Why Memorial Day is My Favorite Holiday

(Note: I wrote this when I was living in Manila, Philippines. It was published in the Manila Bulletin in May 2011, then in the Mount Carroll Mirror-Democrat in May 2012.)

Memorial Day is my favorite holiday. There's a solemnity to it. No fireworks, no presents, no redemption.

There is a barbecue and the Indy 500, adding a celebratory air. But mostly, Memorial Day is a day of 21-gun salutes, of flags, serious-minded parades, and Taps.

We lived in the small town of Morrison, Illinois, in Whiteside County, for the three years 1963-1965. Memorial Day was always celebrated on May 30 back then, and Morrison had a parade.

It was there that I remember Spanish-American War veterans, resplendent in their Stetson hats, long jackets, and billowing trousers, slowly making their way down the street at the head of the parade. There were just a handful of them left by then; they had the look of wry, singular individuals.

Their war gave the Philippines to the U.S. and announced that the 20th Century was going to be the American Century. I contemplate this today as I stand on my apartment balcony and look out over Manila Bay, past the old Spanish (later U.S.) garrison at Intramuros.

A crisper, more uniform group followed next, the World War I vets of my grandfather's generation. Still vibrant at that time, this proud group from The Great War confirmed the view that America was the greatest nation in the world and guarantor of liberty and freedom for all. These guys lived it.

Enter the Greatest Generation

The World War II vets formed the next group. This was the largest group in the parade, full of cocky guys (and a few cocky women) in their 30s and slightly less cocky guys of a slightly older age. They reflected the full arsenal of U.S. military power-Army, Army Air Corps, Navy, Marines, Coast Guard, WACs, WAVEs, and Rosie the Riveter.

They represented a time when the nation pulled together as one and worked with the Allies to obliterate the true Axis of Evil. This group was later dubbed the Greatest Generation. To me, it looked like my dad's friends.

The Korean “Conflict" vets made up the final group of soldiers, a slightly smaller bunch than the World War II guys, and noticeably less spirited. This was the forgotten generation of the forgotten war--the first war that American didn't win. (But if you compare North and South Korea today, you will think otherwise.)

The vociferous cheers that greeted the other groups were reduced to polite applause and sidelong glances for the Korean War vets. Today, the long-delayed Korean War Memorial in Washington, D.C. graphically depicts the burden carried by these vets for their country in the 1950s.

These were the early days of the Vietnam War. The changes that were soon to transform the country lay far over the horizon to a kid in Morrison.

The school bands and then men on horses finished things off. After the parade, we would walk back home and have a barbecue. Dad would sit in the chez lounge (as we called it), listen to the Indy 500 on the radio, and drink two or three beers. My sister and I would play in our little blow-up swimming pool, argue and fight, and occasionally get mom and dad to holler at us.

Cheering for AJ

Dad was a newspaperman who worked about 360 days a year. Memorial Day was one of the few he took off. A little Jim Beam was his ordinary drink. But the hot weather and the excitement of cheering for AJ Foyt led him to down those Miller's on Memorial Day.

Dad didn't talk much about his time in Japan during the war. He spent most of his two years as part of the occupational forces. Now and then he would mention the sick, starving women and children that comprised most of what was left in Japan when he was there. It seemed he thought about this a lot on Memorial Day.

Later, we moved 20 miles up the road to Mount Carroll, my mother's hometown, in Carroll County. My father's hometown was a few miles away. My grandparents all lived in Carroll County; we felt like we were coming home.

I played the trumpet, as my father had, and was a member of the junior high and then high school band. This meant that I was now part of the local Memorial Day parade.

Mount Carroll, population 2,100, is the county seat. Back then, grades K-12 attended the same schoolhouse, which had been pieced together in three phases over the years. There was one band room, down by the old gym that also served as the cafeteria.

The March Up Cemetery Hill

Memorial Day always dawned hot and humid, and stayed that way. For six years, I would put on my band uniform—long-sleeved shirt, jacket, trousers, cummerbund, gigantic furry hat and all—grab my trumpet and head out the door.

We would march along the 19th-century Purington Paver bricks of Main Street, driven by a thunderous, resonating cadence from our talented drummers that rings in my ears to this day, past the War Memorial and Courthouse Lawn, then down the Market Street hill and over the small Galena Street bridge set astride the mighty Waukarusa River (in reality a modest creek that becomes part of the truly mighty Mississippi a few miles downstream).

Children of all ages would pause on the bridge, toss small bouquets of flowers into the creek, then watch them float peacefully downstream, in a beautiful, touching homage to those who had given their lives for America. Doing this remains a favorite, treasured childhood memory to all who participated.

Our march then concluded with the band and everyone else climbing a few hundred feet up State Street, known as Cemetery Hill, to the Oak Hill Cemetery gate. Many people assume Illinois is flat as a Midwestern accent. In Carroll County, it's not. Even as skinny teenagers, we would be gassed by the time we got there.

Most years, I had the honor of playing the Taps "echo." Somebody, a band member or a local veteran, would play Taps near the gate in front of the local crowd. I would hustle off, out of sight over a modest berm, listen for Taps to be played, then echo it.

I loved this honor. I was able to take the stifling hat off, too, as no one could see me. I don't ever recall screwing up.

A Less Sure Age

The Vietnam War ground to a halt as I was finishing high school. America became ambivalent about its history and its role in the world. The simple truths of my childhood had disappeared with my echo in the breeze. Memorial Day parades had a new, disquieting element, one that remains to this day.

I'll be in Asia on this Memorial Day. Flags are flying here, too, as the Philippines begins a two-week homage to its national ensign (first unfurled in 1898) and its independence from the U.S., achieved peacefully in 1948.

Americans and Filipinos fought side by side during the terrible days of the 1940s, triumphing at an enormous cost. It brings honor to the country that its people still observe their nation's modern birth so seriously and passionately.

It reminds me of what I miss about my home, or perhaps what I miss about my distant childhood. I do know that as far as holidays go, I miss Memorial Day most of all.

Time to Reflect

War is hell. It's an eternal aspect of the human condition. We will always have our wars and we'll always have our missing sons and daughters, brothers and sisters, dads and moms, cousins, and friends.

So there will always be Memorial Days. They will always be solemn. They may no longer focus on the greatness of a country, but will focus eternally on the greatness of the individuals they honor.

It's a time to reflect on freedom, liberty, and sacrifice. Each soldier's grave, whether laid out in the long white lines of Arlington, scattered about at Oak Hill, or interred somewhere else in the innumerable cemeteries of the world, represents a family's grief, a future snatched away, a life laid down for one's country.

I'll play a silent Taps in my mind on Monday for all who've served, and all who died, and once again summon the image of those old Spanish-American War vets, ambling down Main Street Morrison, Illinois, a glint in their eyes and the spirit of Teddy Roosevelt in their hearts.