Kes: They Traded Their Life, For Ours

It was never confusing for us. Memorial Day commemorated those brave American soldiers who gave their last full measure for our country. It has nothing to do with the beginning of summer.

I can remember the only Memorial Day lesson I ever needed. It was in my early school years. Somebody did a book report on Audie Murphy, and the teacher reminded us that all of our fathers who fought in World War II were also war heroes.

Listen, this was in 1956. Easily, 90 percent of the students in that room had fathers who’d been battle tested either in Europe or the South Pacific. Including mine. I raced home with my little heart beating faster than a hummingbird’s wings at meal time. 

Daddy was just Daddy. He played with us. Fussed at us when we didn’t do it just like he wanted it done. Told us great stories at night out on the porch. Taught us how to twist that ear of corn off the stalk. And he would never let us get away with the “sick stomach” trick on Sunday mornings.

He didn’t ever, one time, in his whole life, act like a hero. That’s why I was waiting out by the road when he got home from work that day. “Daddy,” my heart was still about to leap out of my little chest, “teacher says that you are a war hero!”

He stopped in mid stride, squatted down so he was about eyeball to eyeball with me, paused for a second—and I saw a look come over him like he was a million miles away—and then he delivered the only words I ever heard him say about that part of his life.

“Son, the real heroes didn’t come back.”  

No one has ever explained Memorial Day better than that.

So don’t tell me it is the beginning of summer. Or it is associated with barbeque grills and going to the beach. We used to celebrate it on May 30. It seems like it kinda got watered down when someone changed it to the last Monday in the month so we could make it a “three day weekend.”

Any elementary school child can tell you exactly when summer starts. And it has nothing to do with the Gregorian calendar, leap year, Civil War cemeteries, the summer solstice, or celebrating holidays. Summer begins the second the last bell rings marking the end of another boring school year.

Now, me and Yogi, Buddy and Ricky near ’bout cheered like it was on par with Christmas, Thanksgiving, or your tenth birthday. We headed for the big ditch. We ran through the little stream in the middle of it. We climbed its steepest walls. We threw pine cones, dirt clods, and broken off tree limbs at each other.

It was just the freedom of the moment. And the anticipation of the almost three ensuing months where we could do “nothin’ but what we wanted to do.” You see the fallacy of our thinking immediately. We were not exactly as free as we imagined.

We all had chores at home. We all had rules at home…about where and when we could go. And where and when we could not go. But we didn’t have to attend the Blue Bird reading class. Or take those awful math tests. Or good gracious alive, line up against the wall across from the girls and participate in those appalling spelling bees!

I reckon freedom is what you make of it.

And in our minds, we were basking in it in those wonderful summer months. We would race our bikes to town just for the heck of it. We’d go down to the ice house and beg the nice man who worked there for a slice of watermelon. We’d hitch a ride out to the Tri-County Stockyards just to listen to the auctioneer sell those cows.

As we got older, jobs got in the way of our summer fun. But we needed, wanted, put to good use, the money we made. It opened more doors for us. And we gravitated to the swimming pool, Frank’s Dairy Bar, and the clay pits.

And you might not believe this, but Jane, Pam, Emily, and Diane became as important in our lives as Ricky, Buddy, and Yogi. It was like a whole new world was opening up for all of us. Cars suddenly were important. Madras shirts became the rage. We wouldn’t be caught dead wearing a “farmer’s tan.” We began to listen to the “Kingston Trio” and “Peter, Paul, and Mary.”

I learned a new term, “going steady.”

Good golly, we wrote the book on easy living. And those early lazy, hazy days of summer were only the beginning. I have felt safe, free, blessed, and happy every single day of my life.

As I’m sure many of you have also. We can congratulate ourselves for living in the land of the free, and the home of the brave.

Or we can put two and two together…and understand the importance of “the ones who didn’t come back.”    

Respectfully,
Kes
kesley45@aol.com