Memorial Day
So this is from a couple of years ago – but it’s more important today than it was even then. Memorial Day should remember those who served – but also remember those veterans we are losing in overwhelming numbers to the pandemic.
I don’t remember growing up with any specific “Memorial Day” activities. My parents were both veterans, unusual for the World War II, “Greatest” generation. Dad was a Warrant Officer, part of the Army finance operations. My Mom, a British citizen (she never gave it up) was an agent of the Special Operations Executive.
Memorial Day was many days during the year, with parties in the “living room,” bourbon, scotch, and whiskey in tumblers and cigarettes in the boxes on the table. The conversation often turned to what they did during the war. It allowed me to grow up with a special awareness of the impact of World War II; after all, I wouldn’t have been here without it.
My Mom and Dad met in London, a blind date at the Queen’s Brasserie restaurant. (As a child I wasn’t really sure what the Queen’s Brassiere was all about.) He was from Cincinnati, stationed in England waiting for the invasion. She was home in England, back from being behind enemy lines making preparations to invade. According to them, they fell madly in love at the first dinner and walked the blacked out streets as the bombs fell.
There wedding was scheduled for June 6, 1944. In early March they were both notified that they would be unavailable for that date (it turned out to be D-Day) and the wedding was moved up to March 27th. Soon after, Dad went to a secure base outside of Southampton to wait, and Mom went back over to France to coordinate with the Maquis.
They both managed to survive the ordeal of the last year of the war. They came home, back to Cincinnati, with drive and determination to start a family and make their life strong and successful. Their friends did as well. Art ended up serving in both World War II and Korea. Buddy commanded segregated troops before the invasion. Walter was a prisoner of war. We grew up with their stories.
It was never a question about honoring their service. They knew they had saved the world from Fascism, and we recognized their sacrifices. They had missing friends, the stories of those who didn’t come home. My Mom’s fiancé (before my Dad) was one of those.
As I grew up in the throes of the Vietnam War (I was a couple of years too young to go) it was a difficult contrast: the sacrifice my parents made to “save the world” versus the sacrifice my older friends were being asked to make in Southeast Asia. And even a more challenging distinction: being against the war without being against those who fought it. Memorial Day was difficult. America didn’t get that part right then, and we still owe those folks now.
Later, as a teacher and coach, I had the privilege and fear of watching many of my students go to serve. They were in Lebanon when the barracks were bombed, Iraq when the scuds were launched; they served as special operators in Iraq and snipers in Afghanistan. Today they serve on Navy ships, fly Air Force planes, drive Army tanks and proudly wear Marine dress blues. They take the lessons of our classroom, and maybe more significantly, the family of our team; and use those early experiences to help keep our country safe.
So it’s Memorial Day. Today, and most days, I think about the sacrifices of those who have passed, not just the Greatest Generation, but also my friends who served in more recent times. As the rabid politics of our time cloud the field, there is still one thing that is clear: remember and honor those who serve. They’ve earned it.
