Happy Memorial Day!
I think it’s fair to say Memorial Day serves two roles in American culture: the intended one and the unintended one.
Memorial Day is an American holiday celebrated on the last Monday in May.
Its intended purpose (which, as the Washington Post pointed out, is not the same as Veterans Day) is to honor those who died in service to their country.
Its unintended role is to notify the world that Summer. Is. Here.
What Does Memorial Day Mean to You?
Personally, Memorial Day reminds me of a place called Sag Harbor, a little town in Long Island where my family and I went every summer.
These days, I only get a chance to go back on the three-day summer holidays, but when I do I’m full of nostalgia. The smell of the cut grass, the quiet bay—it all brings me back to those summers where my parents let my brother and me go off on our own, giving me my first real taste of autonomy.
What makes Memorial Day special to you? Let us know in the comments.
PRACTICE
Take fifteen minutes to work on one of these writing prompts:
- Tell us about a person you honor on Memorial Day.
- Imagine a U.S. without a military. Now write about it.
- Write a scene from your memoir about a typical Memorial Day weekend.
Share your practice in the comments below. And if you share, don't forget to leave feedback for your fellow writers!
For me memorial day has no meaning. I am from a country without memorial day. The largest war-related holiday here is the day that Dachau was liberated. We do not think of those who does in war, we think of those that died from cruelty of men. There should be no day to remember the dead, there should be a day to remember the care.
Because I have too little experience with the USA I cannot answer the second and third questions.
Posted this on my blog over the weekend, so sharing it here. ☺
While the origins of Memorial Day continue to be mired in controversy and folklore, and despite a presidential proclamation fifty years ago recognizing a certain U.S. as the ‘birthplace’ of Memorial Day, more than two dozen U.S. cities still claim to be the source of the holiday, the intent of the day remains the same – to honor the war dead, the men and women who gave their lives in service to this country.
Many lose sight of that sometimes, especially if they have no direct connection to the military, i.e. related to, married to, or knows someone in the military, active or inactive. For those people, if they’re fortunate, it’s a day off, giving them a three-day weekend to enjoy.
But for some of us, it’s a time of remembrance, reflection and gratitude. Wreathes and flowers will be left on grave sites, photo albums will be shared and stories told…once again, and younger family members will hear about the family hero they never had the chance to meet.
Presidential administrations, politicians…and their pundits, will come and go, but what stands the test of time are the rights and freedoms we enjoy as citizens of this country. Some may look to, and credit the ‘founding fathers’, but nothing in the Constitution was agreed upon with a handshake. Battles were fought, lives were lost. Those who met the enemy on the battlefield were not there for political favor or financial gain. They fought for their way of life and the right to keep it. With this country’s history, brother may have very well found himself facing off against his brother.
These beliefs are strong and they are what lead many to answer the call. No one enlists in the military because of their political affiliation, their stance on reproductive rights, or their religious beliefs. They take the oath to uphold the Constitution and defend this country from enemies, foreign and domestic, to ensure that the right to choose, or not choose, these things, and so many more remain in place. And, they do so knowing in some cases, it could mean making the ultimate sacrifice.
The rights we take for granted and debate and argue about over social media and the freedoms we enjoy while living our lives as we choose, came with a price. And it’s time to remember those who paid that price.
On Monday while you’re manning the grill, having family time, reading a book, or maybe even heading to work, take a moment to truly reflect on the significance of Memorial Day…and say, “Thank you.”
This is really great perspective on Memorial Day. Thanks for posting this.
There is nothing happy about Memorial Day in our house. We’ve skipped the drive to the cemetery the past few years, finding no comfort in that cold earth marked by a colder piece of stone, engraved with my stepson’s name: Sergeant Sean Michael Lagrand, USMC. July 13, 1981 – September 25, 2006.
I’m so sorry to hear about your loss. Thank you for being so honest.
Thank you for your kind words, Monica.
My deepest condolences for the loss of your stepson…
Thank you Sergeant Lagrand.
I understand, Sheila.
Tell us about a person you honor on Memorial Day.
I do not honor a person specifically on Memorial Day. My brother served as Special Forces but was fortunate enough to make it back home. In general I do my best to be mindful and respectful to all who have served and lost loved ones on this day. I just happen to watch “13 Hours” last night, the movie about Benghazi, and was reminded that despite conspiracy, political bureaucracy in Washington, lies or truth, or rather you are for or against war, men and women serve and die for the United States. For that I am extremely grateful.
Imagine a U.S. without a military. Now write about it.
I just imagine enslavement. The leading, or one of the leading, countries in the world could simply not be without a military. Although I am not Pro War, nor would I consider myself a pacifist, I am thankful for the military and the purpose I serve. One can be for the military and experience the pain that war brings and one against war will eventually experience the pain of outside evil forces invading in whatever way that may look like. A United States without a military to me is the picture of a place where one is free to do only what he is told to do. Where one cannot speak out and debate. Where one can not pray or worship in anyway he sees fit to do. A place where citizens cannot arm themselves and protect their families or choose what school and career to pursue.
Write a scene from your memoir about a typical Memorial Day weekend.
My family and I have never celebrated memorial day with vacations or anything special. As I write this, I sit in my office and work because work always needs to be done.
Memorial Day should be a day of reflection and of giving thanks for the men and women who have come before us to make this world a better place. Ever since I can remember, I’ve always had a lot of respect for those men and women who’ve served our country. These courageous men and women in the service have had to give of their light, life and love in order for us to enjoy our freedom and the life we live. They deserve our respect and to be honore on this special day.
I agree with that completely.
Taps, In Memoriam
by Gary G. Little
Major (ret), U. S. Army Signal Corps
The guard of honor stand at attention, five soldiers in dress blues. Five soldiers, white gloved hands pressed to gold striped seams on dark blue trousers wait at the base of the pole, the final rays of a setting sun changing from white to red, as the sun disappears behind the western hills. The trumpeter carries her instrument beneath her left arm, hand securing it, she waits for the fading light of day.
The flag whips and snaps, overwatch for the legions of the departed, protecting this garden of stone, this place of rest for those who served and have fallen. The first notes of Retreat sound, not played by the trumpeter; hers is another task.
The command is given, “Present … arms!” Four white gloved palms snap to cap brims, fingers together, thumbs to the side, palms angled in. The fifth guard steps forward and pulleys creak as the flag is lowered, not with speed, but with regret, as Retreat continues to echo over the hills that surround this garden.
“Order … arms!” Four white gloved hands descend with slow deliberate respect, back to that gold stripe seam. Two members of the guard step forward to gather the waving flag, ever resisting, ever fighting for its freedom, not wanting to be removed from its flight.
The trumpeter remains at attention, awaiting the final rays of the setting sun.
The final notes of Retreat sound and the flag is gathered, and stretched taut, white gloved hands grip and hold tight each corner. At a command unspoken, it is folded, once, and then again.Thirteen folds, each fold has meaning for the many blossoms in this stone garden. The final fold, three corners with stars presented in a field of blue. The flag rests for the night.
The trumpeter now takes the stage, as the last light fades from the darkening sky. Bright and clear the first three notes are played.
Day is done,
The hills echo the notes back and the next three notes mix with the first
Gone the sun,
A rush of notes as the fallen are gathered, collected, and always remembered
From the lake,
From the hill,
From the sky.
The final cry and the trumpet brings peace to the legions resting in this garden of stone.
All is well,
Safely rest,
God is nigh
Memorial Day and Grandpa
I get the joy of interacting with my aging father in law. I like to call him grandpa. He is quiet, kind, and cryptic.
He calls me around the Saturday before Memorial Day every year. I can see him through the phone. His denim overalls, blue chambray shirt, John Deere cap, and head laid back against the recliner as he yells into the phone in his flimsy voice, “Trudi!! What’ll I put on Pauline’s grave this year?”
“I will drop by Walmart on my way home and get a wreath.”
“What?!”
“I will get a wreath at Walmart, I shout.”
The first time I got a wreath for Pauline’s grave, I gave it to him. Several days after Memorial Day, when it was still in his house, I decided to take it and put it on the grave myself. As I was placing the prongs of flowered Styrofoam into the ground beside the ebony tombstone, I remembered Pauline’s last birthday. Grandpa called me and asked me to get her a gift. After proudly purchasing a pair of navy blue stretch pants, with elastic waist, and a floral button up to match, I put it in a gift bag and gave it to him. A couple of months later, and after Pauline had passed away, I noticed the gift in the back seat of his pick-up. I pulled the tissue out of the bag, and there were the clothes. Left behind. I pictured Pauline being raptured right out of them.
Aah-ha. I did the math, and now when he asks me to do anything for him, I take it clear to the finish line.
I invited him over for dinner tonight. I am making potato salad. He will compliment me on it. I like that. He won’t say much, but we’ll enjoy each other’s presence.
The person I remember first on memorial day was a man I met during training prior to our Vietnam deployment. Both of us had been surprised to receive draft notices to serve in the military; both of us were assigned to the US Army. I was still a German citizen and thought myself safe from the draft; he was a third year Stanford student and thought he was safe. During initial testing and assessment both of us were selected to go to the Defense Language Institute and study Vietnamese. We could guess at a future assignment. After language school came training in psychological operations. The idea was we would meet the enemy, tell them (in Vietnamese) it was futile to resist, obtain their agreement to stop fighting, and we would all go home.
The training took about one year, then there was a one year Vietnam deployment followed by discharge and return to the civilian world. During training Paul and I became great friends due to our mutual interest in reading, both fiction and non-fiction; history, politics, and philosophy. Paul was far more educated than I; he liked to explain things, I liked to listen. On arrival in Vietnam, we were assigned to three man “Go” teams which accompanied combat teams. Once an engagement was fought to the point where the outcome was sure to be the destruction of the enemy, our job was to negotiate surrender and future of survivors. The three man teams sent one person to a rear, safe area each month for a one week break and to ferry resupply to the team.
Paul and I met during one of these breaks in the city of Nha Trang. Home of the 5th Special Forces Group, it didn’t get much safer than that. Relaxing in the rear meant beer; we drank constantly and, inevitably, we ran out. It was my turn to make the supply run; I could do so on foot, it was less than two kilometers away. As I was making my purchase, the rockets started coming in, sales were suspended, it was bunker time. The attacks never lasted long because we had counter battery artillery that dealt with attacks effectively and quickly. Emerging from my bunker I saw smoke rising from the direction of my unit. I returned to find Paul on the floor; most of his scalp had been removed by flying shrapnel. A newbie medic was trying to apply direct pressure and stop the bleeding from an open brain pan. Paul died.
Paul was brilliant. He could have been a writer, a professor, or a senior State Department official. The last one was his ambition. He came from an intellectual well-off family and probably could have avoided the draft; if not, he certainly had the clout to avoid Vietnam. He came from a family that “served.” He felt the obligation to also serve.
Did he die for his country? Most would say so. War in its implementation is not thinking about nationalism, patriotism, blah, blah,blah. It is about bunches of daily routines performed in a hostile environment that many of us did not choose to be in. In Vietnam we even had a category, reported weekly, of “those who died as a result of non-hostile action.”
Paul died for the beer. I retired. The US lost the war in Vietnam. What a waste. As a military retiree, the knee-jerk phrase I hate to hear on Memorial Day and Veteran’s Day (yes, I know the difference) is “Thank you for your service.” If we meet sometime, before you say that, ask “What did you do?” Then, I will tell you. Then, you will not thank me.
My good friends, hello!
I don’t know much about memorial day so I’ll read your posts to find out more.
Thanks for sharing your memories.
I think of memorial day as a day when both men and women gave up their lives for us and our country.
But these days it’s as if the youth of today just don’t care. They seem to only care about their next fix or the newest video game.
They forget about what these men and women have done for us, if not for them we would not be here.
Men and women both black and white, gave up their lives for us and this country.
What makes me mad is that you never see any black soldiers being remembered even though there where black men and women that gave up their lives for their country.
Even though I never knew any of these people black or white, I still remember what they did for this country and the world.
I remember what these men and women did for the world, and for us.
I remember them all, and all I can say is thank you.
From the bottom of my heart may you all rest in peace.
Veronica Gilkes.
Memorial
by Bruce Carroll
There’s hot dogs and bratwurst on the grill, but my mind is elsewhere. Dad is poking at the coals. making sparks shoot upwards. For a moment I wonder if it reminds him of the war.
The war. That is the one thing that stands between me and my father. That and Kim-Ly.
“Dad,” I begin awkwardly, not knowing what I will say, but knowing I must say something. “Can’t you invite her over just once? I mean, if you met her….”
My voice fades as words fail me. But I haven’t said what I wanted to say, and my stubborn tongue begins talking again.
“I know you fought in Viet Nam, Dad. But Kim-Ly isn’t even Vietnamese. She was born in America. On American soil. The same America you fought for. She’s my wife, Dad. Won’t you even meet her?”
Dad picks up the tongs and begins turning hot dogs over. I probably should stop talking, but I don’t.
“Chinh doesn’t even know you as a grandfather. You’re just a name to him. Someone he’s somehow related to. If you won’t meet Kim-Ly, won’t you at least meet your grandson?”
The dogs have been on the grill too long, but Dad either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. For a brief moment I think I catch the glimmer of a tear in his eye. I put my arm around his shoulder and hug him.
Slowly, methodically, he begins putting the hot dogs on the serving platter.
Memorial Day means: Americans celebrating those we honor who have served in our military. Those fallen soldiers. I am a Veteran, but, to me they mean more. They have sacrificed more. Thank you.
The Day
The sun was relentless as we stood among the tombstones, dripping with sweat in our dark blue woolen uniforms. It seemed Memorial Day was either stifling hot, raining or rarely, just occasionally, a perfect Spring day, but regardless, in those woolen uniforms, we would be wet. As we stood at ease during the speeches trying to listen but thinking more about swimming later that day, the player next to me started swaying and before I could catch him he feinted, nearly bending his trombone in half as he crumpled to the ground.
As a high school student, the Day was always about the band, marching, playing, standing forever, smelly wool, long speeches and hoping for loud gun salutes and taps so it would be over.
Years later, I was the one in charge – a high school band director in a small town. Once again the Day was about lining up buses, music lyres for every player, instructing trumpeters in the taps routine, marching in straight lines, starting and ending the music together, smelly wool, smelling salts.
Oh yes, we were there to honor the fallen warriors and honor them we did – but that part of it was always muddled at the time by being part of making it all possible to celebrate the Day with honor and freedom and traditional American ways.
What does Memorial Day mean to me? Honestly, it reminds me of an article I read just earlier today, called ‘The Digital Language Divide’. About how the language you speak may determine your experience online to a much greater extent than you realise. And for me, Memorial Day reminds me that while English may be spoken by millions of people worldwide, culturally the landscape both online and offline is still dominated by Americans.
I don’t mean to accuse Ms Clark of excluding foreigners in writing this post. Just that I have often reflected on the oddities of living as a person whose first language is English, yet who is born and bred Singaporean.
Such as constantly being complimented on my English whenever I go abroad, simply because someone who looks like me isn’t supposed to speak good English. Or reading books set in Maine or London or California, with books set anywhere else being marketed as ‘ethnic’ or ‘world’ literature.
Do you know of any bestselling books set in a non-English speaking location, which DON’T end up with the protagonist moving to an English-speaking locale? The Kite Runner begins in Afghanistan but ends in San Francisco. Memoirs of a Geisha takes place in Japan but gets told only after Sayuri moves to New York. It’s like authors have to keep returning to America to provide a bridge for English-speaking readers, to assure them that their books are Not Too Foreign.
So that’s my two cents on being an English-speaking Singaporean bibliophile. How it feels to come by for writing practice and then find that I can’t engage with the writing prompt in the way it’s meant to be written. What if I wrote a prompt asking ‘What does Chinese New Year mean to you?’ That might trigger the same feelings of ‘Ehh…not sure how I’d respond to that’ for a different segment of English speakers.
I’m with you, Stella. I was also born in the East and people are surprised at my ‘good’ spoken and written English, not knowing that it is my mother tongue. This is because people from Anglo speaking countries do not have enough knowledge of the citizens and education in Eastern countries.
Thanks, Lilian. To be fair I think all of us are both perpetrators and victims of ignorance. For myself, I barely know anything about people from Eastern Europe, the Middle East or Africa because those are the regions that tend to get left out in popular culture. Eg when I was on exchange in Switzerland and met an apartment-mate who was from Latvia, I had no idea what to say to him. While I did encounter some stereotyping on exchange, the experience also made me more forgiving of ignorance. Since I realise I, too, am in some ways ignorant.
You are right, Stella. Perhaps the best approach is to ask someone from another country to tell us important customs and features about their country. I think we all are ignorant concerning many cultures, so it’s wise to make allowances when people don’t know much about ours.
Stump Gets His Way
“Pass the motha…. cards out.” Stump said, parking his wheelchair by the volunteer’s desk in the VA Medical Center.
“Excuse me, Stump? ” Luther Davis, a volunteer asked.
“The gotblessed cards.” Stump hissed. “You let the Memorial Day pass and you throw the damn things out. I know what you do.”
“Stump is upset. ” Luther laughed. He was a black veteran with gray hair. He sat back down and sipped his soda.
“I served in Vietnam and got my damn legs blown off and have shrapnel in my hip. I deserve a card. I deserve a lot.” Stump yelled at the top of his lungs. Tears stung his eyes.
“Don’t fucking yell at us, Stump. We are here and we served too. Here, take a card.” Macah Jade, another veteran volunteer said, handing Stump a card.
Stump accepted the card. “But what about the other veterans in this hospital who can’t get to the front desk?”
“When Julia Basterville comes in. She’s a nurse in the renal department. I will hand her some and tell her to pass them to the patients. Okay, Stump?” Macah asked.
“Okay, sorry. I lost my head…..” Stump said, wiping away tears.
“No, we are all veterans but we need to think about each other. I will make sure each holiday, that these greeting cards for veterans get passed out.”
“Thanks.” Stump said, opening his card. “Hey, this shit is crappy but it made me feel good.”
“You made us think, Stump. Have a great Memorial Day weekend.” Both volunteers said in unison. They saluted Stump and he saluted back.