We are a commune of inquiring, skeptical, politically centrist, capitalist, anglophile, traditionalist New England Yankee humans, humanoids, and animals with many interests beyond and above politics. Each of us has had a high-school education (or GED), but all had ADD so didn't pay attention very well, especially the dogs. Each one of us does "try my best to be just like I am," and none of us enjoys working for others, including for Maggie, from whom we receive neither a nickel nor a dime. Freedom from nags, cranks, government, do-gooders, control-freaks and idiots is all that we ask for.
The Memorial Day choice is not about whether to BBQ steak, chicken, hamburgers, or franks, although that's what it has become to most Americans.The Memorial Day choice is, rather, about choosing to remember and honor those who served in our military with fatal consequence in order to preserve our freedoms to choose.
Even if you haven't lost someone you knew, visiting a military cemetery will quickly acquaint you with many you would be proud to have known.Just knowing a few names, their service branch, and the year they died will set your mind to at least imagining their lost opportunities so that you can have some.
Just take a moment to raise the flag in their memory and to honor them.Take a moment to explain to your children that this day is to respect those who made their life more secure.
Then your BBQ will be more savory, flavored with love of freedom and gratitude for those who gave their all and everything.
May 24, 2002 12:55 p.m.
A Memorial Day tale about a few very good men.
Yesterday, our rural mail carrier delivered to our farm a ring in a small box — of worn metal, its band cut in half, with a strange signet inset of a Roman legionary. The story of its arrival is eerie, but also informative about a generation now all but gone — and so perhaps worth sharing on these Memorial Day holidays in our current struggle against enemies once again so adamant to destroy our freedom."
"This Monday, as on past Memorial Days, I will be surprised by the nondescript grave of my namesake. The inscription is as spare as the stone itself — name, birth, death, and nothing more except the nondescript "6th Division, 29th Marines."
"Unlike the other impressive tombstones of relatives in the family plot, there are no inscribed res gestae, not even a "loving father," much less a "beloved grandfather." A man who dies tragically, young, and alone does so without capital, either monetary or human; when he leaves behind no progeny it is evident in the modesty of his commemoration. But now there is at least something more, and as I grasp this ring with its cut band, and remember the letters and conversations this spring from the stewards of his memory, I pray to God that we still might see the likes of such giants again. And so perhaps we shall."
(in between that beginning and end is much fascinating detail re VDH's contacting --almost 60 years on --of his uncle's squad mates)