Memories of Memorial Day in Maine

Memorial Day in Maine as a child always meant one thing- the lilacs would bloom again.

My friends and I would bring a quilt to the back yard, and drag it beneath the old lilac bush in my back yard. The smell of lilacs is as close to heaven as one can get on earth, sweet and intoxicating. Smelling that heady scent makes you feel as if you are enveloped in a sweet purple cloud from the angels. Picking a blossom and touching the tiny tip to your tongue is as sweet as the smell, and a delight to a small child. My dolls and I would have tea parties under the lilac bushes, and I would pray that they would bloom all year.

But of course, this being Maine, the long winters and unpredictable springs would make the adults worry each year. Would the frost get the lilacs this year? Was there enough snow cover to protect the roots from a deep freeze? Would they bloom by Memorial Day?

More often than not, they would bloom. And we would attend a Memorial Day parade, and would attend a service at the Memorial to Veterans of Foreign Wars. And the stories would begin.

My father would tell stories about being in the Korean War, and his funny tales of boot camp in North Carolina. My mother would roll her eyes, and whisper, "He never even left the United States, he was was a ski instructor in Colorado. Don't believe a word."

Stories of Bath Iron Works working 24/7 to build Destroyers for the U.S. Navy would overlap with tales of how hard everyone worked to keep their families together during WWII. My mother and her infant brother were raised by her grandparents after both her parents died in the 1930's. This was the Depression, and times were hard. Many of her uncles were away in the war, and the family photographs showed the handsome young men in their uniforms, and the mothers hung stars in their windows for the sons that were fighting an ocean away.

No story was more poignant than the one of my Great Uncle Bud. He was a quiet, sweet man with silver hair always cut in a crew cut. The legend was that he fought in the U.S. Army during World War II, and stormed the beaches of Normandy during the Battle of the Bulge. He was wounded and received a Purple Heart. My mother always told me that when Uncle Bud returned home, he told the story of being shot and laying on the ground with his dying friends. He pretended to be dead, and didn't react when kicked by the steel toed boot of a Nazi soldier. He lay there for hours until he saw from the slit of his eye a Red Cross truck drive by... he raised one hand and was saved. He told that story one time, and one time only, never to speak of the war again.

One time when my children and I were in Maine for a summer visit, Uncle Bud stopped by to see his beloved niece, my mother. As Uncle Bud sat on the couch talking to the children about how they liked the south, and telling them funny tales about the birds he loved to watch, a program came on television about the Battle of the Bulge. He watched mesmerized, his eyes misting over. I looked at my mother, and our gaze seemed to echo..."Will he be able to handle this show?"

Uncle Bud watched, and began to talk. I scarcely think I dared to breathe as he relived the horror of the war, and how much he prayed and prayed that he would live through it to return home to his beloved Maine. After he finished talking, he sat for a long time, quiet in his memory. As if they understood, my then-young children sat respectfully, and we all waited to see what Uncle Bud would say next. "Don't ever forget how hard we all fought for those poor souls over there. That was my proudest moment to let them free."

Uncle Bud passed away last week, and his obituary spoke of his sacrifice to the U.S. Army. On this Memorial Day, I honor the men and women that fought so valiantly, and for those who are fighting today in a war that I do not understand. I pray for a peaceful world one day where we can all work together to help feed and protect the children all over our planet, that they may enjoy the simple pleasures of the beauty of a fragrant flower.