Memorial Day was a day not uncommon to the many who take a part of their day to remember those that lie silently in the ground, those that gave all they had for the freedom of others.
It was an unusually cool May 30; I decided to hike to a cemetery long forgotten. The birds were singing a lively tune as I started my walk but were soon drowned out by the sound of my footsteps as my pace quickened. My destination was a place of rest for people who lived on this earth when this country was still young.
Upon my reaching my objective, it was all that I had pictured in my mind. Old barbed wire laced the area lazily, as the posts that once held them fast had rotted years ago. Trees grew wildly and threatened some graves by the growth of their massive roots. Others grew right between the head stone and footstone. I mused to myself and thought what a pity, but then again, nature had taken back what it had given.
I took out my camera to get some pictures of the headstones and the names so that the people resting would never be forgotten. Sadly, only a few had the person’s name; most were just a stone hastily set to honor the loved one. I stood and was awed by the silence and overwhelming peace I felt as I reflected on my own mortality.
A hawk silently hovered overhead like a guardian, and my footsteps seemed to wake those lying there. I finally found a stone that had a name crudely chiseled into it. It was a grave from the War of the Rebellion, obviously a soldier who fell in battle, and his family erected this stone as a shrine. I could see the tears as they chiseled the name. I took a seat on the ground, unscrewed the cap on my water bottle and took the time to contemplate Memorial Day and what it stands for.
Since the beginning of this great country, when it was but a babe, we have been involved in nearly a hundred wars or conflicts from the Revolutionary War to present. Most of those wars in the early years were either against England or our own people, from the Indian Wars to the War of the Rebellion. This land is unfortunately littered with the graves of people who will never be remembered; those who fought for what they thought was right in the creation of this country.
Memorial Day was established on May 5, 1868, to honor the dead on both sides of the Mason Dixon line. Many of those graves like the ones where I sat have been forgotten or built upon and are now under cities in tombs that will never be committed to memory.
It wasn’t until WWI that it was changed from honoring just the War of the Rebellion fallen to all those that fall in battle in service to our country.
For many people, Memorial Day is not just on May 30, it is every day. Their pain goes well beyond politics; it is deep and it is personal. I thought about that when I looked at the crudely chipped out headstone.
It is documented that this country has been involved in wars for 93 percent of its existence. With that, we know that there are also those that will never come back from foreign soil. I contemplated that if there weren’t brave men and women who were dedicated to their homes and land and to defend the constitution of the United States, I wonder what this world would look like. Why did they do it? Freedom? Liberty? Equality? Yes, I thought; all of that sacrifice for me, my family and everyone else who hopes for the same thing.
Memorial Day is not a day intended to be pleasant due to its original purpose. It was originated as a day to deal with the painful experience of the nation’s loss of life. It is this day that we celebrate and recall in our memories a time when they walked the earth beside us.
America, this state, or this county would not be what it is today without the colorful lives of a people who were not perfect and did not always make the best decisions. However, they believed in this country were a people could grow from an innocent childhood full of dreams and opportunity to realize those dreams and continue the legacy. Unfortunately, some didn’t make it that far, but their life is worth remembering because it was a life that was lived, loved, and spent in service to others.
I stood to leave and bid farewell to those forgotten by the masses. I declared that for me I would not forget, and I hoped that others would not either. Not remembering someone means their life was in vain and nobody should be forgotten. Moina Michael said it well in 1915 in a poem:
