Today’s post is a bit political.

For me, Memorial Day has always been about honoring the dead. From my childhood, I’ve always associated this day with peonies, paper poppies, trips to cemeteries and patriotism.

My childhood was right out of Mayberry, RFD. We had one stoplight in town (which was only turned on when school was either beginning or ending for the day). Especially in summer, my brothers and I roamed the town like feral cats with our friends. We rode our bikes all over the place—our mother was not a taxi service.

I grew up in the age of drinking from random garden hoses, eating lunch at the closest friend’s house when noon came around, the Omnipotent Power of the Universal Mom (anyone’s mom had the authority to tell you to behave), the 6:00 p.m. town whistle, and coming back home for the day when the street lights came on.

Summers kicked off with Memorial Day.

My grandmother had planted a phalanx of peony bushes behind our house—the blooming of which signified the countdown to summer. When they were fully in blossom, grandma would clip the top-heavy flowers at their slender stems, and plop them into buckets full of water, which were then placed on the backseat floorboards of the family car.

Once the flowers were loaded, we would first visit all of the graves of our extended family, in both the city and Catholic cemeteries. We’d start with the Catholic cemetery, where each year, I would hear the stories of The Crossing and my namesake, my great-great-aunt Mary (who went by the name of Molly). She died at age 28, shortly after arriving in the United States. After distributing the peonies to these graves, we’d clamber back into the car and head to the city cemetery.

Here were the graves of my grandmother’s parents and brother. Her brother Clifford died when he was a young man—his graduation portrait hung in my bedroom. He reminded me of Gregory Peck—dark hair, intelligent eyes behind somber spectacles. We’d place flowers at these graves, reserving a couple of blooms apiece for the final ritual of Memorial Day.

Back into the car we’d climb, and head downtown to the ice cream parlor. This ice cream parlor was the epicenter of my childhood. Owned and operated by a Greek couple, George and Thelma were fixtures of my young life.

Thelma coordinated the Memorial Day parade. Our first task: with rest of the town’s children, I would dutifully pick up a few handfuls of paper crepe poppies (made by VFW members) from Thelma. From there, I would roam the downtown, selling them to passers-by, bringing the proceeds back to Thelma. The money went to the local American Legion. Rewarded for my efforts with a token for a free ice cream cone, I would then line up with the rest of the kids to head back to the city cemetery.

We’d march through town, ending up at a make-shift stage set up next to the tomb of the unknown soldier. After listening to a few speeches, I, along with the other kids, would place our blooms at the feet of the granite soldier who stood sentry over his fallen comrades.

The ceremony complete, we’d take our flags and put them on graves of soldiers and then climb back into the car. Memorial Day tasks finished, our summer officially began.

I grew up in a bubble, but I didn’t know how much of a bubble it was until I got older. Even as a teenager, I began to see that other people hadn’t experienced the same sort of childhood that I had.

And now, on this Memorial Day, I see that the principles of decency and patriotism I thought were true in my youth have been hijacked by insurrectionists who are an insult to the men and women who have bled and died for our republic.

There are so many moments over the previous seven years where I thought I was losing my mind—that what was happening couldn’t really be happening. I’ve seen examples of greed and evil in the hallowed halls of our government. I’ve seen racists and cowards profane and desecrate our institutions.

Along with a few million other people, I watched in horror and disbelief as seditionists swarmed the United States Capitol on January 6, 2021, breaking glass and bloodying bodies. When the dust settled, five people died on that day. I would also posit that the innocence of many Americans like me also died that day.

But I’ve also seen bravery, grace and truth emerge from the rubble. I’ve seen men and women (both in and out of uniform) make great sacrifices in service and defense of our republic.

If you’ve ever met me in person, you would know that I am not prone to hyperbole. Panic and histrionics are not part and parcel of how I act or react to challenges and stress. I’m also an intensely private person who keeps her cards close to her chest. I prefer acting to speaking. In so saying, when I do speak, I choose my words carefully.

We, as a nation, are again being asked to define and defend democracy. Our battles are not being fought in the Pacific Theater, or on the fields of Gettysburg. They are being fought at the ballot box, being fought on a digital landscape and being fought in the very halls of our Capitol.

In honor of those who made the ultimate sacrifice then, we must be willing to fight for our country now.

In memoriam,
M.

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