National Holidays in a Small Town

While the anniversary of my father’s passing brings some sadness, the national holidays immediately following that anniversary bring fond thoughts. Memorial Day and Fourth of July around here are very big deals, of course. We have our own town traditions.

On Saturday the Boy Scouts decorated the graves in the local cemeteries – the large active one and the historic sites. Boy Scouts and Girl Scouts will be gathering soon for the annual parade. Early this morning, a group from American Legion Post started their annual tour to seven sites around town.

One stop is at a revolutionary war tomb on the property katy-corner to us in back. You’d probably not notice this tomb unless you were looking for it. As you drive down the road, you can look for a rise in the back corner of the property and something cut into it – though you’d never be sure what unless you looked closely, and most people are loathe to traipse across the private property to inspect it (even though the tomb itself is town property and maintained by a town work crew).

The group from the American Legion post gathers at the edge of the front property at 8:20AM. They converse briefly about their path to the tomb – this year interrupted by a portion of fence surrounding a new garden. The commander calls them to attention and directs their march up. When they reach the tomb, they give a 21-gun salute and a bugler plays, “Taps.” Then the retreat and fallout, and on to the next site.

Every year, when this little ceremony happens, I think about Dad. My dad was a veteran, although he did not define or identify himself by his brief military service at the end of World War II. He was, of course, respectful of all things military. But I think what he enjoyed the most about it was the pageantry. It was the parades and formations and ceremony (and John Philip Sousa) more than the actual military actions. As such, he loved little things like this. Loved them.

This morning, my husband had to work, and since we were up a little late and S needed more rest (and the salute would scare her), I sent the boys over by themselves. I listened for the ceremony through the open windows. Although my father never visited here, I could picture him easily - standing there, watching silently. It made me smile.

Likewise, the annual Fourth of July parade brings a flood of fond memories. Our town puts on a real old-time parade. For a small town, it’s a sizeable parade. There are fire engines and other fire vehicles from here and several surrounding towns. There are homemade floats, there are bands, and there are town, county, district and state politicians pressing the flesh and kissing the babies – even in non-election years. It goes on for almost an hour!

The first time we went to the parade after moving here, I wrote my dad a long letter afterward describing it. He would have been so, so in his element. Just after my father died, my brother and his family were here for a visit over July 4th, and of course we went to the parade. I remember my brother and I kept looking at each other as we were having flashbacks to memories of Dad and how he loved parades and politics and all of it. We tried to explain some of what we were thinking and feeling to our kids, but as much as it was comforting to us, it was still to hard to explain to the little people (at that time four kids between us aged two to seven). A little too close, a little too soon.

As time has passed, I smile a little wider and easier on these days. It’s interesting to me how these small town rituals have had a comforting impact on things that happened across the continent. I suppose that’s what the rituals are all about, though.