My father was a WWII veteran. When I was a child he was an active member of the American Legion, and as such, every year he helped decorated the graves in our small-town cemetery of those who had served in the military. It was my great delight to join him, from the time I was very small. He would slather me up with bug spray, because the mosquitoes were always fierce, and we'd drive to the graveyard in his convertible. Weather permitting the roof was down, and the wind would whip my long hair across my face and eyes, smarting. I didn't care. My legs, under shorts, would stick to the sun-warmed leather seats, and I can still remember how the car smelled of Half and Half pipe tobacco. Inside the trunk would be boxes filled with small American flags, neatly rolled. I would help carry them, and by the time I was 8 or 10, I could remember where most of the veterans final resting places were, "Where is ____?" my dad would question, and I'd say, "He's the one covered up in the old spruce!" I'd dip and bend, crawling under the heavy branches and tucking a flag in front of the obscured stone. Or, "He is the one up that path on the top of the hill." Dad would smile and hand me a flag, probably glad to let my little legs do the running over the stone studded acres.
On Memorial Day he would put his old uniform on, and it still fit. He'd leave early, but soon after, my mother, siblings and I would walk down the long dirt driveway, and to the end of our street, where neighbors would already be gathered. After a short wait we'd hear the sound of the local marching band, and sirens. The fire trucks, shined up and boasting flags, would lead the parade. A police car, with it's blue bubblegum light on the roof, would sound its keening cry as it approached. Convertibles with veterans too elderly to walk the parade route would wave as they drove by. Troops of Brownies, Girl and Boy Scouts straggled along. Solemn Legion Members marched, the color guard holding tall flags. My father and some other men would carry rifles over their shoulders. One year when I was very small, dad silently extended his hand and let me march alongside him. I was gobsmacked. When my legs got tired, impossibly tall Mr. Hopping, dapper in his sailor uniform and stark white Dixie cup hat, lifted me to his shoulder. The view was incredible.
The parade would wind through the ancient iron gates of the cemetery, with the townspeople in tow. A hush would fall. There would be a few short speeches, interrupted by the sound of kids slapping at mosquitoes, and the occasional baby crying. The local pastor would say a prayer.At some point my father and some other men would fire off their rifles. The children would scurry to pick up the hot brass cartridges that landed at the men's feet. They smelled sharp and were hot enough to burn a soft, small hand. I still have one in my jewelry box. Next a member of the band would step forward and play taps on their bugle. From up in the woods the notes were hauntingly echoed back by a hidden musician. I would feel a chill that started at the top of my head and rushed down my spine.
Afterwards relatives would come to our house, and we would have hotdogs and burgers on the grill. There would be deviled eggs, stuffed celery, potato salad, and maybe an icebox cake for dessert. If the weather was warm enough, the younger and braver kids might try out the pool. I thought Memorial Day would always be just like it was in those days, but time streams on and things change. Luckily, the memories of my small town Memorial Day holiday linger resplendently. And I am grateful.
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