This is from Greg Dewar of the Oregon Daily Emerald:
Memorial Day weekend is never a good weekend. An old Army buddy said that to me years ago. It resulted in an hour of quiet contemplation between us. It needed no introduction and it needed no explanation.
For most, it’s a day that involves barbecuing, family, friends and a much-needed reprieve from work and school. I cannot be cross with people for enjoying the day like any day off. I know that they can enjoy this day, and that’s all any of us should want.
For some of us, however, Memorial Day weekend is a dour and heart-wrenching affair.
Most never think of the actual point of Memorial Day. It was created after the Civil War to honor the Union’s war dead and is celebrated near Unification Day. It was expanded after WWI to honor all war dead.
To honor those brave souls who paid the ultimate price for America’s freedom, that small echelon of society who placed their friends, family and the American Dream (hollowed and forboding as it is currently) above life and limb, is the least we can do. It is the most noble and charitable of acts.
These are the truly human among us. These are the ones we must never forget.
When we as a nation are in a prolonged foreign war, Memorial Day is the most
important day of the year.
As I am a veteran, Memorial Day brings up a bag of mixed feelings: pride, survivor’s guilt and a great deal of remorse.
I feel pride to know that I briefly served among the ranks of these heroes. Survivor’s guilt because our roles were not reversed; that instead of my friends — the best friends I ever had and people I consider family — dying in that godforsaken desert, it should have been me. Why wasn’t I more like them? Why them, specifically? What forces sent them and kept me? I was just as willing.
I feel remorse because they are gone forever and the world will never know their greatness. The world will never know what they had to offer. The world will never know them like I did.
The world I live in is a sleeping hell, awoken but once a year to the tune of the bittersweet symphony of what I have lost and what we have gained. It is not a weekend during which I can touch alcohol, but my cigarette intake will jump from one to two or three packs a day.
These heroes’ names aren’t on any wall. I can’t even go and read them. I can’t afford to make a pilgrimage to their graves. So every Memorial Day weekend that I can, I visit the names of the heroes who came before them. Heroes who gave their lives just as willingly and without regret. I hope that it is enough to honor them in the way that they deserve.
Come Memorial Day morning, I visit the war memorials in Springfield and Albany — they are both dedicated to the Vietnam War. I read the plaques and every name on the walls aloud, then salute the flag. I drive up to Wilsonville and read every name on the Korean War, the forgotten war, Memorial’s wall, and then salute the flag.
Patriotism and respect for the war dead is ingrained within me. I come from a long line of military men who have served during almost every major conflict the U.S. has fought. My great grandfather was an Army sniper in WWI. My grandfather served on a naval destroyer that ferried supplies through U-boat territory to England in WWII. Then he re-enlisted and served in Korea. My father and both uncles served in the Army during Vietnam. The generational gap meant that a Dewar was not present during the first Gulf War, but I served during the War in Afghanistan and the Second Gulf War as a member of the U.S. Air Force, for far too short a time. That is my only regret in this life.
At these memorials, only one thought is on my mind: Any one of us could have had their names on those walls.
Take the time this Memorial Day weekend to thank a veteran or visit a memorial. Look into their eyes or up at that flag waving in the spring breeze and say, “Thank you.” If you don’t, spend this Memorial Day freely and at your own discretion, and think of those who preserved what we, as a nation, have. That’s all it takes. That’s all that really matters.
As I finish this off with a tear in the corner of my eye, I would like to leave you with a single quote from Rev. Aaron Kilbourn: “The dead soldier’s silence sings our national anthem.”
gdewar@dailyemerald.com
Memorial Day weekend is never a good weekend. An old Army buddy said that to me years ago. It resulted in an hour of quiet contemplation between us. It needed no introduction and it needed no explanation.
For most, it’s a day that involves barbecuing, family, friends and a much-needed reprieve from work and school. I cannot be cross with people for enjoying the day like any day off. I know that they can enjoy this day, and that’s all any of us should want.
For some of us, however, Memorial Day weekend is a dour and heart-wrenching affair.
Most never think of the actual point of Memorial Day. It was created after the Civil War to honor the Union’s war dead and is celebrated near Unification Day. It was expanded after WWI to honor all war dead.
To honor those brave souls who paid the ultimate price for America’s freedom, that small echelon of society who placed their friends, family and the American Dream (hollowed and forboding as it is currently) above life and limb, is the least we can do. It is the most noble and charitable of acts.
These are the truly human among us. These are the ones we must never forget.
When we as a nation are in a prolonged foreign war, Memorial Day is the most
important day of the year.
As I am a veteran, Memorial Day brings up a bag of mixed feelings: pride, survivor’s guilt and a great deal of remorse.
I feel pride to know that I briefly served among the ranks of these heroes. Survivor’s guilt because our roles were not reversed; that instead of my friends — the best friends I ever had and people I consider family — dying in that godforsaken desert, it should have been me. Why wasn’t I more like them? Why them, specifically? What forces sent them and kept me? I was just as willing.
I feel remorse because they are gone forever and the world will never know their greatness. The world will never know what they had to offer. The world will never know them like I did.
The world I live in is a sleeping hell, awoken but once a year to the tune of the bittersweet symphony of what I have lost and what we have gained. It is not a weekend during which I can touch alcohol, but my cigarette intake will jump from one to two or three packs a day.
These heroes’ names aren’t on any wall. I can’t even go and read them. I can’t afford to make a pilgrimage to their graves. So every Memorial Day weekend that I can, I visit the names of the heroes who came before them. Heroes who gave their lives just as willingly and without regret. I hope that it is enough to honor them in the way that they deserve.
Come Memorial Day morning, I visit the war memorials in Springfield and Albany — they are both dedicated to the Vietnam War. I read the plaques and every name on the walls aloud, then salute the flag. I drive up to Wilsonville and read every name on the Korean War, the forgotten war, Memorial’s wall, and then salute the flag.
Patriotism and respect for the war dead is ingrained within me. I come from a long line of military men who have served during almost every major conflict the U.S. has fought. My great grandfather was an Army sniper in WWI. My grandfather served on a naval destroyer that ferried supplies through U-boat territory to England in WWII. Then he re-enlisted and served in Korea. My father and both uncles served in the Army during Vietnam. The generational gap meant that a Dewar was not present during the first Gulf War, but I served during the War in Afghanistan and the Second Gulf War as a member of the U.S. Air Force, for far too short a time. That is my only regret in this life.
At these memorials, only one thought is on my mind: Any one of us could have had their names on those walls.
Take the time this Memorial Day weekend to thank a veteran or visit a memorial. Look into their eyes or up at that flag waving in the spring breeze and say, “Thank you.” If you don’t, spend this Memorial Day freely and at your own discretion, and think of those who preserved what we, as a nation, have. That’s all it takes. That’s all that really matters.
As I finish this off with a tear in the corner of my eye, I would like to leave you with a single quote from Rev. Aaron Kilbourn: “The dead soldier’s silence sings our national anthem.”
gdewar@dailyemerald.com
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