I can remember packing my bag with a pair of half-ripped jeans, a couple of T-shirts, one hooded sweatshirt, and a couple pairs of shorts (one basketball, one swimming). My brothers and I would throw the bags in the back of the van and hop in for the short ride to Havre and Gary & Leo's IGA. As my mom pushed the cart down the aisles, we would toss in hot dogs and hamburgers, chips and dip, maybe even ingredients for S'mores. After a not-so-quick checkout it was back in the van and on the way to the Bears Paw Mountains. I never really knew why we went camping for those three or four days, just that it was family tradition. Papa Denny would pull the Jayco trailer into the campground ahead of time, where Grandpa Wayne and Grandma June had already settled in with their monstrous motorhome. Soon the grassy woodland would be filled with campers and trailers, men drinking beer around the campfire while women played cards under the motorhome awning, and us kids wreaking havoc everywhere in-between. There was one difference between this camping trip and the one we would take during the 4th of July. On Sunday we would make the trek back into Havre, fill up the van with flowers and flags, and drive on up to the Highland Cemetery. We would navigate our way through the narrow roads until we found the graves of those family members lost. My aunt Carla, who passed away when she was just a child. Watching my mom carefully place flowers around that piece of granite always put a lump in my throat. It was a powerful emotion for someone I had never even met. My cousin Josh, who was also taken too soon. Many times there would be flowers already placed around his grave, no doubt from other relatives who had already come. My mind would drift back to memories of Christmas where Josh would bounce us younger children around on his knee before playing a prank on one of the adults. There were other graves we visited, the list seemingly growing from one year to the next. Great aunts and uncles, great-great grandparents, schoolmates and more. We would weave our way across the cemetery, respectfully avoiding others doing the same. The routine was similar each time: find the familiar name, place the flowers around the granite slab, hold a moment of silence while recalling a fond memory or two, and move on. “The 30th of May, 1868, is designated for the purpose of strewing with flowers, or otherwise decorating the graves of comrades who died in defense of their country during the late rebellion, and whose bodies now lie in almost every city, village and hamlet churchyard in the land." General John Logan proclaimed these influential words following the devastating Civil War. Instantly, Decoration Day was born. It took years for all of the states to honor the newly-formed holiday. The southern states recognized their deceased military members on other days until the conclusion of World War I when it was announced that Decoration Day would remember all American military members who died in any war. This eventually paved way for the Memorial Day we are all familiar with today. My family was fortunate in a sense. We had no recent relatives who had given the ultimate sacrifice in war. Certain family members represented our country in the military, but none I had known lost their lives in the process. For me growing up, Memorial Day was about remembering those family members we had lost while giving thanks to those who had died for their...for OUR...country. I understood the true meaning of the holiday from the words in the textbooks, the stories from older relatives and the movies on TV. I understood it but I had never felt it. That was soon to change. I was a young news photographer working at KTVQ in Billings, Montana. The majority of my works were fun features or sporting events. Occasionally, a story would be much more serious and difficult to cover. There were numerous times we would report the sad news of a local soldier dead from battle overseas. Sometimes, family members would step in front of the camera, tears falling down their cheek, to recall memories of their loved one. Other times families would invite the media to the funeral service to share the incredible sacrifice their soldier had given. I remember holding back tears while watching these particular videos in our edit bays. I couldn't tell you the names of those deceased, but I will never forget the feeling that swept over me seeing a mom or dad, sister or brother, speak about what made their fallen hero so special to them. I have since had friends join the military, travel overseas and serve their country as commanded. Whether you agree with the actions of the U.S. military or not, you must respect these individuals for leaving their family behind to try and make a difference in the world. They may not understand or even agree with their instructions, but they push onward hoping to leave a greater impact. Again I am fortunate to not need to lay flags on graves during the Memorial Day weekend. My friends have travelled safely back home. Some have left the military completely, others still have their uniform ready if duty calls. Still, I see year-round the images of a young child grasping a headstone with all her might, wanting to hug her mother one last time. Wives are handed a folded flag while gunshots ring in the background. Tears flow from their eyes and again I understand. This isn't the Memorial Day of my childhood. There is a real meaning behind this final Monday of May and I offer my sorrow to all those not able to enjoy camping or barbecue or swimming this weekend. Your loved ones are the true heroes. Here's to them and here's to you.
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AuthorRichie is a small-town boy chasing big-city dreams. When he's not involved with sports, he's spending time with his wife, Fallon; their yorkie, Tinker; and their Rhodesian Ridgeback, Rosie. Archives
April 2016
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