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I would like to take a different view of Memorial Day for a
change. I’d like to give it a different perspective if I may. When my son
passed away so many years ago, I didn’t find the time every year to celebrate,
or to call friends and family and have a picnic or barbeque. I feel that
memorializing him in thought word or deed was a solemn occasion, which
warranted thanks that he was my son, and the pain of losing him.
Memorial Day is a solemn day, and we seem to be losing sight
of that! When I look at the crosses at Arlington or Pinelawn National
Cemeteries, I can’t believe how many times I have eaten and watched parades at
the cost of the lives that lie under those stone monuments. It angers me to see
the TV and newspapers filled with “Memorial Day Sales Events” like it is
Christmas.
I remember seeing the flags in windows of the parents or
wives who had lost sons and husbands in the Second World War in documentaries and
wonder about celebrating. When Memorial Day rolled around in 1942, 43, 44 and
45, and all the years thereafter, did those families celebrate who lost loved
ones? Did they mark it as a happy occasion? The Korean War, a stupid war we
fought with little results and Viet Nam, a war with little gratitude, the dead
long since, do their families celebrate or do they mourn?
It seems to me the time for patriotism being a happy event
is the 4th of July, or Flag Day. We might even celebrate Armistice
Day, but Memorial Day, just its name should send us a message that it is not a
day to take off or start summer and going to beaches. These guys who lie in the
fields of green.
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Flanders Fields
In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie,
In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.
In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie,
In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.
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