The Meaning of Memorial Day

From family history to picnics, and recognition of those who have lost their lives in war, whether soldiers or bystanders

When I was a kid my dad would cut pink and white peony flowers from the garden, put them in coffee cans or mayonnaise jars, and off we’d go to the cemetery. We drove through the countryside to Northampton and past the Weaversville Farm for psychiatric patients, a huge quarry, and big cement mills.

Sometimes my dad would drive very close to the shoulder of the road, I’d stick my arm out the window and let my fingertips touch the leaves of the shrubbery on the side of the road. It was almost the same feeling as catching the brass ring on a merry-go-round.

All the while, my mother was yelling at my dad, telling him he was driving like a fool.

As he drove, my father would tell stories of his childhood or talk about his mother’s grandfather owning Fogelman’s Dairy. When we arrived at the cemetery, my dad placed the fragrant flowers upon the grave of his mother, the grandmother that I never knew. There was no tombstone, and when I asked why, my father would simply answer, “I can't afford one.”

photo by Angel Ackerman

In his defense, my mother would say, “We will get one soon.”

It wasn't until I was in high school that one was placed on his mother's grave.

From the cemetery, we went to the house of my grandparents, Nana and Pop Pop, where the family gathered for the official start of the summer. My aunts and uncles and cousins were all there as well as my great-grandfather, who everyone called Grandpop.

He sat quietly chewing tobacco.

The usual hot dogs, hamburgers, potato salad, baked beans, and assortment of A-Treat sodas were on the menu. The best part, for me, was listening to the conversations and stories amongst the adults. My aunts and uncles usually mentioned something new to add to the family history.

Like the time my Uncle Edward, while playing hide-and-go-seek, fell down a window well at a church, broke his arm, and ruptured his spleen. Or when the rooster would chase my mom and my aunt Jenny out of the chicken coop. My grandmother, Nana, used the word pinochi instead of fart, because that was what they said in the orphanage where she was raised.

But the stories of the dead, the ones that had passed on that I never knew, the ghosts of the past that came back only through stories, these were the stories that intrigued me the most, for they were the stories that defined who we were and where we came from.

All the old folks are gone.

Now me, my siblings, and cousins, we are the ancient ones. We have the stories that we tell amongst ourselves. The ritual of flowers placed on the grave site has faded away, and the family picnics have ceased.

Memorial Day was originally called Decoration Day. It was started shortly after the Civil War. A day to remember and honor the ones who have died in service to the nation. The month of May was picked because that's when flowers are in bloom. Flowers were placed amongst the graves of the fallen Civil War veterans, decorating the graves with flowers, wreaths, and flags, hence the name Decoration Day.

My lovely and beautiful wife, Barbara, and I are celebrating our 29th wedding anniversary on the 25th of May by going out to eat and visiting the Barnes Museum in Philadelphia.

This weekend is also a time for us to reminisce and celebrate the past, as well as the future, by looking at our lives together. We are both extremely grateful for the happy and joyous times we have spent together.

Sometimes Barbara and I place flowers on the graves of the loved ones that have passed on. I know that both Barbara and I take quiet personal moments to reflect on our loved ones that are gone and the nameless ones that laid down their lives for what they believed in, and the innocent souls that were casualties of war— thousands and thousands and thousands of people that just happened to be in the way of destruction.

The real nameless ones, I hope their souls find peace and love. They're the ones that are asking, “Please do not let history repeat itself.” They are telling us, “That war is not necessary. Negotiation and communication are the true battleground of conflict and resolution.”

The words of Pete Seeger, “Where have all the flowers gone?” ring in my ears when I look at a cemetery on Memorial Day.

This is a valuable time to celebrate. The start of a new season, a way to incorporate the past and the future. Still place the flowers on the graves of your loved ones and honor the ones that have fallen in times of war.

Have your summer celebration with friends and family. Tell stories of the past so our heritage is not forgotten. These are traditions that are still important for the growth of families and communities.

But let's not forget to say a prayer to end all wars.

In closing, if you’d like some guidance from me about recording your own stories, join me and my publisher at the Hellertown Library for a free workshop Storytelling as a First Draft on Saturday, May 31 at 10:30 a.m. Please contact the Hellertown Library to register. 610-838-8381

Join oral storyteller and author Larry Sceurman and his publisher Angel Ackerman of Parisian Phoenix Publishing for a short, interactive program on how to transform that story you’ve told for years into print. They will discuss deciding on your audience and format, and offer tips for transforming an oral story into formal writing. Even if you don’t think you’re a writer, this is a great way to preserve your personal and family history.

I will also be at the Doylestown Bookshop for a book signing event on June 14. And I hope to make an appearance at the Pocono Liars Club Book Expo at the library in Stroudsburg on June 21.

Thanks for reading & click the heart, friends. And leave some comments!

Have fun—

Larry

PS— I hope to have a new children’s book out later this summer. I’m illustrating it myself! Watch for more details soon!

To read more from Larry…

Coffee in the Morning presents a collection of nostalgic short stories celebrating 20th century Americana, capturing the hopes, dreams and fears of multiple generations and different life circumstances. Similar to his first book, The Death of Big Butch, this carefully curated collection blends his experiences as observer first and storyteller second.

These sixteen stories weave from the backyard into diners and into forests, capture the other-worldliness of fairytales and the grittiness of misfortune. So visit the general store to discover the hero, explore perspective from the pawnbroker shop, pay your parking tickets, sleep beside the Jersey Devil, and never underestimate the power of a good Pennsylvania Dutch pie.

The book is available for sale via Larry or Parisian Phoenix, at Easton’s Book & Puppet Company downtown or at the Blue Flame Events Retail Store at the Palmer Park Mall.

(And, of course, all your favorite online retailers: Amazon, Barnes & Noble, bookshop.org, etc.)

Larry Sceurman, the author of nostalgic fiction COFFEE IN THE MORNING and THE DEATH OF BIG BUTCH, also has a dyslexia-friendly children’s book BOOKWORM’S MAGICAL JOURNEY.

You can get those Barnes & Noble loyalty points ordering his books online! Click here to see all of Larry’s titles on the Barnes & Noble website.

BOOKWORM’S MAGICAL JOURNEY uses whimsical characters to break down the concepts of learning to read. The book is available for sale via Larry, at Easton’s Book & Puppet Company downtown or at the Blue Flame Events Retail Store at the Palmer Park Mall. (And, of course, all your favorite online retailers: Amazon, Barnes & Noble, bookshop.org, etc.)