Memorial Day

 

One of my favorite books is “The Things They Carried” by Tim O’Brien. I used that book with several of my classes and am often known to just hand out the book to anyone who needs to have it. I was thinking of this book as I was going through my library and came across two extra copies. It is a marvelous read and perfect for this holiday weekend. As I sit at my desk with my curtains billowing in the wind, I thought about the things we all carry that are important to our lives…our wallets, our bookshelves, our desks, even our refrigerators…these things tell us and others who we are.

Today, let’s talk about the things on my desk. I sit and ponder for a moment listening to the silence of the neighborhood. There is an occasional bark of a dog or a child’s voice, but aside of that, my neighborhood is quiet. Are we all reflecting? Going to the lake? Reading on a cozy porch? As the silence deepens into late morning, I sit and look around.

On my desk is the first peony bouquet. My beautiful peonies bloomed late on Saturday afternoon. I watch the ants for days as they worked their magic pulling away the sweetness on the buds which cause the flowers to bloom. These are extra beautiful this year and full of blossoms. As always, I take out a copy of Mary Oliver’s poem, “Peonies,” to read in the garden. I choose early morning as dew drops linger on the soft petals, and I am alone with the garden and myself. Oh, how I wait for these to bloom and fill the empty spaces of this old house with their fragrance.

On my desk is a small red poppy which I received at the service on the mound this morning. It also was a quiet morning with blue skies, a reverent crowd, and a message that makes us all stop to think and ponder. I go back home and read “In Flanders Fields” by John McCrae. Just reading his poem brings me to tears, but his life’s story even more so. McCrae was a Canadian physician. He volunteered for service when Britain declared war on Germany in 1914. McCrae was 41. He wrote these words, “I am really rather afraid, but more afraid to stay at home with my conscience.” He set up a field hospital in Belgium. His good friend, Lt. Alexis Helmer was killed there and thus the poem was born. McCrae died of pneumonia at the British General Hospital in France in 1918.

On my desk is a small key. This key opens the army trunk of my grandfather, Walter F. Rhoads. My grandfather served in WWI as a young man. When I was gifted the trunk, I was hoping to find papers or an article of clothing from my grandfather, but it was completely empty. Perhaps that was just as well. He never told the stories, and I guess we never asked. The trunk has his name engraved on it, and I wonder what did the young Walter think when he was issued the trunk, and where all did it go, and what did he keep in there? Those answers I will never have, but maybe it is enough to have this trunk with me.

Memorial Day comes and goes. The boats go in the water. The last of the garden seeds are planted. A bit more paint goes onto the fence. The bikes are tossed about in the yards where children live and play. The heat goes up. The ice makers work overtime. We bask in the joy and beauty of late spring going into summer.

We are still here. We open our curtains and the sky is blue and the air is fresh. Just because the calendar turns to another day, it is our job to remember. I put the books back on the shelf with a sigh. I tuck the poppy into a poetry book, and the key in a small case.  And always, if we forget, “In Flanders Fields” is just a poem away from remembering.

“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…”

John McCrae