Memorial Day musings

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.

Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae, Canadian physician

I never met my great-grandfather Salter. He was from Liverpool, and a scoundrel. But that's a story for another day. He served in the Royal Army, we know in India and perhaps in Afghanistan as well. He is buried in Old Tennent Cemetery, in New Jersey. And every year, the Boy Scouts put a flag (of the US, not the UK) on his grave on Memorial Day weekend. There are flags at his son's grave, and at that of his granddaughter's husband (my dad), along with countless other graves of those who served, at that and countless other cemeteries around this country and around the world. Some, like my dad, grandfather, and great-grandfather, who came home, lived, loved, and grew old. Some who came home, tortured by their injuries or memories, unable to love or forgive themselves or others until they were taken home by God. Some, like the young man whose name I can never remember until I'm there, who rests near the corner across the lane to the right of Neff Chapel, who did not come home alive; his headstone tells the story: his name, dates of birth and death, and the simple "Died in France." I never knew him or his family members, yet I check on his grave every time I go home.

In 1989 I was in Germany. My friends and I found ourselves at a memorial to the German war dead. Sobering, because of the realization that they - "the enemy" - mourn their dead just as we do. Not surprised that they mourn, mind you. But sobering to come to a place where they are free to mourn those that they loved that fought, willingly or not, for their country. I say willingly or not, because in WWI one of my grandfather's duties was to guard German Prisoners of War. He spoke of the day that one of the POW's, who spoke some English, asked him if he wanted to fight. Pop-Pop looked at him, and said, "No, did you?" to which the POW responded with a shake of his head and said "No, not at all." My grandfather always got quiet around then. He hadn't wanted to go to war (another story for another day), but had, just as this German soldier had, to do his duty for his country.

Let us not forget that Memorial Day weekend is not just the unofficial start of summer, or an extra day off from work, or a day of beach or park or picnic, or a day to snag some really good bargains at the mall. Let us remember that Memorial Day - Remembrance Day - is a day to remember those who served. I'm not saying don't have fun. I'm going to a picnic Monday evening; Hal will be speaking at a local observance of the day first. So as you go about your weekend, remember those who made it possible. Remember those who came before. Remember those, on both sides of any conflict, who are mourning those that they lost.

As for me, Lt. Col. McCrae, I will catch the torch. I will bear it high. I will not break faith.