By Anna Von Reitz
Very early in the morning, before
the sun was above the horizon and while the world was still wet with dew, my
Grandmother or Mother would come shake my shoulder to wake me. There was always
a silent sense of urgency in the air on Memorial Day, as if we had an
appointment and couldn’t be late.
Then it was out into the cool
damp morning, into the woodlots and pastures and gardens to gather armloads of
the flowers that bloom this time of year: sweet-smelling Bearded German Iris,
Blue Flags, peonies, and early roses, white and pink and lavender and deep
purple lilacs and Bridal Wreath and ivy and rosemary and other herbs. We’d
carry them home through the dawn light in shiny tin buckets and into the
farmhouse kitchen, where we would sort it all out and make individual bouquets.
Purple Iris for Grandpa’s grave,
peonies and roses for Aunts long dead, lilacs and roses for Cousin Pearl Marie--
and so it went, remembering each one and choosing the flowers just for them. By
eight o’clock we’d joined the throngs of other families threading our ways
through the cemetery rows and among the moldering stones, mostly quiet as we
stabbed the wire prongs of the green metal flower vases into the ground, but
sometimes there would be the odd sound of someone laughing or a child chattering
too loud.
Grandma would get a little lost
in the labyrinth and for a few minutes here and there we’d have to stop and let
her recall where Aunt Olga was buried--- yet always she and we persevered and
remembered and found their headstones and adorned them with flowers. By nine
o’clock the sacred appointment had been kept. Nobody in our family slept on
unremembered. The bouquets stood as proof that we’d been there.
Last but not least we struggled
up the hill to the War Memorial of our town, and placed our last bouquets among
all the others already there, a great mountain of flowers of every kind and
sort, our farmer’s bouquets supporting great wreaths made of hot house roses and
daisies that seemed oddly out of place, and nosegays made by children, stems
tied with soft bits of satin ribbon, all clustered around the flag poles and the
life-sized bronze statue of a single World War I Infantryman.
This enigmatic figure perplexed
my childhood. It seemed that he should have a name and be someone in
particular, with a history ---perhaps associated with the town, perhaps not ---
but he was just a nameless soldier peering out from under his old-fashioned
helmet, come sun or rain, caught forever in the act of taking another stride
forward, poised between the flag poles.
By ten o’clock in the morning,
the Town Square and the courthouse lawn and the adjoining park had been invaded
as if by opposing armies. Ladies in spring dresses and white shoes (you didn’t
get to wear white shoes until Memorial Day back then) fluttered and swirled
across these normally empty spaces and uniformed men hurried around among them
setting up tables and folding chairs. The imposing stage and podium was already
there, festooned with red, white, and blue bunting. The Mayor in a black suit,
white shirt and fancy gray silk vest paced back and forth, anxious to get
everything done in time for the noon barbeque and one o’clock band concert.
By eleven, three distinct groups
could be identified: the local militia wearing green olive drab and only a few
simple insignias, the American Legion looking very modern with crisp uniforms
and new pop coolers, and the Veterans of Foreign Wars, who always dazzled with
their variety of uniforms and campaign ribbons and medals. These three groups
and their ladies took up their positions, right, left, and center of the
courthouse steps, set up their own tables and chairs, plunked their flags in
heavy cement and iron flag holders, and manned their duty stations. Everyone
had their job to do and role to uphold.
The American Legion always served
the coffee and tea for the grown-ups and provided ice cold bottles of pop for
the kids (ten cents each, donation). They also ran the hot dog and hamburger
concession from a large tent behind their contingent.
The VFW offered free ice cold
lemonade and ice water dispensed from huge glass jars with spigots at the
bottom. This service to the poor kids of the community who couldn’t afford the
Legion’s soda pop was always deeply appreciated by everyone and just as
carefully never commented upon by anyone. They also provided three kinds of
free sandwiches every year: egg salad, spam and relish, and peanut butter, all
on the cheap soft white bread that kids forever love.
It always struck me, in those
days anyway, that the Legion was there to make money and carry on, but the VFW
was there to serve and remember and keep serving until they died, burdened by a
knowledge only they had and which they didn’t share.
The militia, being active duty,
had a different air and they weren’t as social nor as pretty to look at, yet
they were impressive in their own way. They were the only soldiers present who
carried actual guns, and together with the local police force, it was understood
they were there to guarantee public safety and decorum.
Each year the local militia sold
flags of many different kinds and sizes, also flag pins and decals. They also
collected old and damaged flags for proper disposal at a ceremony carried out
late in the day in the empty field next to the War Memorial. After all the
speeches and singing and the band recital and whatever entertainments could be
offered to the kids--- fish ponds and pony rides and puppet shows and skits–
these somber men in their dull green uniforms would march slowly back up the
hill and play TAPS on a silver bugle as the sun was going down and burn the old
flags in sight of the War Memorial.
Unlike all the other events, this
one wasn’t advertised as part of the program, but it was this one thing in the
whole day that sent shivers up my spine and made me think hardest about what it
is to be an American. I followed the militiamen out of pure curiosity to see
where they were going and what they would do with the piles of old flags they
collected in the process of selling new ones. I went alone without telling my
parents.
Those flags were given a proper
hero’s funeral, a send-off any man would be proud of. Four uniformed
militiamen, standing at each point of the compass, saluted their passing as the
stars on the flags became lost in smoke against the stars in the sky----and
though I was just a child, I was deeply moved by what I heard and saw.
Anyone who thinks that my
attachment or loyalty to Old Glory is muted by the fact that I fly the Civil
Peace Flag with vertical stripes today, would be wrong. An elder now, I have
served my country in war and in peace. All the secrets of the VFW are now mine
to keep and their service that just quietly bears on to the grave--- that too,
is mine. Jim is a Lifetime Member of the AmVets.
I can tell you that most of our
young men, our veterans, are lost-- wondering what it is all about,
semi-outcasts in their communities, in touch with all that makes them brothers
with every other American who has ever fought, but increasingly disillusioned.
I think I can tell you why on this Memorial Day, or at least give you my
opinion.
It’s because they are never
allowed to come home. It’s because we have been kept embroiled in constant,
perpetual war for a hundred and fifty years. It’s because the Stars and
Stripes wartime flag is the only flag they have ever known. It’s because they
have fought for this country, but been commanded by foreign mercenary
corporations. It’s because, in a way, they’ve been lied to and they know that
in their souls.
The local militia here is weak
and unobservant. They take their orders from the State of State Governor and
never question the nature of his office, his loyalties to foreign corporations,
his innate conflicts of interest. They don’t interact much with their community
and don’t get funding worth spitting on in support of their hard work and
lynch-pin importance as the bedrock of the American Government. Most of them
don’t even know that there is any difference between the United States and
United States of America.
It’s time they learned and time
that we all remembered.
When I fly the Civil Peace Flag
with vertical stripes it is with a catch in my heart for Old Glory, but also
with the certainty that the Republic Flag is mine and that the Peace is mine:
it’s the peace, not the war that I have always fought for. It’s the land and
the people that I care about, not the foreign adventurism of USA, INC. My life
has come and gone like a parade, a panoply of sight and sound---and in that time
I have learned a great many things that are hard to bear, but one of the hardest
to accept is simply this: I was betrayed by those I trusted to run my
government.
In the present day only a very
few elected officials stand tall as representatives of what our Founders had in
mind, and it is painfully apparent that once again, we must all undertake the
responsibility to govern ourselves and organize our communities and re-educate
our children, take up the reins of our lawful government, inform our militias,
and remember who we are.
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Thank you Anna!
ReplyDelete"... betrayed by those I trusted to run my government" is clearly heard here.
Amen to remembering "who we are"!
While never entering battle, I had many duties, served for 23 years, at the ready if needed and glad to be doing it, at least believing that was what I was doing in my heart as many do who serve. It is good to know that there are those who appreciate it, who know what it is that is offered what leads us to serve each other for any price. I too found out my government let me down, used as disposable fodder for corporate gains, became so foreign that our local militia men were getting out, refusing to face confronting their own people in their own home towns if called upon to do so. Thank God for Anna and this deeply felt message.
ReplyDeleteInspiring and powerful words, Judge Anna! I will be flying my Civil Flag June 14 amongst all the war banners.
ReplyDeleteThanks Anna!
ReplyDeletei just bought my Flag yesterday.
"AN APPEAL TO HEAVEN" flag needs allegiance and exposure now more than ever.
ReplyDeleteThere once stood an elm tree at the corner of Essex Street and Orange Street in Boston, Massachusetts, under which a group of men calling themselves the “Sons of Liberty” met to protest the notorious British Stamp Act sometime during 1765. From that time onward, the tree was popularly called the “Liberty Tree.” In 1775, the British seized Boston, cut down the tree and used it for firewood. Flags bearing the symbol of the “Liberty Tree” almost immediately began to appear. So it is no wonder that when, in the fall of that same year, George Washington outfitted a squadron of six schooners at his own expense, he fittingly used the symbol of the tree and his own personal prayer to the Lord with the phrase, “An Appeal to Heaven.”
LAUS DEO