Remembering

If you look around this weekend you will most likely notice many many American flags – tiny and large – scattered about.

From mailboxes to Main Streets, from auto ariels to front porches, our national, hopefully unifying, symbol will be on display as a reminder of those who made the ultimate sacrifice for their nation and their neighborhood

Of course there will be the boringly predictable usual suspects who somehow feel affronted by this exclamation of pride and thanks.

Ignore them, or, better yet, tell them to go to the local cemetery and look and see the flags there so they can truly understand what they are complaining about.

Hopefully, that will do the trick.

I did not serve in the military, but growing up the vagaries of warfare, the emotional bonds created and then dashed in an instant were never far from our family’s mind – my  father served World War II in Europe while my mother was stateside helping with the USO (they hadn’t met yet.)

An aside – my grandfather served in World War I. He joined the cavalry on the assumption that when he got to France he wouldn’t have to walk. Seriously. Of course, his plan did not quite work out.

And almost of all of my parents’ friends served, in one way or in one war, or another – it was impossible to have people over at our house (or pretty much anywhere else in our exurbian neighborhood) without war stories being loudly – if they were funny – told…and re-told.

When I was little I used to fetch drinks when grown-ups were over at the house (I started bartending at fund raisers and other parties we had at the house when I was about 8) and I remember one day – a Sunday after church I think – my father and a few of his friends – all WWII vets or thereabouts – were chatting and they were laughing and telling stories and one of them started talking about a friend not coming home.  

The story trailed off and for a few moments the only sound to be heard in the room was the clink of ice against the glasses…and then someone made a loud joke, my father asked me to arrange refills and all was back on track.

But in that nearly ephemeral reverie of grief I learned more about decency, sacrifice, and bravery than I have since.

Grain of Salt time – I obviously did not learn those lessons at all well enough and it must be noted that my father joined the Army Air Corps, promptly crashed at least one (maybe two?) Piper Cub canvas trainers into a lake in upstate New York and was immediately transferred to army intelligence.  

No, really.

So do some remembering and do even more living the life they made possible and have a wonderful Memorial Day.