Happy Memorial Day.
Happy doesn't seem to fit that expression, but somewhere along the way, the idea of a holiday was supposed to be happy. I guess that's why the word is added. Yet, to so many on this day, "happy" is far-fetched expression and the last descriptive word one would use.
Sure, Memorial Day usually marks the beginning of summer for many people. Most schools are out, and since there is a three-day weekend, why not celebrate with friends and family? It makes sense. But this morning, I ventured over to the VA where I saw the flagged marked graves, the marble headstones, and many others paying respects to those who fought bravely for our country. Somber is a more appropriate word.
I drove onto Freedom Rd. over to section HH. I parked, grabbed my camera, and walked carefully to the back row under the tree. Row sixteen, spot twenty-five. There they were, my Pappy and Mimi, Ben and Ethel. The emotion flooded over me and without my realizing, tears flowed down my face. I didn't quite expect this reaction, but it's been so long since I visited, I guess this was way overdue.
After a few minutes, I remembered bits and pieces of my past. Sitting on the carport, cutting grass with Mimi's clippers. Telling stories to Pappy and listening to his. Combing his hair with plenty of Vitalis. Stabbing fallen apples with a stick and catapulting them into the field for the deer. Standing incredibly short next to sky-high holly halks. Sticking canna seeds up my nose. Playing with my money from the money tree. Washing what-nots. Smelling cigarette smoke, bacon, and homemade chocolate pie. You know, I watched Mimi make dozens of her chocolate pies, but I didn't pay enough attention to get the recipe. Like it would matter anyway. Nobody can make them like Mimi.
Pappy passed away when I was a freshman in high school, and while I remember all of those lazy days at his house, I vividly remember the sight of him in the hospital bed. It haunts me still. Part of me wishes I had never visited him in the hospital so that I could only remember the good parts. But such is life. Good and bad. I know Pappy served in the Army, and I'm pretty sure, if memory serves me correctly, that he served in the same platoon or company as George Bush, Sr. Maybe I'm making that up, but I could swear I heard a story about that once.
In addition to Pappy, my grandfather Haskel served during WWII. Before he passed, he lived at Mountain Home. I was lucky enough to let him know I was expecting Izzy before he died. I was trying to keep her a secret, but Papaw already sensed it. Papaw told me a story about being so hungry on Christmas while deployed. He said everyone in his group was starving, but by some luck, they received some gifts that particular day. Papaw got Spam. He said it was the best thing he had ever tasted.
These two men in my life were fortunate to make it home from their war days. On this Memorial Day, I suppose I can be happy reminiscing on my childhood memories with them. I was lucky to have them with me. So many others, however, never met their wives, their children, or their grandchildren. Mothers and fathers, sisters and brothers, fellow soldiers can remember good times like I can, but they must also experience a pang of grief so incomprehensible to me or many others. How painful it must be to bury a son or a daughter fighting for causes that are so much bigger and more complicated than anything we can understand. Just yesterday, mom was talking about a man who lived in our small town. He got into some trouble with the law, stealing or something, but instead of going to jail, he opted to served in Vietnam where he lost his life. I wonder if he would have made the same decision, if he had a decision at all. I wonder if his parents ever found peace.
Perhaps I'm rambling inappropriately, but I felt compelled to post about my loved ones who served our country. I know so many others serving today, my husband of course, and I'm thankful that they are willing to protect the freedoms that so many others fought for and died to protect. I'm thankful that there is something more powerful than political parties, government administration or officials to unite our country; it is the very soldiers who weave the fabric of our country together.
On this Memorial Day, may the happy memories of our loved ones overpower the grief and sadness.
Happy doesn't seem to fit that expression, but somewhere along the way, the idea of a holiday was supposed to be happy. I guess that's why the word is added. Yet, to so many on this day, "happy" is far-fetched expression and the last descriptive word one would use.
Sure, Memorial Day usually marks the beginning of summer for many people. Most schools are out, and since there is a three-day weekend, why not celebrate with friends and family? It makes sense. But this morning, I ventured over to the VA where I saw the flagged marked graves, the marble headstones, and many others paying respects to those who fought bravely for our country. Somber is a more appropriate word.
I drove onto Freedom Rd. over to section HH. I parked, grabbed my camera, and walked carefully to the back row under the tree. Row sixteen, spot twenty-five. There they were, my Pappy and Mimi, Ben and Ethel. The emotion flooded over me and without my realizing, tears flowed down my face. I didn't quite expect this reaction, but it's been so long since I visited, I guess this was way overdue.
After a few minutes, I remembered bits and pieces of my past. Sitting on the carport, cutting grass with Mimi's clippers. Telling stories to Pappy and listening to his. Combing his hair with plenty of Vitalis. Stabbing fallen apples with a stick and catapulting them into the field for the deer. Standing incredibly short next to sky-high holly halks. Sticking canna seeds up my nose. Playing with my money from the money tree. Washing what-nots. Smelling cigarette smoke, bacon, and homemade chocolate pie. You know, I watched Mimi make dozens of her chocolate pies, but I didn't pay enough attention to get the recipe. Like it would matter anyway. Nobody can make them like Mimi.
Pappy passed away when I was a freshman in high school, and while I remember all of those lazy days at his house, I vividly remember the sight of him in the hospital bed. It haunts me still. Part of me wishes I had never visited him in the hospital so that I could only remember the good parts. But such is life. Good and bad. I know Pappy served in the Army, and I'm pretty sure, if memory serves me correctly, that he served in the same platoon or company as George Bush, Sr. Maybe I'm making that up, but I could swear I heard a story about that once.
In addition to Pappy, my grandfather Haskel served during WWII. Before he passed, he lived at Mountain Home. I was lucky enough to let him know I was expecting Izzy before he died. I was trying to keep her a secret, but Papaw already sensed it. Papaw told me a story about being so hungry on Christmas while deployed. He said everyone in his group was starving, but by some luck, they received some gifts that particular day. Papaw got Spam. He said it was the best thing he had ever tasted.
These two men in my life were fortunate to make it home from their war days. On this Memorial Day, I suppose I can be happy reminiscing on my childhood memories with them. I was lucky to have them with me. So many others, however, never met their wives, their children, or their grandchildren. Mothers and fathers, sisters and brothers, fellow soldiers can remember good times like I can, but they must also experience a pang of grief so incomprehensible to me or many others. How painful it must be to bury a son or a daughter fighting for causes that are so much bigger and more complicated than anything we can understand. Just yesterday, mom was talking about a man who lived in our small town. He got into some trouble with the law, stealing or something, but instead of going to jail, he opted to served in Vietnam where he lost his life. I wonder if he would have made the same decision, if he had a decision at all. I wonder if his parents ever found peace.
Perhaps I'm rambling inappropriately, but I felt compelled to post about my loved ones who served our country. I know so many others serving today, my husband of course, and I'm thankful that they are willing to protect the freedoms that so many others fought for and died to protect. I'm thankful that there is something more powerful than political parties, government administration or officials to unite our country; it is the very soldiers who weave the fabric of our country together.
On this Memorial Day, may the happy memories of our loved ones overpower the grief and sadness.
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