I'm Thinking…No!

Much of today’s piece is from something I wrote last year, but seems appropriate to use it once again. Originally called “Decoration Day”, Memorial Day began in the years following the Civil War to commemorate the vast loss of life, of the soldiers that died on both sides of the conflict. Later, all military that died in battle.  Thus began the tradition of putting flowers and flags on graves in the spring, and it spread from military dead to family members and friends. It was unofficial until 1971, when Memorial Day became officially a national holiday.  

When we were younger, it was a tradition that my father, my brother, and I would travel down to Southeastern Massachusetts, where my great uncles Herbert and Warren lived.  Mother would have packed a picnic lunch, and we’d “make the rounds” of the cemeteries. Uncle Herb would have flats of flowers that he’d grown in his greenhouse ready. None of this Memorial Day for him – he always called it “Decoration Day”. Uncle Warren never came with us, as he never went out of the house.  Except to go to work at the horse farm next door, to which he walked across a large field.  He even shoveled himself a path through the snow in the winter, so he didn’t need to go near the road.  I think he considered cars as “handmaids of the Devil”. He’d worked at the farm for years, and confided one day that he absolutely hated horses!  Anyway, that was our first stop.  Flowers in hand, off we’d go to visit the graves of family.  We’d first stop at the graves of my great grandparents, and Herb would show us his plot and his brother Warren’s, “where they would be”, as he’d tell us proudly.  I always thought it just a bit creepy, but it gave him a sense of pleasure and peace, so that was fine.  We’d nod and make appreciative noises, as only a ten or eleven-year-old can.

Next, we’d proceed to my grandfather’s grave.  His was by itself, in a large cemetery in Jamaica Plain, for whatever reason.  Charles Walters was sort of a mystery to all of us. He arrived from somewhere down south, and married my grandmother, who was quite a bit older than he.  He died, sadly at age 31, when my father was 3.  So, basically a question mark.  The only thing we have from him is his violin, so we know there’s a musical connection there, but otherwise, not much to go on.  The Princess and I did some research on him on Ancestry one year.  We didn’t turn up a lot, so Elizabeth concluded that he was probably a fugitive from something.  Perhaps it’ll be a “true crime” documentary at some point. The final stop was at the grave of my grandmother, who was buried where her third and final husband would later be.  He was still alive when we were young, well into his 90’s.  We’d stop at his house in Canton, Massachusetts, to say hello.  His house was on the street where my father lived growing up, and farther down, we’d stop to visit a lovely lady Uncle Herb’s age, May.  She’d grown up with Herb, and we always suspected that he’d held a candle for her in their youth.  (For you younger readers, that means he liked her.)

In high school, our band would make the rounds for various observances. I went to a regional school in Southwestern New Hampshire, so we had multiple sending towns for whom we participated.  The band would play in the Southern towns first – Fitzwilliam and Troy, and then end up in Swanzey, the largest of the regional system.  The parade in Troy was memorable because the parade would loop through the long town square and meander down to the river that ran below it.  There, we’d have a ceremony where a veteran or a Gold Star Mother would toss an elaborate silver wreath into the water in memory of those lost at sea.  The wreath would float gently past and under the bridge while we played something suitable – probably the Navy Hymn, until it disappeared from view.  It was very moving until one year, as we were returning to the square, we noticed that there was a man on the other side of the bridge in waders, with a fishing pole ready to snatch the wreath out of the water so it could be reused the next year.  Apparently, the wreath was as old as most of the WWII veterans in attendance. A touching combination of ceremony and Yankee frugality.  

In the small village, where I grew up, there was a Civil War memorial.  A period cannon, along with the requisite stack of cannonballs sat on a raised area right next to the triangle in front of the Congregational Church.  To be completely honest, I don’t ever remember anything happening on Memorial Day of any significance.  Later in the summer, Old Home Day was the larger event, with young folks in costumes, bicycles and baby carriages, usually the town’s fire engine and snow plow would make an appearance.  Then a big pot luck supper.  We’d moved there when I was in the fourth grade from a suburb of Boston, and my mother wasn’t altogether trusting of the local cuisine.  But we partook, and all of us lived to talk about it.

The next town over, Nelson, is where my father’s roots ran deeply.  The old family homestead is there, where members of my grandmother’s family, the Hardys, have lived since the late 1700’s, and many branches are buried in the local cemetery.  In fact, my father is buried in this cemetery, so we go over each year and put some flowers there, along with a flag.  Nelson has a bit more happening.  A parade with the town band was lining up to march to the cemetery one year as we were passing through, and we had to take a back road to escape. The town band, quite a festive group for a small town, also plays for July 4^th, when they are mounted on a couple of boats tied together and proceed around Granite Lake, finishing up just before the fireworks.  

My wife, Her Ladyship’s family has some protocols for the family graves in the nearby city of Keene.  My late father-in-law was usually in command of the plantings.  His preferences were for red geraniums, with marigolds in front.  In later years, we took over, but maintaining the planting diagrams exactly.  Herself and her father planted the flowers one year in my absence – I had a parade or some such.  My wife is not what you’d call an “outdoorsy” person, and in fairness, she was dressed up in school principal attire.  In laying out the plantings, her father told her she “dug like a dog”.  I don’t think he meant it as a compliment.  A few years back, some friends took it upon themselves to put in a small enclosed garden in front of the gravestone, with some pretty flowering things and a couple of perennials.  Just a year or two after that, the rulers of the cemetery decreed that all of those plantings got in the way of their crew’s mowing. Judging by the number of times they appeared to actually mow, it didn’t seem like a problem to me, particularly as the summer wore on.  A small herd of goats could have done a neater job.   But a rule is a rule, so out went the plants. In recent years, we just put small containers with flags in front of the headstones so the fine team of maintenance people can remove them as needed. This year, I found some nice-looking containers, but they were yellow and purple, a departure from, and probably a violation of my father-in-law’s Code of Color.  I’ll probably be visited by his spirit, asking me what happened to the red geraniums.

One of my favorite Memorial Day stories came from a colleague, who was a band director up in the North Country.  He related to us at dinner one year at a conference, that his high school band was situated at the front of the parade.  They stepped off and marched crisply through town.  As the band came up to the Fire Station, the Fire Department thought it would be a nice touch to blow the whistle alarm in salute.  The director, not knowing that, and assuming the doors would fly open and fire trucks would roll out and crush the band, he directed the drum major down a side street and onto an alternative route, literally into less traveled parts of town.  The rest of the parade followed the band on its detour, which extended the parade route a bit and into areas he confided he’d never seen before. Unfortunately, it also took the parade participants away from the waving crowds and the reviewing stand, which was set up just down the street from the fire station.   A story about which legends are made.

Memorial Day provides us all with an opportunity to honor and reflect on those that died in service to their country.  Their heroism and sacrifice.  Or, as Abraham Lincoln phrased it, their “last full measure of devotion.”  Thank you all.