Let me start by explaining why this day is so important to me. War has been "good" to my family. No, not in the Krupps or the Fords way, but a long familial line of Chieftains, fighters, scrappers, mercenaries and general bad asses. My family's founding ancestor died more than a thousand miles from home believing he could conquer the Holy Roman Empire. We had a lot invested in our country of origin, we fought and died, were hunted like animals and finally grudgingly left for a place we could live free. We have a lot invested in this country, arriving about 1745, just in time for the first two American generations to fight in the Revolutionary War. For more than 200 years every generation since has shed blood for this country, we missed no conflict, if there was a fight you could count on us to be there. During the Civil War the sides of my family fought against each other at Gettysburg, on Little Round Top. From the first Decoration Day organized by former slaves to honor Union soldiers to now, I know much has changed. Over the years going from a day of remembrance and thanks to Memorial Day, the 4th Monday in May. Now it is a Federal holiday full of family fun, picnics, mega sales, school over and the official start of summer. But for me even with all the changes the day of thanks and remembrance will always be Decoration Day.
It was a BIG deal in my family, something I looked forward to as a child. Even when I was too young to understand the concept of time and calendars I understood when the Peonies and Lilacs were in full bloom it was time, it was Decoration Day. Gran woke me up early, getting me dressed in bibbed overalls she made from Uncle Bill's old work pants, my new white sandals on my otherwise bare feet.
Sitting on the top of the porcelain kitchen table I had apple pie breakfast with Grandpa. He had eaten breakfast much earlier so drank his coffee and read the paper to me, the smoke from his cigar mingling carelessly with the steam of his coffee. My Gran was a short stout little woman with fire red hair and freckles she hated. My Grandpa was tall and slender, a Viking who would carry me on his shoulders everywhere we went. She was already busy cutting flowers by the time I finished my pie. Grandpa flew me to his shoulders and off we went into the cool sunny morning, the grass still heavy with dew. Gran seeing us paused for a moment, "Andy don't put her down, don't want her to get her new shoes wet." Staying on my perch was fine with me. She had been wrapping the cut Lilacs in wet newspapers, putting them on a rough narrow wooden table in the yard. From where I was sitting I could help pull down the highest branches so Gran could reach them. I helped by holding flowers as she cut the blooms from every Lilac, every Peony and every Day Lily. Later they would put the flowers in the trunk of Grandpa's black and rust Model A Coupe. The trunk was filled to overflowing the lid held down with twine, the extras stored behind the seat. We were off on the long ride to my Aunt Ruby's farm with me safely ensconced between them.
Rides in the Model A were special because sometimes Grandpa would let me shift for him or push the starter button and sometimes I could sit on his lap and "drive" the car. There was a little breeze coming thru the partially open windows. It was cool and filled with the smells of freshly plowed fields mixed with the nearly overwhelming fragrance of Lilacs. We passed empty fields, fields with cows and fields with corn just beginning to reach for the sky.
The prairie is flat or nearly so punctuated occasionally by low green hummocks, gentle undulations occasionally dotted with cows. We crested one of these hummocks and Gran pointed off toward the horizon, look there, Lone Tree. Lone Tree was a giant cottonwood used as a directional beacon for generations. A big tree on a flat landscape stands out for miles.
Just past Lone Tree Hiway 77 was crossed by a gravel road, the dust from the road started to billow up into the car as Grandpa turned to head to Aunt Ruby's. It wasn't long before I saw her barn peeking thru the wind break as we turned again onto the long lane to her house.
Most of my family still lived on farms and oh how I loved to visit. Aunt Ruby's children were much older, 8-14 not really playmates for me but the farm was a wonder of entertainment on its own. I didn't know my Uncle Bob, Aunt Ruby's first husband because he was killed in action before I was born. I would be meeting her new husband Uncle Lloyd for the first time, Gran liked him, thought he was good for the kids. Grandpa thought as a bachelor he was a little crazy to take on Ruby's wild brood of four. They had heard the Model A putt-putting up the lane and were there to meet us. While the grown-ups talked the cousins showed me Uncle Lloyd's new Chevy, it was beautiful and shiny, I wondered if the Model A had once been so grand.
It wasn’t long before Aunt Ruby was hustling the kids into the Chevy, packing up food for the picnic later, and of course a few flowers and a water cooler. I got to ride up in front with Aunt Ruby while my cousins boisterously played in the back seat. We headed down the road the Chevy leading the way. Aunt Ruby and the kids had gone early in the morning to decorate Uncle Bob's grave so our first stop was the little cemetery in Winfred. My Uncle Bill met us there and helped unload flowers. Every soldier’s grave was visited and there was a story at each one. Jonas Welborne 1899-1917. Grampa had known the Welbornes, Civil War vet, Jonas was an only child born late in life. Jonas was a good boy, a good soldier and the apple of his father’s eye, his loss was devasting and they were never the same. Somberly laying flowers and recounting the lives that were lost but not to be forgotten.
Early in the afternoon with our job done the three car caravan headed for town and the family reunion. The decorating of the graves was something the whole family did before attending the reunion. I had a large family and many friends who were considered family. Uncle Mike, a great bear of a man, wasn’t my uncle really but he and his wife Josie, who was a midwife and had delivered many of my aunts and uncle and cousins, were much loved. Uncle Mike had served in France like Grandpa, he got gassed and sent home. He and Josie hadn’t been married for very long when he shipped out and he came home an invalid. She nursed him back to the place he was now, unable to work, sitting and staring out into space. I spent part of the summer at their farm and would sit in Uncle Mike’s lap and listen to the radio with him, occasionally he would pat my arm. In their turn everyone at the picnic stopped and talked to Mike, catching him up with the comings and goings. The children would climb into his lap and talk and kiss and pat his cheek. The living, no matter how damaged when they returned were not forgotten either.
The tradition was lost with my generation and it makes me sad. No one retells the stories, the bravery, the sacrifice, the joy and the sorrow.