I’ve always struggled a little bit to put the word “happy” in front of “Memorial Day”. And I think this is why… it’s not what I would consider a celebration. The word “memorial” is mostly used in reference to a death of a loved one- a commemoration of a life that was lived and that we, in their death, now honor. In this case, Memorial Day, feels somewhat somber to me. Fourth of July? Yeah, that’s a celebration, because we stuck it to the Brits and gained our independence. Which is great for so many reasons, but most recently, because we can watch the entire Harry, Meghan, Charles and Camilla thing play out and breathe a sigh of relief that we’re not tied to that shit show. (Apologies to my English and Scottish family members).
When I was in high school, our band instructor, Mr. Hogan, requested that all of us show up for the Memorial Day parade to march as a band. It was usually in the upper 80’s and 90’s, our heavy uniforms were stifling and it wasn’t uncommon for one or two of the band members to pass out while we stood in the cemetery during speeches given by Veterans and pastors. I credit Mr. Hogan a great deal for the respectful and reverent expectations that he had of us in that parade. As we neared the cemetery, we stopped playing the patriotic music that we played through town; instead, it was just the drum line who played a quiet cadence and escorted us through the cemetery gates and onto the grounds, near one of the veteran’s grave sites where speeches would be heard. To close the ceremony, someone from the band played “Taps”. The National Anthem and Taps are two musical pieces that can guarantee some tear shed on my part, regardless of where I am- high school football games, baseball stadiums, band concerts. Those pieces stir up emotions that are hard to explain to most people and the Memorial Day parade was no exception. It’s not what I would label a “happy” parade.
During our most recent wars after 9/11, I remember standing on the side of Henderson Street in Galesburg, watching the car that carried a young man from Knoxville who didn’t make it home from the war. His name was Caleb Lufkin. I knew that a procession was going through town after his body was being returned to the area. If I remember correctly, he was flown into the Moline airport and escorted to Knoxville, through Galesburg, so people could pay their respects as the casket passed through town. I pulled over in a parking lot and got my two boys out of the car, then ages six and three, and we stood and watched that heartbreaking processional. I remember little Sam asking me “Mama, why you tryin’?” (Sam was so tiny and sweet and couldn’t pronounce any sound that came from the throat, so hard Gs, Ks and Cs were out of range. In itself, it was often more than I could handle and would melt my heart). So hearing those words were almost too much at that moment because how do I explain to a three-year-old that I was crying for this soldier’s mother and the pain she must have felt- the hopelessness, the anger, the ache that can never be resolved that comes with the acceptance of the fact that she will never see him again, watch him get married, love on his grandchildren.
For those of us with family members overseas, fighting that same war, who constantly prayed that we would never have to sit in the car that followed that casket, there was pain for that too. My heart broke for his family and friends that would never see him again and while there is a great deal of pride in those of us who have family members who have served, there is also a deep ache, entrenched in the souls of many family and friends whose loved ones didn’t come home.
I worked with someone in Galesburg who lost her father in Vietnam. She went to Washington D.C. and walked along the the wall of the Vietnam Veterans Memorial to find his name. A couple of years ago, the traveling replica of that wall was brought to my hometown through the hard work and tireless efforts of some very dedicated people in the town where I grew up. On a smaller scale, I walked along that wall, also with the purpose of finding his name- Robert Joseph Davis. I didn’t know him. But I know his daughter and I wish she could have grown up with him and had the experience of being a daddy’s girl.
What amazes me the most about these families is that they never play the victim. They never give us the impression that any of this is about them. They simply mourn in their own ways, in their own time and when asked, they talk about their loved ones with pride and love. They never discuss the price.
Memorial Day is a day to honor those who have died in the name of love of country. So I wish for all of you a safe weekend, but please take a moment to remember those who didn’t make it home and won’t be there for the cookouts and the bonfires this weekend. Before you fire up the grill, say a little prayer for their families who know all too well exactly what this day means.