Seeley Swan Pathfinder -

By Dale Terrillion
Christian Logger 

Memories of Memorial Day

Passages

 

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Dale Terrillion, Christian Logger

Several years back I returned for Mom's funeral. I laid eight roses on her casket, one for each of her children – one stillborn. It was a perfect spring day - made me remember all those Memorial Days she took us to this place. To show respect for loved ones and all the service men and women buried there.

I didn't linger as they lowered the casket next to a stillborn daughter, Dad and brother Gilbert, who was killed in Germany. They placed a flag there. And years later Brother Wilson, who served in Korea, was remembered by the V F W. His obituary told of his medals from the Air Force that I never knew of. He never talked about it. I guess like the old Vet in Butte at a ceremony, who sat with tears slid'n down his cheeks. Asked by a reporter his thoughts the old man sezs, choked up, "Anyone who thinks there's' glory in war needs their head examined."

Walk'n through the cemetery there was flags and brass plagues everywhere. Seemed like every other grave marker had'um. The Veterans of Foreign Wars and the American Legion will make sure we don't forget. One fifth of Americas' homeless are Vets, what a disgrace. And we're puttin' up illegals in motels at a cost of $60 million a week plus. A while back Sen. Tester was here with the head of the VA. I didn't hear them discuss it but I might of missed it. Are any of those in DC who are in charge ashamed? Instead they spent their time try 'n t o destroy the Constitution.

Anyway caused me to remember those paper poppies on the counter of the general store at Indian Rivers. Made by disabled vets, don't ya know. They only cost a buck. And they didn't last long. No one left the store without one.

Uncle Vinny had his in the buttonhole of his shirt, then hung it on the rear view mirror of the old Chevy pickup. And so a Memorial Day should always have that great poem:

In Flanders Fields

by John McCrae

In Flanders fields the poppies blow

Between the crosses, row on row

That mark our place; and the sky

The larks, still bravely singing, fly

Scarce heard amid the guns below

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.

 

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