Musings
an Online Journal of Sorts

By Alyce Wilson

Walking my dog today, I smell barbecue. The rain has finally died down and people are having their backyard barbecues to celebrate Memorial Day.

Memorial Day reminds me of parades. First it was Girl Scouts and then high school band.

For years, I was in a parade every Memorial Day.

The Memorial Day parade was the last time for the senior band members to march, and so it could be bittersweet. The parade was basic and not very long. We'd march a few blocks, at most. It would be the high school band, some veterans groups and maybe a drum corps or a Scottish pipe band.

We'd trek up to the cemetery (on a hill, always on a hill) for the service. A World War II veteran would give a prepared speech, sometimes borrowed from a previous year, just pulled out of the file.

At the very end of the speech one of the trumpet players would have gone far down into the cemetery and would play "Taps." Then the World War II veterans would shoot a 21-gun salute, which made people jump and babies cry.

And that was Memorial Day for many years. Then, when I returned to my home town as a reporter, for three years my Memorial Days involved covering these ceremonies. That meant taking pictures of the small parade, pictures of people at the ceremony and of the main speaker. It meant writing up an article on the speech, maybe interviewing a few veterans. It was usually my only assignment for the day, and everyone was happy to talk to me. There was a general consensus that it was important and that the true meaning of the holiday was overlooked. They would always stress it was about those who fell in conflict and not about backyard barbecues.

My family history includes a high percentage of Quakers and pacifists, so I can't think of anyone in my immediate family who died in a war. If you go back far enough, I did have ancestors on both sides of the Civil War. Fortunately, they didn't eliminate each other.

But the strangest thing this morning was that I was thinking of a particular family member who died a gruesome death. I don't want to sound sacrilegious, but she wasn't even human.

What I thought of this morning was my cat Squeaky. I'd had her for a couple years and she'd never liked staying inside, so I left her out at night. I lived on a fairly quiet street and thought it was safe. One morning she didn't come home for breakfast. I had a sick feeling in my stomach. I decided to look for her, got in my truck and had only gone a block when I found her in the road. It was a terrible sight, so I'll spare you the details. I screamed, jumped out of the truck and ran to her, knowing there was nothing I could do.

I went back to the house and found something to collect her remains. Unfortunately, the most appropriate thing was a garbage bag. I made sure to collect all of her remains, although this was not easy.

I called into work and told them I wasn't coming in, drove over to my mom's house and dug a grave in the back yard within a triangle of trees. I had the idea that it would be nice if living things could be nourished by her passing. Once the grave was done, I laid her on a large strip of pine bark and placed a serving of her favorite cat food in there with her.

My mom and dad joined me to have a ceremony. We said a few words about her, and I finished the task of filling in the grave. Years later, fresh green grass grows there. It might be my imagination, but I think the trees are healthier.

Perhaps the reason I thought about Squeaky today was because I imagine that her tragic passing and my handling of her death must be similar to the sorts of things people experience on battlefields. It's excruciating to find someone you care about in that kind of condition, and yet, at that point, the only way to show your love for them is to see that they are buried with dignity and respect.

On Memorial Day, veterans come out in their dress uniforms, give solemn speeches and offer a dignified memorial service to their fallen comrades. Many of these veterans will never talk about exactly what they saw and exactly how their comrades met their fates. But they remember, and they honor the memory of those they knew and those who died.

So while the barbecue smells great and there is a place for celebration, we should pause to honor the memory of those who died in all conflicts and to pray that we can help create a future where such brave deaths will no longer be necessary.

Copyright 2003 by Alyce Wilson

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