In many communities, Memorial Day has been merged with the local "decoration day" in which all graves are decorated.
For a lot of people, the unknowing, the ungrateful, the uncaring and the un-American, Memorial day is simply the first big holiday of the summer season, a time to barbecue, go to the beach, get drunk, celebrate and make fools of themselves.
We decorate at the small town municipal cemetery where my father is buried. The first thing you notice when you drive into the cemetery is the sea of American flags. Even in a small town with a population of less than ten thousand that most people have never heard of like Sallisaw, Oklahoma, there are hundreds of flags. Each flag marks the grave of a U.S. or Confederate military veteran. They are placed there by the members of a private organization, the American Legion, whose membership is limited to veterans.
My father's headstone simply reads William A. Kumpe, U.S. Army, WWII. It is no different from hundreds of others like it around the cemetery. But, each headstone has a story. My father's story includes North Africa, Sicily, Italy, France, the low countries and Germany. A similar military headstone is one grave down from my father's. It reads Charley Kumpe, U.S. Army, WWII. My uncle Charley spent his war as an MP guarding German prisoners here in the States. He was too old to serve overseas. There is a similar military headstone in the windswept little cemetery in Worland, Wyoming. It reads Henry Kumpe, U.S. Navy, WWII. Uncle Henry made the island hopping campaigns in the Pacific as a SeaBee until he was severely wounded in a Japanese air raid.
Even in this small town in the middle of America there are veterans graves from every War from the Civil War right up to the current "war on terror." Small town America always seems to give more than its share of its sons to the defense of the country. That is because here in small town America people still believe in America as an idea, as a homeland to be honored and defended. The sons and now daughters of small town America still go willingly and shed blood on foreign soil to protect the freedom of others both abroad and at home.
The last thing I did before leaving the cemetery was leave a penny on the grave of a soldier who was killed in action in Viet Nam. I do this every year. I walk by this fallen Viet Nam vets grave on the way to my fathers. Leaving a coin is a silent veteran to veteran mark of respect with its own set of private rules. It is an ancient practice that began with the Roman Legions.
I am tempted to rant and rave about self indulgent millenials, Resistance thugs and Anti-Fa terrorists destroying the nation. I am tempted to scold a generation that neither knows nor cares what Memorial Day means and price that was paid. But, that would do no good. They have lost the vision of America and replaced it with hate and self loathing. Trying to talk to them is like trying to teach a pig calculus. You will not succeed and you will only annoy yourself and the pig in the process. So, the only thing left to say is that this generation does not deserve the sacrifice previous generations have made for it but does indeed deserve every measure of the coming horror that they have created.
