If I lived in Washington, D. C., I would visit the Wall again because of all the memorials and monuments I’ve seen, this holy place hits me the hardest, and that’s the feeling we need on this holiday.
Reflected her in my photograph, my wife and I are looking at the name of a former high school classmate of mine.
We hear that many men die and fall to the ground before they know they are dying. Others know, and the accounts of their thoughts are varied–some focus on getting medical help, and others most likely are thinking of their families or possibly that the spot where they have fallen is the spot where they belonged at that moment because falling is part of the sacrifice that is an integral rite of passage many endure to keep our country free.
No doubt few believed their deaths would be celebrated by people spending money on holiday sales.
Dying soldiers often have little time for contemplation because their time is too short and/or their pain is too intense. We can hope they wanted the best for those at home: family and friends who would mourn their passing longer than it took the soldier to reach his/her last breath. That “best” might be a wonderful life in a free country where happy times fill their days in the day-to-day art of living.
Perhaps that life, in the soldiers’ thoughts, included barbecues, time at the beach, and flag-waving parades with bands and color guards and music. Perhaps that fife included sitting in a bar with three fingers of Jack Daniels with or without the trite words, “Do you come here often?”
Whether the dead were conscripts or volunteers, they probably didn’t think that their hardships proscribed what those back home should be doing with their time, paid in full as it was by the men who march away.
But a Memorial Day sale? That still seems inappropriate even though the dead paid the price so that we could go out and save a buck in their memories. As long as we don’t forget them while getting 30% off on a new extravagance.
–Malcolm
than their husbands, wives, brothers, sisters, parents, and other family members who die in a war. Who suffers the most after a death is not a contest; no bragging rights here. The dead are gone: what they feel, or if they feel, is unknown to us. The soldiers who return with their memories of the horrors they saw and the family and friends of those who died will mourn the dead for years–perhaps a lifetime.
I found Mike’s name on the Vietnam War Memorial. I hadn’t expected the power and sadness of seeing his name there or, in fact, seeing the 58,318 names on the wall at that time. I visited the Tomb of the Unknowns when I was a child and as an adult, I’ve been to battlefields and cemeteries where the dead rest (presumably) in peace. Visiting these sites strengthened my respect for Memorial Day.
My ancestors play this Scot’s lament for me on Memorial Day, and though it’s forever a reminder of the country’s loss to the English at the battle of Flodden, in September 1513, I cannot help thinking that after every battle in every war the flower of the nation’s youth will not be coming home.
I’ve heard the liltin at oor yowe-milkin,
In hairst at the shearin, nae youths now are jeerin,
Dule and wae for the order, sent oor lads to the Border
Malcolm's Round Table 