There was a time I didn’t celebrate Memorial Day. The pain was too raw. The anger too smothering The bewilderment too paralyzing.
When the five-year-old Kathy with her hands reverently grasping the miniature flags accompanied her mother, it was an honor to be chosen to be the one that placed the flags by the weathered and faded gravestones for the Memorial Day celebration. My mom didn’t have to explain. I just knew that this was important and somehow honored those that sacrificed so I might be free to run and play without fear.
My mother always paused going into the grocery store to drop a few coins in a tin and proudly placed the paper mache´ poppy in her buttonhole. She instilled in me the importance of surrendering my small allowance to get a poppy for my coat. She would look down at me and say “They gave so much Kathleen, the least you can do is give them your allowance.”
My mom came of age during Word War II. She had two brothers and five brothers-in-laws that were drafted and served around the world.
All returned to loving arms but I always wondered why I never heard one conversation about their service. Only after a few beers, my Uncle Bob would remind my Uncle John that it was Uncle Bob’s regiment that rescued Uncle John’s division from the Bulge. Mom noted that my Uncle John was the most affected when he returned. He had multiple buddies killed right beside him and eventually refused to be assigned a buddy. He said he rather go on alone. There was a sadness that encircled him that a child could not fathom.
When I was a teenager I found my grandmother’s diary. I noticed the entry for Dec. 7, 1941. It said, “Tonight the president told us that Japan bombed Pearl Harbor. We are at war again.” She then proceeded on noting the bread and cookies she made that day. It struck me how calmly and without reservation she accepted the reality of war and what it meant.
I had two best friends in high school, Mary and Jim. We were inseparable. After we survived the high school, we attended the local community college. At the end of our sophomore year, I decided to transfer to a state university. Mary chose marriage to Ed and began to raise a family. Jim was drafted and went to Vietnam.
On Sept. 25, 1969, I heard the phone ring in the lobby down the hall of my dormitory. I walked down and was surprised Mary was calling. The next two minutes would change my life forever. Those rose-colored glasses would fall from my eyes and smash on that tiled floor. I truthfully don’t remember the conversation only a few words. “I need to tell you something, Jim’s gone, landmine, so sorry. Will let you know when the services are.”
The next week was a blur. The two things I remember was a flag draped over a coffin and a 21-gun salute that felt as if every bullet pierced my heart. On that day I lost my reverence for anything military. How could I celebrate the institution that took my childhood and my best friend from me?
My disillusionment lasted until I visited the Vietnam Memorial in 1989 on Memorial Day. I was accompanied by my husband and three children. I saw veterans battered with untold stories, mothers placing flowers at the base, and an honor guard at reverent attention. I found his name on the wall, the wall that stretched forever with the names of thousands that sacrificed so much. I was struck by the enormity of how many dreams had ended in the jungles of southeast Asia. I had an epiphany that this was bigger than my solitary loss. It was about the service to one’s country and all the privileges that so many of us take for granted. I wept for my childhood lost and the sacrifices of so many. I again was humbled by that sacrifice and duty of so many so that I may watch my children thrive in a country that is the home of the brave.
Our vacation also took us to Arlington Cemetery. If you ever doubt the enormity of war, go there and gaze across the endless fields of crosses. It is then when I realized why my mother decorated those faded and worn graves. She knew the price that was paid.
Here’s the thing: On Monday the nation will pause to celebrate another Memorial Day, a tradition that began in 1866 in remembrance of the lives lost in the civil war. Many wars have occurred since then and Declaration Day became Memorial Day, a federal holiday observed the last Monday in May. Its importance has changed and some of the meaning has been lost. No matter what your politics are, no matter what your prediction for the future is, no matter if you have personally felt the pain of sacrifice, pause and pay homage. I will, and I’ll proudly wear that poppy on my lapel.
mamaschwartz@hotmail.com
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Editor’s Note: This is one of a series of articles written by a group of retired and current teachers — LaNae Abnet, Ken Ballinger, Billy Kreigh, Kathy Schwartz, Anna Spalding. Their intent is to spur discussions at the dinner table and elsewhere. You may also voice your thoughts and reactions via The News-Banner’s letters to editor.
