Although I have written about Memorial Day before, I want to elaborate a bit more on how important this holiday was for Minnesota communities. It was originally called “Declaration Day,” and the name was changed to Memorial Day in 1971.

Unofficially, for kids, it was the first day of summer. “No more school, no more books, no more teachers’ dirty looks.” Summer had finally come. Now we could do anything we wanted for three whole months. First, we had to honor Memorial Day. 

The Civil War ended in 1866, which meant that, conceivably, there were people living in 1950 who had been around and may even have fought in it. Certainly, many had fought in World War I, and every family had a connection to World War II. Everyone shared a memory, and those memories were vivid and often haunting. 

It’s no wonder that parades, speeches, rifle salutes, and marching bands were common in every small town. People wanted to pay tribute to those who gave their lives so that their kids could have a better life. Although we didn’t put two and two together, we recognized that Memorial Day was special for our parents, grandparents, and great-grandparents. We had a hard time comprehending that it was all about us. We honored the dead and living veterans but also those who would build the next future. 

As a boy of 7, I don’t think I fully understood what was happening when my scout troop marched down Main Street and, a while later, listened to gun salutes at the cemeteries. I was thinking more about spending the next three months fishing, swimming, camping, and eating green apples. That’s what boys did, and that's what those soldiers served and died for, so we had the chance to do it. 

It was customary for the veterans, local civic groups, Boy Scouts and Girl Scouts, and the high school band to march down small-town Main Streets. In my town, the parade ended at the White Water Creek bridge on Third Street, where the honor guard fired a 21-gun salute and lilac sprigs were thrown into the river. After the gun salute, we boarded a bus and went to neighboring cemeteries to pay tribute to the veterans who were now gone but still alive in the minds of townspeople. 

A 21-gun salute is the highest international military honor. Ships would fire their cannons out to sea to signify peaceful intentions and mutual trust. Much too often it didn’t turn out that way.

In 1950, World War II had ended just four years earlier in 1946. Nearly 420,000 Americans lost their lives. Every race and religion was profoundly affected. Unpleasant memories of World War II were still much alive in 1950. No doubt newspapers printed this familiar poem written on May 3, 1915, by soldier John McCrae.

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below . . .

We have Flanders Fields in every cemetery across the United States. Carnations and daisies blow between the crosses, row upon row upon row. Swallows and mourning doves fly over flags blowing in the breeze, and we solemnly look and hope that no more flags need to be planted, but experience tells us it won’t be so. 

So we walk among the graves, especially noting those who have served and look and wonder at the dates on the tombstones. Who was he or she? What did they experience? What were their dreams? Did they lead a good life? Are we leading a good life? It’s good that we honor Memorial Day to remind all of us to lead a good life and, once again, hope that peace may prevail.