When I was young almost every town had a Memorial Day Parade.
This was a big event for the community and our school bands marched in all of
them. I was proud to be a part, playing at different times saxophone, clarinet,
drums and once even a glockenspiel. I especially liked how proud I was to be
marching in the same parade as my Dad who was a WWII veteran.
In those days we had veterans from four wars march with us,
although the wounded and almost all the Spanish American vets rode in open convertibles.
As kids we would get restless as we stood around at the
cemeteries waiting for ceremonies we couldn’t hear to finish. Most of the time
the bands were positioned off in the far reaches of the place where all the “old”
graves were located. I can remember wondering who put all the little flags on
these graves that were so far removed from current life. Most of these graves were
for Civil War veterans whose markers were small, often in disrepair and very
hard to read.
I wrote the poem Abraham’s Mountain (In the Cat’s Eye, 2009)
a few years ago after I stood in a
different cemetery on another Memorial Day. This time I had intentionally
sought out that old portion of the cemetery which was again far from the
ceremonies. The focus, as might be expected, was mostly on veterans from
Vietnam, Iraq and Afghanistan. The little flags were still placed on the graves
of all of our veterans but little attention was otherwise focused on the
distant memories of the Civil War.
As I listened to the far off report of rifles and then the
haunting notes of taps, I wondered if the soldiers buried at my feet would be
surprised to learn that their war has been the longest of them all. That
bringing a nation together, after it had been ripped asunder, would involve so
much more than the force of arms. Would they be surprised that hatred and
prejudice still bubbles to the surface from the tar pits of people’s minds,
even so many generations later?
Glenn K. Currie
Abraham’s Mountain(2)
Strangers gather here
On Memorial Day.
They plant little
flags
Made in China.
Worn stones are
decorated
To honor those
No one knew.
James (something)
New Hampshire 5th
Died December 1864.
Speakers are as stiff
As the cheaply-made
flags.
Words from a
different time
Remember many wars
With little
understanding.
Their heavy labor
borne on caissons:
Their ashes then
solemnly carried away
On a languid wind.
And Abraham’s war,
Started long ago,
Wages onward
In deeds and spirit.
Strangers fire their
rifles
Into the air,
And hear only
The thin cry
Of a lonesome bugle.
Far away,
Invisible dominoes
Are still falling,
Like the ancient
gravestones.
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