacuum we kids found ways to raise a
bit more hell than usual.
Besides
Memorial Day signaled the end of the school year and back then (without adults
laying in wait to organize our lives for this or that future purpose) summer
stretched before us like an unending dream.
Then there
were the parades: Tiny little parades with bicycles and farm wagons and groups
of adults that would walk by waving at us for no apparent reason.
If we
managed to get a ride up to the parade in Newbury’s northern
The effect
of a live marching band was electric to us country kids – the cadence of real
drums, the call of brass instruments, the melody of the flutes.
“When Johnny comes marching home again, hooray,
hooray!”
But that was
long ago.
Now I
realize that so much of life is like the unfolding of a cruel oxymoron whereby
contradictions are camouflaged with hope and melancholy is masked with
celebration.
And Johnny
doesn’t come marching home.
Memorial Day
it seems to me is both a celebration and a lament. We celebrate, we honor, we
remember, humankinds greatest of attributes, the one thing that separates us
form all the other creatures of the earth, the fact that some of us, when
called upon to give their lives for others of us, will do so. Courage, honor,
bravery (what Hemmingway called the capacity to suspend the imagination): these
are real and they are sacred. And yes they are represented by the flowing stars
and stripes of the flag of the
At the same
time there is sadness the air. For we come together to lament another human
attribute: our cursed capacity to get it wrong, to make horrible misjudgments. To let war happen. There is a certain clenched fist rage
involved as well. Why, why, must the bugles cry and mothers weep? Why can’t we
do something about it?
The answer
as Bob Dylan wrote so long ago is beyond us. It is blowing in the wind.
And so it we
are left with Memorial Day.
We come
together because we choose to honor the very best in ourselves – those that
made the ultimate sacrifice so that the rest of us could continue the struggle
to find the way to insure that no more sacrifices be made.
There is no
better place on the planet to do this than