As many do, I take time to look back and take stock on Memorial Day. As a kid, the weekend meant freedom, not in the light of the Constitution or Declaration of Independence, but freedom from the tyranny of school and teachers; freedom from diagraming sentences or finding the hypotenuse of a triangle.
It was the beginning of endless summer days at the swimming pool, riding bikes, hanging out with friends getting into trouble, and, as I got older, experiencing the highs and lows of a new crush on a pretty girl.
I still had chores to do. Mow the yard, do the dishes, clean my room, fold my laundry; and even opportunities to make some money helping Dad frame a house, pour concrete, shingle a roof, or mix mud while he laid brick.
But mostly, by two in the afternoon, I was free to head to the pool, take in a movie, do whatever as long as I was back when the streetlights came on. This temporary childhood nirvana would only last three months, until after Labor Day, but it all began on Memorial Day.
Memorial Day itself was a bit more somber than the rest of the summer. It began with graveside services with Dad at the local cemetery where he would deliver a shortened form of his Cheers, Tears, and Fears sermon from Sunday. I almost always went with him to these services, fascinated by the pomp and circumstance of the color guard and anxiously waiting for the 21-gun salute, and each year, Dad made sure I got a shell casing fired from one of the rifles.
Afterwards, Dad and I would head home, maybe get some breakfast on the way. I would spend the rest of the day watching old World War II movies on cable, classics like “The Longest Day,” “A Bridge Too Far,” “Midway,” and “Tora. Tora. Tora,” to name a few.
Dad grew up during the war. The men and women who served were his heroes. He had a reverence and respect for them that he passed on to me, whether by design or by chance. As a young boy, these men and their wives were often my caretakers when the parents were away for extended periods, and, in a sense, they became my surrogate grandparents.
Nothing would catch my attention faster than when one of them would start talking about his time during The War. There were never any stories of the fighting, other than to say they were there, but the stories were about the relationships, the camaraderie they shared with other soldiers — and the dumb stuff they did when the First Sergeant wasn’t looking!
These are the same stories I have about my time, separated by 50 years.
My time in the Corps is regarded as “peace time.” But in the Corps, “peace time” doesn’t necessarily mean someone isn’t going to be shooting at you at some point.
I had missed deployment to Desert Storm by 24 hours after six months of preparation and training in boot camp and advanced schooling. But my chance came at the end of 1992 with a six-month deployment to east Africa. Our time there was not by any means comparable to Tet or Omaha Beach, but it wasn’t exactly a spa day at the Hilton, either.
We did our job and then we came home. But we didn’t all come home together. We lost one from our own company during those six months and another from a sister company in the battalion.
Now, Memorial Day is much more personal. It’s no longer the start of a magical and carefree summers. It’s much more than that. It’s a little harder.
At some point, today, I will make my way to the Veterans’ Memorial to visit Jim Varansky, the young Marine and family friend I never met whose loss in Vietnam inspired Dad’s Memorial Day sermon. And before the day is over, I will call a Marine brother or two just to check up and see how they’re doing.
And, as is it has been customary since I was old enough to say “John Wayne,” and despite the wife’s protestations, I’ll sneak in a newer or classic World War II movie somewhere, albeit with a much deeper respect and understanding of my dad’s — and my — heroes.
