Memorial Day Does Hurt

I drove down Hamilton Avenue today and spotted several members of our armed forces in full uniform in the area of St. Francis Hospital.

Trenton High School's crumbling facade in the background struck me as stark contrast to the promise and dedication of these spiffy uniformed young men and women proudly strolling our city streets. It gave me a warm feeling to see them this Memorial Day weekend because this is what it is all about.

Remembering our fallen and acknowleging our present...

There are many ceremonies scattered all over our local area. Multiply that by hundreds of communities throughout the state and it becomes an awesome display of support and affection for our fighting forces.

I had an opportunity to visit my brother's grave a couple of years ago. He was in the Navy when he died and was buried where his wife and sons were living at the time, far from the hills of New Jersey.

The grave was marked by a simple bronzed plate, imbedded in the sod, and embraced by wisps of grass which softened the sharp corners and renewed with the seasons. This weekend it will have an American flag planted exactly a step from its face.

Whether in Arlington National Cemetery or in a tiny village in New Jersey, the method is always the same.

The soldier planting the flag puts his boot in front of the headstone or marker, toe touching, and jams the flag pole at his heel into the ground. This provides a uniform distance for every flag marching down the rows.

Leave it to the military to find a no-nonsense way to honor their fallen conrades.

One of the most touching ceremonies I can remember was back home at our local cemetery. The cemetery sprawled over a long sunny hillside and each year the town chose a different gravesite to honor for the ceremony.

The local Memorial Day parade ended up at the cemetery location with Boy Scouts, Girl Scouts, Ambulance Corps and Volunteer Fire Department marchers in closed ranks. Businessmen and townspeople, some wearing Memorial Day poppies, gathered and watched local dignitaries lay a red, white, and blue carnation wreath at the chosen spot.

The American Legion Firing Squad fired their World War II carbines three times in salute, thundering through the little valley, sending ground hogs into their burrows and children burrowing into their mothers' shoulders.

Finally closing the ceremony, the lone bugler played Taps.

Then down the long sunny hill, from the deep shady green woods out of sight, a second bugle, softly and unexpectedly, precisely echoed the notes of the first. Note for note.

"Day is done, gone the sun, ...safely rest. God is nigh."

By this time I was always in the Kleenex, squinting against those tears, embarrassed and knowing that my mascara streaked.

That second bugler gets me every time, notes and shivers rushing over me, with years of wishing and waiting and hoping... but knowing that the sense of loss is as sharp and painful as it was over thirty years ago.

When an elderly parent dies, or a friend succumbs to long illness, it just is not as hard as that knock on the door... and the Captain standing before you in full uniform and all that gold braid...to deliver the news.

"Regret...to inform you..."

Back then, it was so very, very personal, that sense of not being able to say good-by, like 9/11 for all those thousands of people who died so suddenly and left so much unsaid.

I cut myself off from a lot of contact with our mutual friends after my brother's death. In fact, I did not even send Christmas Cards for over a decade as I tried to deal with the scars.

It still hurts to write about it today.

Pain of remembrance? And in the end, maybe this is truly the real gem of Memorial Day. Every single one of our tears is a diamond, reflected in a pool of mutual respect.

U.S.A. rocks!