I got a ride to a campfire Saturday night in a pickup truck. We were tearing down a unpaved road in the woods. My Dad drove, and I was in the passenger side. Two guys were hanging onto the side of the truck on the runner, one on each side. It was pretty exciting after not leaving my apartment at all for like a week (really). I had to skip the trip because I can’t walk still, but it was very nice to at least get outside for an evening and to get to see Mr. Zack’s cute new baby.
I helped to give a new Eagle Scout the Pledge. Enjoyed kids performing skits and songs. It was awesome.
Afterward, what happens every Memorial Day happened: old flags were retired by fire. Last year, an older guy told the boys never to “stand” anyone to burn the flag, no matter how anyone feels about our country or about freedom of expression, etc. I don’t feel particularly motivated to do any flag burning of my own, but I found that little bit particularly distasteful. Being a “college boy”, I’m not exactly going to tell someone who was actually in a war how to feel about flag burning. This year, a gent who is a veteran of the Air Force (Hi, Mr. Y!) gave a nice speech before the flags were retired. He talked to the boys about what the flag stands for, including the right to burn it. I thought that was the perfect way to sum up the meaning of the stars and stripes, seriously. We’re free enough to reject it all, and I’ve known plenty of people who have felt that way.
I thought of my Uncle Harry, who’s no longer with us on Saturday night. I looked up to toast him in my mind and saw a solitary star in the clearing of trees. Felt a little odd. He would have enjoyed that fire and the company. His wife passed three months after he did, which just seemed to complete the situation to me. It seemed right. I’d still like to share some grilled corn with them again at a cook-out.
When we think of who has died in a war in this country — whether you think it was pointless, for freedom, for the rich, etc. — I remember that my father was in a war. Vietnam. Actually, as they say, “in the shit.” I’ve always found it bizzare to imagine such a gentle pussycat in such a situation. It’s hard to reconcile. I can’t imagine my father actually hurting anyone, and I’d bet he can’t either. When there’s the temptation to spread the blame for our clusterfuck “conflicts” that take lives, including Americans, to the men and women who actually have to do the taking and get their lives taken, I always remember my Dad. Getting spit on and called a Baby Killer when he came home to meet his cousin and best friend with only one of his legs. When nothing about my Dad or probably most of the other people he served with could be less true.
(Photo by Mrs. P, of my brothers and I on Mothers’ Day.)
