~ MEMORIAL DAY ~

Already, it’s the end of May. This feeling inside, that something exciting is going to happen, gladdens each morning. Today, it’s the parade. I can hardly wait.

“Can you see them yet?” I tug at the short sleeves of Buddy’s torn shirt as he peers down the street. He’s taller, and can see better. We’ve been waiting for what seems like hours, getting here early to get a good curb spot.

“Not yet,” he says, shading his eyes against the morning sun. “Just stay sitting. I’ll tell you when they’re coming.”

He walks away to talk with some of his friends who are goofing around on the grass. I’m not interested in joining them, not those guys.

It’s a national holiday, so there’s no school today. We’re gathered at the curbs of Main Street, anticipation and excitement rippling up and down the people-lined blocks. Some men wear hats and suits, and women are in Sunday dresses. Kids are in play clothes, which are more comfortable for sitting on the curbs.

There’s always lots of people lined up for any parade in our town, since there’s not that much to do. Any time there’s a free event, everybody comes. Kids and grown-ups all want to get out of their houses and be part of public goings on.

People have flags stuck in their grass or waving from their porches. Those living along the parade route bring out chairs, boxes, and blankets to sit on. Pitchers of lemonade are already on porch tables.

I hear drums thumping in the distance, upping our excitement. Soon, we see instruments glistening in the sunlight, and trombones begin blaring.

I get caught up in the whole rhythm of the annual Memorial Day Parade as it comes closer and closer, right down the center of Washington Street. The band players wear colorful uniforms and walk in perfect step, looking straight ahead. There’s soldiers, too, marching stiff and precise in different kinds of army clothes. Some even carry guns. A few ride horses. There’s empty spaces between each group, but we don’t mind, cause each is worth waiting for.

There are no clowns today, because this isn’t that kind of parade. We keep looking for more groups, but all too soon, there’s the big American flag flapping and we know the end is near. Red, white and blue, the flag is waving in the breeze, the pole held in the leather belt of the flag carrier.

Respectfully, we follow the adults in saluting the flag as it passes by. Some put their hands over their hearts. Some bow their heads. Everyone is solemn, remembering the dead soldiers who fought for our country. This is live history, without any words, which is more impressive than reading about it.

The band marches into the distance. We can hardly see the fluttering flag anymore. The parade has ended, and the watchers start moving away.

For the past week, there’ve been men with soldier caps on street corners, selling small red paper poppies with little tags on them. American Legion, I think they’re called. People buy the poppies and stick them onto their jackets, hats, or shirts.

When we ask, Mama tells us about Memorial Day and the poppies which are sold to honor the soldiers who died in the World War. There’s a whole field of poppies planted in a cemetery in France that honors American soldiers who were killed there, called Flanders Field.

I don’t know if I’d want to see a field of poppies planted on top of dead soldiers. It should be something more sad, not bright and dancing poppies. I remember when I was a poppy in that operetta, and died at the end of the first act. It was sad, but had nothing to do with soldiers dying, as it was mostly just wilting. No, I wouldn’t want to wear one of those small poppies today, or ever. I like to remember only the happy poppies from that operetta.

In Grandma’s living room, there’s a big picture of a soldier in uniform in a gold oval frame. It’s only the soldier’s head and the top part of his uniform. He looks stiff and sad, and his eyes keep watching you.

“That’s Uncle Nick,” Mama says, “He got shot in France during the World War, and died over there.”

Grandma had many children, some who died when they were very young. But Mama says having a child killed in a war makes Grandma the saddest, because she never saw him again after he was shot. He never gets any older than he is in that picture, so that must be how Grandma remembers him, before the bullet, not after. I only know him from the picture.

Mama and Daddy go to the cemetery on Memorial Day, which some people call Decoration Day, because they decorate the graves with flowers or flags. The day was first started to remember the soldiers who died in the Civil War, soldiers who fought each other in their very own country. We learned about that in history class.

We remember war on days like today. Reading about war is bad enough, or seeing it in the movie news. I would never want to be in one, ever. Most wars are far away, so I feel safe.

Mama says, “You kids don’t have to go along to the cemetery. It’s for remembering, and you don’t have that much to remember. But someday you will.”

I think I have lots to remember, but not very much about dead people. I only hear about them. I’m not old enough yet to go to funeral parlors, or even to a neighbor’s house that has an open casket with the dead body displayed in it. I’m glad I can’t go.

We never beg to go along to the cemetery either, because it doesn’t sound like a place where we’d have much fun. When we walk past the cemetery, I always go extra fast, and try not to even look inside. Some of the bigger boys pick up sticks and run them along the black iron fence spokes, making all kinds of weird noises. Sometimes, they howl strange sounds, making the whole place scarier, even in the daytime.

No, I can wait a long, long time before I want to go visit the cemetery. I would rather spend the rest of the day going to the park, where we can ride on the merry-go rounds, slide down the slide and swing real high on the swings. And if we have any money, we go over to the root beer stand for a big glass of foaming root beer, two of us sharing one mug.

It’s fun. But the morning sadness lingers. I don’t try to push it away. Sometime it’s nice to have two layers of feelings at the same time.