Reflections On Memorial Day, 5/27/07

Dedicated To All Those From My Hometown Who Gave Their Lives To Protect Our Country

written on 5/27/07

Today is Memorial Day. For me, this day is one full of many images from my youth, experiences of young adulthood, and reflections on the world in which I live today.

I grew up in a village of around 3,000 people. It was a momentus occasion when there were special town events. The annual Memorial Day parade in Painted Post, New York was grand.

My memories of these go back to when I was very young. My brothers, myself, and all of my friends on Erwin Street would spend hour upon hour weaving red, white and blue crepe paper streamers through the spokes of everything from tricycles to adult sized bikes. For finishing touches, dangling streamers and little flags were attached to the handlebars.

Each family would load the bicycles and the children who would ride them into the car. They would take them to the starting point of the parade, in the middle of Painted Post. The bikes were the last part of the big parade, and we were so proud to be there.

Each year the parade was led by several large automobiles with very important people in them. I was young. I had no idea who they were. I just knew they were important. It might have included the mayor, veterans from our community, and perhaps, even a beauty queen. I, also, recall one or two decorated floats. Or was that Colonial Days? Or both?

What I remember most is waving to all the bystanders along the road, sitting in their colorful folding chairs, perched atop a father's shoulders, or sitting on blankets on the ground. Everyone cheered us on. I, too, felt important.

After the cars came the marching band. When I was small, this band was very small from the local village high school. When I was older, a condolidated school district had been formed. We had a large, new high school with a bigger, more impressive band. In my memories, both bands were wonderful. Oh, yes, and there were majorettes twirling those glimmering batons, keeping the beat ahead of the band.

The children waited a long, long time to ride those carefully decorated, patriotic bikes. We were excited. We were full of energy. We loved it when we could start. Each one of us was part of a magical band of color waving down the road.

The Memorial Day parade always ended in the same place: the village cemetery. A minister would say a few words, followed by a prayer. It took a lot of effort to be quiet. Then, one lone trumpeter would play "Taps." We could all feel the emotion in those moments.

When I was a young teenager, the soldier who had been the Painted Post star high school quarterback was killed in Vietnam. That was the year that war and the unfathomable loss of war became real for me. When "Taps" was played that year, I cried.

Many years later, I visited "The Wall", the Vietnam Memorial, in Washington, D.C. I searched and searched until I found that young man's name etched in an endless list of names: each one someone's son, someone's father, someone's sister, someone's sweetheart. I left a candle in the spot in front of Eddie's name. The sea of names was overwhelming. I cried then, as well.

Today is Memorial Day. I am so much older now, and my awareness of war has grown. The World War II Veterans are dying out. In Painted Post, they were my friends and neighbors. I will always remember them.

Over the years, many veterans have shared their services stories with me. As a pastor of a church, I tended to hear the most difficult ones: health struggles after exposure to Agent Orange, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, and the undefined disabilities of the Gulf War. Now the stories also include Iraq and Afghanistan.

Yesterday, the headline for our city newspaper was the news of the death of a young soldier from one of the communities in which we used to live.. He is survived by a wife and baby. It feels like Vietnam all over again.

On this Memorial Day, I pray that we honor the memory of all those who fought and died for us. This is not a day about politics. It is a day about sacrifice.

I often wonder if my hometown still has a Memorial Day parade. Should I return, would I see the grandchildren of my friends riding their red, white and blue tricycles proudly through the town?

Though the list has grown to a long one over the years, on each Memorial Day, I always remember that first one whose death changed my perception of life. Every time I visit Washington, D.C., I go to The Wall, and find his name. I touch the etched letters. And, each time, I cry.