Good Read - HL 254 (2)

 Memorial Day: A Time for Heroes

In this Guideposts classic story, a teenager learns the importance of Memorial Day.

by Nancy Sullivan Geng

I leaned against an oak at the side of the road, wishing I were invisible, keeping my distance from my parents on their lawn chairs and my younger siblings scampering about.

I hoped none of my friends saw me there. God forbid they caught me waving one of the small American flags Mom bought at Ben Franklin for a dime. At 16, I was too old and definitely too cool for our small town's Memorial Day parade.

I ought to be at the lake, I brooded. But, no, the all-day festivities were mandatory in my family.

A high school band marched by, the girl in sequins missing her baton as it tumbled from the sky. Firemen blasted sirens in their polished red trucks. The uniforms on the troop of World War II veterans looked too snug on more than one member.

"Here comes Mema," my father shouted.

Five black convertibles lumbered down the boulevard. The mayor was in the first, handing out programs. I didn't need to look at one. I knew my uncle Bud's name was printed on it, as it had been every year since he was killed in Italy. Our family's war hero.

And I knew that perched on the backseat of one of the cars, waving and smiling, was Mema, my grandmother. She had a corsage on her lapel and a sign in gold embossed letters on the car door: "Gold Star Mother."

I hid behind the tree so I wouldn't have to meet her gaze. It wasn't because I didn't love her or appreciate her. She'd taught me how to sew, to call a strike in baseball. She made great cinnamon rolls, which we always ate after the parade.

What embarrassed me was all the attention she got for a son who had died 20 years earlier. With four other children and a dozen grandchildren, why linger over this one long-ago loss?

I peeked out from behind the oak just in time to see Mema wave and blow my family a kiss as the motorcade moved on. The purple ribbon on her hat fluttered in the breeze.

The rest of our Memorial Day ritual was equally scripted. No use trying to get out of it. I followed my family back to Mema's house, where there was the usual baseball game in the backyard and the same old reminiscing about Uncle Bud in the kitchen.

Helping myself to a cinnamon roll, I retreated to the living room and plopped down on an armchair.

There I found myself staring at the Army photo of Bud on the bookcase. The uncle I'd never known. I must have looked at him a thousand times—so proud in his crested cap and knotted tie. His uniform was decorated with military emblems that I could never decode.

READ MORE: AT HOME ON MEMORIAL DAY

Funny, he was starting to look younger to me as I got older. Who were you, Uncle Bud? I nearly asked aloud.

I picked up the photo and turned it over. Yellowing tape held a prayer card that read: "Lloyd 'Bud' Heitzman, 1925-1944. A Great Hero." Nineteen years old when he died, not much older than I was. But a great hero? How could you be a hero at 19?

The floorboards creaked behind me. I turned to see Mema coming in from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron.

I almost hid the photo because I didn't want to listen to the same stories I'd heard year after year: "Your uncle Bud had this little rat-terrier named Jiggs. Good old Jiggs. How he loved that mutt! He wouldn't go anywhere without Jiggs. He used to put him in the rumble seat of his Chevy coupe and drive all over town.

"Remember how hard Bud worked after we lost the farm? At haying season he worked all day, sunrise to sunset, baling for other farmers. Then he brought me all his wages. He'd say, 'Mama, someday I'm going to buy you a brand-new farm. I promise.' There wasn't a better boy in the world!"

Sometimes I wondered about that boy dying alone in a muddy ditch in a foreign country he'd only read about. I thought of the scared kid who jumped out of a foxhole in front of an advancing enemy, only to be downed by a sniper. I couldn't reconcile the image of the boy and his dog with that of the stalwart soldier.

Mema stood beside me for a while, looking at the photo. From outside came the sharp snap of an American flag flapping in the breeze and the voices of my cousins cheering my brother at bat.

"Mema," I asked, "what's a hero?" Without a word she turned and walked down the hall to the back bedroom. I followed.

She opened a bureau drawer and took out a small metal box, then sank down onto the bed.

"These are Bud's things," she said. "They sent them to us after he died." She opened the lid and handed me a telegram dated October 13, 1944. "The Secretary of State regrets to inform you that your son, Lloyd Heitzman, was killed in Italy."

Your son! I imagined Mema reading that sentence for the first time. I didn't know what I would have done if I'd gotten a telegram like that.

"Here's Bud's wallet," she continued. Even after all those years, it was caked with dried mud. Inside was Bud's driver's license with the date of his sixteenth birthday. I compared it with the driver's license I had just received.

A photo of Bud holding a little spotted dog fell out of the wallet. Jiggs. Bud looked so pleased with his mutt.

There were other photos in the wallet: a laughing Bud standing arm in arm with two buddies, photos of my mom and aunt and uncle, another of Mema waving. This was the home Uncle Bud took with him, I thought.

I could see him in a foxhole, taking out these snapshots to remind himself of how much he was loved and missed.

"Who's this?" I asked, pointing to a shot of a pretty dark-haired girl.

"Marie. Bud dated her in high school. He wanted to marry her when he came home." A girlfriend? Marriage? How heartbreaking to have a life, plans and hopes for the future, so brutally snuffed out.

Sitting on the bed, Mema and I sifted through the treasures in the box: a gold watch that had never been wound again. A sympathy letter from President Roosevelt, and one from Bud's commander. A medal shaped like a heart, trimmed with a purple ribbon. And at the very bottom, the deed to Mema's house.

"Why's this here?" I asked.

"Because Bud bought this house for me." She explained how after his death, the U.S. government gave her 10 thousand dollars, and with it she built the house she was still living in.

READ MORE: REMEMBERING MEMORIAL DAY

"He kept his promise all right," Mema said in a quiet voice I'd never heard before.

For a long while the two of us sat there on the bed. Then we put the wallet, the medal, the letters, the watch, the photos and the deed back into the metal box. I finally understood why it was so important for Mema—and me—to remember Uncle Bud on this day.

If he'd lived longer he might have built that house for Mema or married his high-school girlfriend. There might have been children and grandchildren to remember him by.

As it was, there was only that box, the name in the program and the reminiscing around the kitchen table.

"I guess he was a hero because he gave everything for what he believed," I said carefully.

"Yes, child," Mema replied, wiping a tear with the back of her hand. "Don't ever forget that."

I haven't. Even today with Mema gone, my husband and I take our lawn chairs to the tree-shaded boulevard on Memorial Day and give our three daughters small American flags that I buy for a quarter at Ben Franklin.

I want them to remember that life isn't just about getting what you want. Sometimes it involves giving up the things you love for what you love even more. That many men and women did the same for their country—that's what I think when I see the parade pass by now.

And if I close my eyes and imagine, I can still see Mema in her regal purple hat, honoring her son, a true American hero.

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Interesting take and read: 

From: Jean Cinotto

Date: 5/16/2016 9:47:21 PM

To: Jean Cinotto

Subject: Open Letter to Millennials

 

Open Letter to Millennials,

Give me a few minutes to illustrate that you aren’t all that special. No you aren’t. You see, I and many of your parents were baby boomers. We were the special ones. You are just repeating what that generation did with a few differences that are, sadly, not serving you well.

You are just like we were at that age. Yes, you are. We thought that we were smarter than any generation that had ever come along and we lived with threats just like you do today. We went to school, learned about the world including the threat of Communism. At one time, we were taught to hide under our desk if we were at school during a nuclear attack and we were taught that the toilet tank was the least contaminated source for water since it was covered and would have less fallout from the nuclear attack. The one lesson you can learn that we baby boomers know—Communism and Socialism does not work. It’s failed time and time again and Communism and Socialism is not peaceful and populations do not flourish. Capitalism works. Even China knows that…and you know (or maybe you don’t) that they are Communist and have adopted capitalism.

Our friends and family were sent off to war. The Vietnam War. Over 58,000 American soldiers died and 21,000 were disabled. Your friends and family have been sent off to the Iraq and Afghanistan wars. They have died and been permanently disabled, too. For both of our generations, the politicians mismanaged the wars. What most of you don’t know is that the Vietnam War was intensified through war creep. That’s exactly what is happening in Iraq now. Advisors are sent in to help. Pretty soon it’s a full blown war because the politicians lack the backbone to really let our highly trained military fight. In Iraq, we are creeping back up in numbers, our military is forced to fight or die, but the politicians tell you it’s not a war. We saw the same thing with Vietnam. It’s a lie. The one lesson you can learn that we baby boomers know—you cannot trust a politician to conduct a war. You can’t. They are only concerned about their future, not yours and certainly not someone in uniform.

Education. Those that went on to college in our generation paid for it or worked for it. We didn’t expect to get loans and then not pay them back. We certainly would have asked how in the world a politician who promised all kinds of free education and loans was going to pay for it. I don’t hear any of you asking that crucial question. Where is the money to pay off your (emphasis on your) loan going to come from? No college loan should be forgiven by the government. You see, the government’s money comes from taxpayers and taxpayers are working people—many are your parents. Additionally and most importantly, the college education that you receive as a result of that loan is yours to do what you want with it. It cannot be repossessed and resold. It’s yours for life. No one can take it out of your head—only you can do that in the form of a job. That brings up a lesson that we baby boomers know—you don’t get your dream job right out of college and at the dream salary you want. Often you have to start out at entry levels and salaries and work your way up. Most baby boomers can guarantee you that you will learn and gain experience at entry levels that will be invaluable in the future. There’s a second lesson in this that we baby boomers know—pay your debts or don’t get in debt.

Idolizing stars and sports heroes. We did that, too. They aren’t special. Their profession is acting like someone else or playing ball. It doesn’t mean that they are qualified to tell you what to do or who to vote for. We had Jane Fonda. Most of us remember her as Hanoi Jane. Look her up. Took her years to make a meager, forced apology. A star who thought she was enlightened. Most of us wish she had been put in prison for treason.

Serving your country. Only one-half of one percent of the country’s population serves in the military. They are the ONLY ones who can claim “if my country called, I’d serve.” Everyone knows you are a lying coward if you claim you would serve if called--everyone has been called. Everyone. It’s an all-volunteer military. Every single person has been called. You just didn’t answer. So don’t claim that you would serve this country if you aren’t part of that one-half of one percent. You are stealing the valor of those who are and have actually served—and no one likes a thief. Baby boomers grew up with the draft and a war that had exceptional losses for the real estate it covered in Vietnam. Those who answered the call knew where they were going. Those who volunteer today know where they may go. Give them the credit they are due for defending this country—especially with politicians tying both hands behind their backs. Thank them for doing something you lack the courage to do.

Social issues. Yeah, we did that, too. Now, some groups have turned it into a profitable business. We didn’t have that. Also, many of the issues du jour are simply diversions to keep you from looking at the real problems that are not being solved by individual responsibility. That’s something that we Baby Boomers have learned through the years—you are responsible for what you do and what you achieve. No one else. The opportunities are endless in this country if you are willing to work. You may not make millions. Many of us didn’t either. You may not get the corner office. Many of us didn’t either. But you will and can have a full and fruitful life if you will work for it.

A strong government is only born by its strong people and strong people do not need a big government.
Don’t let anyone, especially a politician, tell you any different.

Love, Mom

 


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