Memorial Day 2014

Ft. Rosecrans National Cemetery, San Diego, CA

It is Memorial Day, the day to remember and honor those who have fought and died while serving in the US armed forces. Each Memorial Day we walk to the Historic Stillwater Courthouse and participate in the lovely service held there. This year I can not go. I am restricted by a cast on my leg and an order to not bear weight on my broken foot. This year I have to listen to the festivities from blocks away; paying tribute in my own way at home.

I could hear bits of the broadcast from my yard. At the end, a trio of military planes soared overhead in formation, bringing tears to my eyes. My thoughts brought me back to my childhood; way back to preschool, a time I am in awe that I even remember:

We lived in New London, Connecticut back then, right across the street from Connecticut College. The College grounds were our playground. My mother would walk us over to the other side of William Street and we would frolic and explore to our hearts content on the campus grounds. In the summer, my mother used to take us to a beach on the New London side of the Thames River. I don't remember the name of the beach but I do remember that we had to maneuver a set of stairs down to the beach. The steps were made of metal and you could see through them to the shore below. My sister and brother ran down those steps as fast as they could but I held tight to my mother's hand, frightened that I would fall. I swear there were 100 steps and I remember how paralyzed with fear that I was. I loved the beach and water though and the long descent was worth it, but I always knew that I had to climb back up to go home.

My mother had a daily routine. We spent the morning at the beach but went home in time for lunch. She put us all down for a nap after lunch. I vividly remember laying on my parent's big bed and rolling around on the coverlet. My mother would put the radio on for me. It was always mid day so the news would come on. It was the early 60's and the Vietnam War was in full force. Each day, the reporter would read the casualty list, reciting the first name and last name of each soldier who had lost their life in combat in the last 24 hours. I knew, at the tender age of four years old, that I had an Uncle Bobby who was fighting in the war. I had no idea what that meant but I knew enough to realize that the casualty list was a place you didn't want to find a loved one. In my parents bed, I tossed and turned in the summer heat and listened for my Uncle Bobby's name. I remember this; in the early 60's there were a lot of soldiers named Bobby. It seems like I cried myself to sleep every day during nap time.

Each Memorial Day I make an effort to acknowledge and honor those who fight, have fought and those who have lost their lives serving America. They are our hometown heroes!