Memorial Day

The last Monday in May has become the day when we honor those who have died in U.S. military battles. It’s nice to have a three-day weekend to kick off the summer season. We used to honor our fallen military personnel on May 30, before the advent of the three-day weekend. I am old enough to remember Washington’s and Lincoln’s birthdays in February (on the 22^nd and 12^th, respectively), before a Monday President’s Day existed. I don't object to the three-day weekend. Workers deserve this kind of break a few times a year. But I do feel that the meaning of Memorial Day (and some of the other holidays that have shifted to Mondays) has become obscured. This is why I have waited until today to write something about this important day.

My father served in Europe during World War II, as a teenager, and (obviously) survived that war. I honor his service on Veterans Day each year. But I think of him on Memorial Day as well, because he landed on Normandy Beach on D-Day and so many men did not survive that deadly battle. Austin, my father, was 17 when he shipped out to serve his country. On D-Day, he had just a month earlier turned 19. He and so many other young men, joined the fight when they were still boys. The lucky ones came home, but they came home changed. The unlucky ones came home in body bags, were buried abroad, or remained missing.

If you didn’t do so on Monday, consider taking a moment today (how about right now?) to thank those who gave their lives, in both world wars, to protect democracy here and abroad. This year, as we find ourselves on the brink of fascism in the U.S., this may be more important than ever to reflect upon.