ONE HUNDRED AND FORTY-FIRST MEMORIAL DAY

Memorial Day is a federal holiday celebrated on the last Monday in May to commemorate those who have died defending America. It originated in 1868 after the Civil War as Decoration Day when “strewing with flowers, or otherwise decorating the graves of comrades who died in defense of their country during the late rebellion, and whose bodies now lie in almost every city, village and hamlet churchyard in the land. In this observance no form or ceremony is prescribed, but Posts and comrades will, in their own way arrange such fitting services and testimonials of respect as circumstances may permit.”

The commemoration officially became Memorial Day 100 year later in 1968.

When I was young I recall it as an exciting day. Men with rifles fired crackling volleys at the local cemetery and we boys would scramble for the highly prized ejected cartridge casings. There would be many people there putting flags, flowers, and ribbons on graves scattered hither, thither there. Then big shots popping off followed by prayers and tears. Someone would play a bugle.

Then there would be a parade down Main Street headed by “the Sergeant” an “old man” to me who walked slowly at its head wearing a Marine Corp tunic with ribbons and cap. The honor was his because he fought, lost a leg, and been given an important medal at some odd sounding place in the Pacific. He was to that tiny West Virginia town respected and revered. We boys would interrupt anything to carry his groceries when he was seen leaving the IGA store. After all he was “the Sergeant.”

After the parade my family would go to Grandma’s house and sit on the front porch overlooking the Ohio River. There was lemonade if you didn’t fidget too much Sooner or later Grandma would point out nearby houses on Grant Street reciting the names of “the boys” who once lived in them but, never came back. Then we’d stop at my other grandparents’ house where there would be a slream of aunts and uncle and cousins- they had 13 children. People would walk by in front of the Esso station across the street, waving and calling greetings and exchanging nods.

Then everyone would go home for supper because the next day was a work and school day.

The very best Memorial Day was the one a man gave me a spent rifle cartridge and I slept with it under the pillow that night.

In due course Memorial Day’s meaning changed for me; “the Sergeant” is long since gone from that town as I am. But, I remember those Memorial Days or rather Decoration Days.