Although I have been told that a visit to Arlington National Cemetery is a moving experience, I find it difficult to believe that the goosebumps on my arms could be any larger there than they are at Elkland Township Cemetery on Memorial Day.
The sight of the Avenue of Flags, each one coupled with a set of plaques honoring a departed veteran, sends a shiver down the spine and a lump into the throat of even the most stoic among us. I have commemorated Memorial Day in other cities. Some host large parades, while others feature ceremonies with all the pomp and circumstance of Washington, D.C. But for me, Memorial Day will forever be connected to a small cemetery in Michigan’s Thumb, where the whole town gathers beneath the pines to reflect and to remember. The rhythmic snap of the marching band drum, coming slowly down the drive, quickly disabuses us of thoughts of cookouts and furniture sales, at least for now. We are here to do something sacred, to inculcate in the hearts of our children and in ourselves a deep sense of the gravity of freedom’s price; to remember that there is a reason for cliches like “freedom is not free,” and that that reason is that such statements are true. Men — mostly men with gray hair and creased faces — stand at attention. They wear uniforms...some too tight, some too loose, but it doesn’t matter. Their eyes are not on themselves. They face the flag, the same colors they followed into war what seems like a lifetime ago. And they remember. Mercifully, there are no politicians on the dais. The only ones there are veterans and a preacher — the guardians of a nation and the shepherd of hearts. And they are there because here we still believe, at least in part, that freedom from tyranny and freedom from sin are interrelated and are the gravest of matters. In my memory, Jack Esau, a man the late-Bill Kritzman called “a father to Cass City,” is ever present on that platform. For nearly 50 years, it was Jack — standing tall, campaign hat perched jauntily atop his head— who welcomed the community and served as the event’s master of ceremonies. There are the opening remarks and the short sermon. There are arms around loved ones as a list of names is read. “Not present, sir!” comes the shout, identifying each veteran who fell from the ranks in the past year. There is the volley of rifle shots that brings surprised cries from youngsters and the playing of Taps that causes adults’ eyes to well up for a different reason. In that moment, the gravity of the occasion settles on the assembled. Political rancor and the controversies of the day seem petty and insignificant, at least for the moment. Thoughts far more significant occupy our minds as we are confronted by the high price of American freedom. The ceremony closes and the mood changes markedly. Neighbors, long separated by winter’s gloom, greet each other with handshakes and claps on the back. Families thoughtfully wander the grounds in search of loved ones’ graves. Plans for lunch and outdoor projects are discussed, while children clad in Little League uniforms chase after one another. And it is perfect. You can see it on the faces of the veterans. Their memories of the past, often dark, give way to the joy of seeing a community at peace, another generation enjoying the fruit of their predecessors’ hard-fought, often bloody, battles. It is the proper blend of ceremony and celebration, reverence and recreation. As we gather, again, this year to honor those who paid the ultimate price on our behalf, may we come together to remember the cost of our freedom, then depart, grateful and ready to enjoy it.
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AuthorTy Perry is a writer based in metro-Detroit. Archives
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