Yesterday, Sheila and I made the annual trek to Sallisaw to decorate our family graves. As usual it was a sorrowful day somewhat ameliorated by the pleasure of seeing family and friends and a nice drive through the always beautiful Cookson Hills.
The American Memorial Day holiday began after the civil war as a way to remember our war dead. “Decoration Day,” another local holiday when all family graves were decorated was usually a separate event. But, over the years, they were commonly merged. I try to keep the two remembrances separate in my consideration of the day.
When we began decorating, I noticed that Sheila had chosen an otherwise nice red, white and blue bouquet marred by what I saw as a cheap plastic doo dad saying “Hero.” There were dozens of similar displays all over the cemetery since this one was one of the better displays being sold by Wal Mart this year. However, I couldn’t help but cringe over what dad would have thought of such a display.
Dad was a genuine hero. He had the medals and commendations to prove it. He started his war in Sicily, survived the bitter slog through Italy and the Anzio catastrophe to celebrate VE day deep in Germany. But, like many if not most of his generation, dad was quiet about his heroism. He never discussed it. Once, when I was a child, I found his medals. I asked him about the Bronze Star. In his typical shy, modest manner he just said, “Aw shucks. They gave those things away with Wheaties.” It was many years before I learned that they don’t award the Bronze Star for trivial reasons.
But, dad was a hero in another way as well. Despite suffering from PTSD his entire life, he was a pillar of the community and our church and literally worked himself to death to give Mom and I a better life. Taking nothing away from his war time heroism, this second kind of heroism, the daily surrender of your life, your hopes and your ambitions to care for a family under always difficult and sometimes nearly impossible circumstances is truly awe inspiring.
Dad would not have been happy to see a little white plastic sign over his grave, calling him a “hero.” He was a hero, he knew it, I certainly knew it and that would have been enough for him. In my dad’s generation, real heroes didn’t brag and they certainly didn’t cheapen their sacrifice by letting anyone make merchandise of it.
As we were getting ready to leave, I reached in my pocket and realized I had no coins there. I don't know what I was thinking. I haven’t carried coins in years. So, I asked Sheila to dig around in her purse and find a penny for me. There is a tradition among veterans. When you visit another veterans grave, you leave a coin. A penny simply means that another veteran was there showing his respect. A nickle means that you served in boot camp with them. A dime means that you actually served with them at some point. A quarter means that you were there when they died.
A young army captain is buried near my families graves. He died in Viet Nam on my birthday in 1970 during a truly hairy mission trying to rescue a number of wounded that had been left behind by their retreating unit. The citation for his Silver Star, America’s second highest award for valor, says that he personally pulled two of the wounded back to safety and died with a third in his arms. That kind of selfless courage deserves to be remembered. In years past, I would I would often find other coins on his headstone. This year, there was only mine.
As we were driving home, Sheila remarked sadly, “When we’re gone, nobody will decorate their graves or ours.” She is right. The ungrateful generation after ours at best cares nothing for their heritage and at worst is ashamed of it. And even the fact that we are ashamed of them will mean nothing once we are gone.
