Memorial Day
Memorial Day is their day, isn't it? It is supposed to be
the day a grateful nation pauses to quietly thank the more
than one million men and women who have died in military service
to their country since the Revolutionary War.
Or is it the day the beach resorts kick into high gear for
the summer season, the day the strand is covered by fish-belly
white people basting themselves in coconut oil, the day the
off-season rates end and the weekend you can't get in a seaside
seafood restaurant with anything less than a one hour wait.
Or is it one of the biggest shopping center sales days of
the year, a day when hunting for a parking space is the prime
sport for the holiday stay-at-homers?
Or is it the weekend when more people will kill themselves
on the highways than any other weekend and Highway Patrol
troopers work overtime picking up the pieces? I think the
men and women who died for us would understand what we do
with their day. I hope they would, because if they wouldn't,
if they would have insisted that it be a somber, respectful
day of remembrance, then we have blown it and dishonored their
sacrifice.
I knew some of those who died, and the guys I knew would
have understood. They liked a sunny beach and a cold beer
and a hot babe in a black bikini, too. They would have enjoyed
packing the kids, the inflatable rafts, the coolers, and the
suntan lotion in the car and heading for the lake. They would
have enjoyed staying at home and cutting the grass and getting
together with some friends and cooking some steaks on the
grill, too. But they didn't get the chance. They blew up in
the Marine Barracks in Beirut and died in the oily waters
of the Persian Gulf. They caught theirs at the airstrip in
Grenada in the little war everyone laughed at. They bought
the farm in the La Drang Valley and on Heartbreak Ridge, Phu
Tai and at Hue. They froze at the Chosin Reservoir and were
shot at the Pusan Perimeter. They drowned in the surf at Omaha
Beach or fell in the fetid jungles of Guadalcanal. They were
at the Soame and at San Juan Hill and at Gettysburg and at
Cerro Gordo and at Valley Forge.
They couldn't be here with us this weekend, but I think they
would understand that we don't spend the day in tears and
heart-wrenching memorials. They wouldn't want that.
Grief is not why they died. They died so we could go fishing.
They died so another father could hold his laughing little
girl over the waves. They died so another father could toss
a baseball to his son in their backyard while the charcoal
is getting white. They died so another buddy could drink a
beer on his day off. They died so a family could get in the
station wagon and go shopping and maybe get some ice cream
on the way home. They won't mind that we have chosen their
day to have our first big outdoor party of the year.
But they wouldn't mind, either, if we took just a second
and thought about them. Some will think of them formally,
of course. Wreaths will be laid in small, sparsely attended
ceremonies in military cemeteries and at monuments at state
capitols and in small town's squares. Flags will fly over
the graves, patriotic words will be spoken and a few people
there will probably feel a little anger that no more people
showed up. They'll think no one else remembers.
But we do remember.
We remember Smitty and Chico and Davey and the guys who died.
We remember the deal we made: If we buy it, we said, drink
a beer for me. I'll do it for you, guys. I'll drink that beer
for you today, and I'll sit on that beach for you, and I'll
check out the girls for you and, just briefly, I'll think
of you. I won't let your memory spoil the trip but you'll
be on that sunny beach with me today.
I will not mourn your deaths this Memorial Day, my friends.
Rather, I'll celebrate the life you gave me.
This Bud's for you, brother!
-Author Unknown-
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