I’m not sure when this photo of me was taken. It was at a Memorial Day observance and appeared in a local newspaper.

I like it because my face is blurred, probably due to the newspaper’s printing process. It gives the image a nondescript look, allowing anyone who looks at it to see themselves or another person reflected in it. My guess is that I was silently praying or having a moment of reflection. I just remember walking away from the people there to be alone after the service.

The photographer came over to ask my name. It interrupted my thoughts, but I told him. The next question was whether I was a Vietnam vet, but the answer was no. The question likely stemmed from what I was wearing. Those were my favorite hiking pants. They logged more than 500 miles in the mountains every year. The pants would tear, and I would sew them back up. My wife jokes about them now.

I used to visit Floral Hills Memory Gardens on Memorial Day for years. I loved the program and the gospel music. This particular day was different from the others.

I had befriended a World War II veteran whom my wife introduced me to. He had served in the Pacific. I loved listening to his stories about the war; most were on the lighter side. He had written a book, never published, about his experiences. I asked if I could read it. He gave it to me, and I finished it in one sitting.

He died about 30 minutes before the memorial service, just as I was leaving. I hopped in my car and made like the wind to get there. I was able to arrive just as the names of those who had served and passed were being read. It’s not exactly what Memorial Day is about, but it was a tradition that was observed every year. It was important to me that he be recognized, and his name was read last, noting that he had just died about an hour earlier. I can’t remember his name now, but I sure remember him.

I had another reason I wanted to be there. Every year, a young soldier in full uniform, which included a green beret, would show up. He would stand in front of a grave for a few minutes. Afterward, he would get on his knees, place his hand on the bronze military marker, and speak quietly. Then, he would rise, take three steps back, and salute.

It was an incredible display of love and respect for what I assumed was a family member. The following year, he went through the same ritual. The third year, this one, after he was finished, even though I had never seen anyone approach him, I decided to talk to him.

Each year, around Memorial Day, he would take leave to attend the program. It was his grandfather he was mourning and honoring. His grandfather had been killed in France by a German machine gunner. I didn’t ask the obvious question, thinking it would be discourteous.

Instead, I extended my hand, offered my sympathies for him and his family, thanked him for his continued service, and left him to be alone with his thoughts.

Taps consists of 24 notes. Despite its simplicity, the melody carries deep emotion and significance, especially in military ceremonies and memorials. It was originally used during the Civil War and has since become a solemn tribute to fallen soldiers.

I became familiar with it through my dad, a WWII vet. Initially, it was a signal for “lights out” in the military. Over time, it evolved to be associated with military funerals and memorial services. The 24 notes are played on both bugles and trumpets, with the bugle being the traditional instrument and, in my opinion, the better choice.

There are no official lyrics, but lyrics do exist. From my dad, I learned the following opening: “Day is done, gone the sun, From the lakes, from the hills, from the sky. All is well, safely rest, God is nigh.”
These lyrics are solemn and peaceful, but Taps can be haunting.

My dad wanted a military funeral, and he had one. Think about the lyrics for a moment. I suppose the phrase “day is done” carries a dual meaning—it can signify bedtime, a simple rest until morning, or it can represent a final sleep into eternity, a farewell.

Taps

I’ve written about Bobby several times—one piece was quite extensive. Another received more comments than perhaps anything I’ve ever written. All these years later, when his name comes up, you never hear an unkind word.

His remembrance is one of kindness mixed with sorrow. Why does a 20-year-old have to die? I don’t know. I know the United States has had about 800,000 combat deaths throughout its history, and when non-combat deaths are included, the total rises to as many as 1,600,000.

When I was practicing law in Lancaster, one of our more experienced attorneys, a Vietnam veteran, calculated the number of people affected by a divorce. Although I can no longer remember the exact number, it was high. The death of a single soldier would impact far more, and with the ripple effect, we’re talking about tens of millions of lives touched by this kind of loss. Yet wars continue.

Bobby was a volunteer. However, many of us around his age witnessed the draft lottery come into effect. By then, as hawkish as he had been—so much so that he wrote a scathing letter to the Supreme Court about the Ali decision—he had begun to soften. The old World War II veteran, now facing the prospect of his son possibly being drafted, saw deferments come to an end.

My birthdate was number one in the first year, but I wasn’t eligible for it. Still, my friends and I sat around the television for the lottery, watching and waiting. We discussed whether we would make good or bad soldiers, and we talked about Canada—but mostly, the conversation was just a way to distract ourselves from the dates being drawn.

One thing I know: if we had been called, we would have gone. Maybe reluctantly, but we would have gone.

My dad’s criticism of Ali’s decision was based on the rationale. By then, he had also begun to believe Walter Cronkite—that the war couldn’t be won in the traditional sense.

By the way, if you ever wanted to make an enemy for life, say to me that our soldiers in Vietnam died in vain. BOBBY DID NOT DIE IN VAIN! He died doing his duty—a duty he pledged to God and his country.

For that, we owe Bobby and others like him a debt so outstanding that we can never truly repay it. Please remember Bobby and the many like him today. At 3:00 p.m., take a moment to reflect.

Attached is a video of Ripcord. I took it from their website. I won’t say I like its tenor, but it’s interesting just the same:

https://youtu.be/2loma_YIulg?si=S_NkhyFbDnZ_CEwq

Memorial Day is an important day to me because we honor the men and women who died while serving in the U.S. military. I’m always moved when I hear Taps played.

I always write two or three pieces on Memorial Day. One focuses on history, which is the subject of this piece; another is about Taps, which I usually link in the first piece—but not this year. I also always write one about a friend, Bobby Zoller. Bobby died on July 2, 1970, in the A Shau Valley region of Vietnam. This year, maybe I’ll write about the future of Memorial Day or what it has become, based on an article I read a few days ago.

This year, Memorial Day falls on Monday, May 26. Traditionally, the actual day is May 30, but it was moved in 1971 to the fourth Monday of May to create a three-day weekend. To me, it should have been left alone; the significance of the day is lost to many, turning it into just another Monday off, a three-day weekend.

Formerly known as Decoration Day, it originated in the years following the Civil War, and I can still remember calling it by its former name. When I was a kid, it meant a parade and a trip to the cemetery. There was a 21-gun salute and the playing of Taps, and as soon as the ceremony ended, all the little boys would race to grab as many shell casings ejected from the guns as they could. After decades, we no longer have a local parade.

There appears to be some confusion about three distinct military observances, and you may often see photographs mislabeling them. I never fault those who get it wrong. Memorial Day honors those who died while in military service. Veterans Day celebrates the service of all U.S. military veterans. Armed Forces Day, observed in May, honors those currently serving in the U.S. military.

I know many will spend the day enjoying time with their families and having picnics. But honestly, the day is about those who never came home for another family gathering. Those are the ones I hope you take a moment to remember, whether on the 26th, the 30th, or both. I do both and still call it Memorial Day—a day of remembrance. Today at 3:00 p.m., take a moment to reflect on the real meaning of today.

A friend once asked me why people say “Happy Memorial Day.” I thought about it, and it makes no sense at all. It is a somber day of remembrance for those who have fallen, so I will never again preface it with “Happy.”

May God bless all the brave men and women who have fought and died for our country. We will forever be grateful for your sacrifice. God bless America!

A classmate, Pam, posted this program on a local page for my home area. I remember this. I don’t think about it without a prompt, usually the mention of an old friend, Frank. I don’t recall seeing the program before. We’re listed as the two angels on the right. Neither of us were when we were ten. Fourth-grade boys just aren’t.

As I recall, I had to deliver a long soliloquy over two minutes long, and I was terrified. The funny part was that I was the tallest boy in the class, and Frank was shorter by maybe 4–5 inches. I know it sounds like a lot, but I hit my peak height around seventh or eighth grade. I was tall and what I like to call slender. As you age, it means you’re short and “bulky,” to say it nicely. The height is important to this.

Our angel costumes—sheets—went to the floor. Somehow, Frank’s costume got switched with mine. The effect, I guess, was that we’d look like we were floating or flying. This wasn’t a big-budget production. But the program does indicate we had a costume designer, and my costume included wings.

So anyway, my costume ended up at my ankles, making me look like an angel with tennis shoes and knee-high jeans. Frank looked like he had a wedding dress and a train. I remember it was noticed before we went on stage, but there was no time for a costume change; the show must go on as they say. We thought it was funny. Looking back, Frank probably made the switch because it was rather amusing.

My parents seldom took pictures, but maybe for that, they did. I threw one together using an AI program. In 1962, we didn’t take 800 pics a day, not including our breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

Now, it’s your turn. I noticed something else you don’t see anymore—at least five things. Plus at least one typo and misspelled word for bonus points. Can you see what was common in 1962 compared to now?