From my mother's sleep
I fell into the State,
And I hunched in its belly
till my wet fur froze.
Six miles from earth,
loosed from its dream of life,
I woke to black flak
and the nightmare fighters.
When I died they washed me out
of the turret with a hose.
--Randall Jarrell,
"The Death of the
Ball Turret Gunner"
AFTER great pain comes a three-day weekend. That's what somebody once said. Labor finally, finally was recognized for what it has done for this country. All it took was millions of people who were forced to work from sunup to almost sunup again for next to nothing--starting work as children. Who could run a business by giving employees eight hours of work, eight hours of sleep, eight hours for what you please? That's no way to run a Triangle Shirtwaist Factory.
But the mere people had other plans. Labor won. And wins today, even if it's not as organized and top-heavy as it used to be. And a three-day weekend followed the great pain.
Thanksgiving gives a lot of us a four-day weekend. But lest we forget, first came the great pain that almost starved those newly arrived on these shores, or almost killed this nation in the crib, or divided it four score and seven years after that.
Today, another great pain has given many Americans this Monday off work. It's the American way. Give 'em a happy ending every time.
How American, how all-American, how America. Today we honor those who've given their lives to defend their country, those killed in action or behind where the action was supposed to be. How tell where the lines are in the battles we face today? Which was why it was so silly to keep women from "combat" units. Every unit in this war is a combat unit. For when a nation fights terror, and terrorists, no lines on a map can separate any of us.
Yet today, after the eulogies and speeches and salutes, we'll celebrate with games and picnics and laughter. We'll celebrate the return of good ol' summer. And isn't that the way it should be? Isn't that the way those soldiers, Marines, seamen and airmen would have it be?
Does anybody believe that those who laid such a sacrifice on the nation's altar would rather us mourn the day long? And pass those worries to our children, who should instead be given time to be childish? They'll grow up fast enough. And learn to fear for themselves and their own kids.
As was written a long time ago, there is a time for war and a time for peace, a time to weep and a time to laugh. Those who died in service to this country would want the generations who followed them to go to a water park or country lake. And live. Eat, drink and be merry, which was also written a long time ago in a certain Book.
Today is supposed to be a time for remembering, but after remembering can we forget, too? We cannot recreate or relive the horror that our defenders saw, and we should not. We should go on. And be at peace. As they are. Isn't that what they really fought for? America of a Memorial Day weekend when their kids and grandkids and maybe great, great, great, great-grandkids could run barefoot through the yard chasing a football, puppy or little sister?
In every kid's yell, in every family's retelling of the same old stories, in every exuberance of youth and satisfaction of age, there is a tribute to those who have kept this land one and free, and have kept it secure even unto today, throbbing with life and still open to the pursuit of happiness.
What other country was founded in part to allow its people to pursue happiness? So let's do so.
The dead are beyond it all now. Beyond words, beyond the bugle sound of Taps, beyond the sweat and muck and blood. They are beyond hurting, too, thank God. Some of us will feel the need today to say something, even if it smudges the scene. To say something about those who've crossed the river so the rest of us could play in another one. Because some of us feel a need to say something, even something that sounds inept after we've said it. But we'll say it anyway. For decency's sake. For gratitude's sake. For our sake.
War, man's oldest game, instinct and perversion. It goes on. Which should remind us that even though we can't do any more for the dead, we still have the quick to think about. And care about.
We can ask where our wounded and healing are, and if the care is up to the standards they deserve. And if not, demand better. And hold accountable those who are supposed to be taking care of our veterans. We can demand decency.
Such demands shouldn't be uttered only on days like this, but on all days.
For this is still the land where freedom grows, and it doesn't grow without help. At times, bloody help. This is freedom's native soil, but it needs gardeners. With them, freedom thrives in this soil. But not, as today reminds us, without sacrifice.
Please enjoy the day. Somebody already paid the bill. Hoorah, glory glory hallelujah and remember Bunker Hill! And after that, let's get some tickets to the baseball game. It's the American thing to do.
Editorial on 05/29/2017