Meadow Hill

Ordinary Memories

Somehow, every year around this time, I forget it’s Memorial Day. I’m not really sure why, though, since I spent so much time in the Army. I believe that the reason I always forget is the same reason I hold the day so sacred: because it isn’t about me.

Neither then, in my way of thinking, is it about any individual. It’s about a collection of people who were put into extraordinary circumstances, and did what they could. However fates are decided, some achieved great things before their passing.

Some men crave the glory that comes with great victory. But not many. Most just hope to return to their normals lives. Ordinary, normal lives.

I never signed up for glory. I joined the Army because I wanted to do my part. The thought it would take my life was never part of my consideration. There was a work to do, and I was going to do my part.

Others weren’t so fortunate. They did their part, but they never returned to their normal, ordinary lives. They didn’t get the chance to talk about the hot days and cold fields. The horror and wonder of war was something for others to tell. Their fate was bound for glory.

I have nothing but ordinary memories. Punctuated, of course, with a few outstanding moments. But they won’t sing songs or write poems of my valor (though I did all I could). It wasn’t for me they patrol the tomb of unknown soldiers. It wasn’t for me that people stand in silent reverence.

All I did was to keep the tradition alive. To do my part. To continue the reverence for something others did for me.

A Canadian officer once wrote, upon the death of a junior officer, an emotional poem dedicated to those who gave their lives on the battle field. Much like those of us who live on, it seemed to him to be unfit a tribute. Just words, and nothing as worthy as the sacrifice made by another man, just trying to survive.

It’s one of the most famous poems from the era. It’s also probably the most used on a day like today, when we remember those who died.

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved, and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.
Lt.-Col. John McCrae (1872 – 1918)

Today we remember those who were destined for glory. Those who will live forever. We will do so, because they can not, but they made sure that we could.

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