I'm not sure how I feel about the phrase "Happy Memorial Day". Today is dedicated to remembering those people who served out country (and sometimes a few other countries while doing so) and who made the ultimate sacrifice for the rights and freedoms of others while in that service. So, the juxtaposition of these remembrances and the phrase "Happy....!" just doesn't make a whole lot of sense to me. But, I know that people's intentions are good, so I don't get upset by it.
I have a lot of friends and family who were or are active military members.
Today I'm thinking of not only the ones who have sacrificed their lives for the rest of us, but the ones who sacrifice something else, something important that kind of gets lost in the shuffle of the standard parades, bbq's, memorial bike runs, televised specials from Arlington, and the summer sales: time. Not everyone who serves dies in that service. Not everyone comes back from a tour with life-altering injuries. The one precious commodity that they all lose is time. Time out of their lives that can never be given back. Time spent fighting for their lives in a living hell. Time spent living in conditions so horrific that we wouldn't dare inflict them upon even the most violent and despicable criminals in our prison system because that would be "a violation of their basic human rights." And sometimes, it's simply time spent away from their loved ones. Missing the birthdays and holidays and first steps and anniversaries and graduations. And they aren't the only ones losing time. Their parents, children, husbands, wives, siblings and friends also lose that time.
Since I haven't seen too many people saying it, for what it's worth, I'll say it here, from my own little corner of the world:
Thank you for your time.
I come from a family of military members, and many of my closest friends have served in the armed forces as well.
My great-great uncle enlisted in the army on his 17th birthday during WWII, and was 19 years old when he died on Omaha Beach at Normandy 2 days before he was due to be sent home. He was buried in a US Military cemetery in France. I grew up with his picture on the mantle, along with the flag they draped over his coffin folded in a standard military issue triangle, where it sat in a case with his posthumously awarded medals pinned to it for 67 years, until last year. My uncle was curious about what the flag looked like back then, but didn't want to unfold it for fear that he wouldn't be able to fold it back up properly and get it back in the case. So, I had a Marine friend of mine come over, and we unfolded it. It was amazing. It was a huge flag, and it was all hand-stitched, including the stars, of which there were only 48.
Another great-great uncle of mine was on the USS Arizona when it was bombed in Pearl Harbor. He was one of the lucky ones who came through it physically unscathed. I saw him a lot growing up, as he was the younger brother of the great-grandmother who raised me. On rare occasion, he might mention a few things about that fateful day. None of it was pretty, and I'll spare the details.
I had my first serious boyfriend when I was 17. He was a boy I had known for years. He was 3 years older than me, and in the Navy by the time we fell in love. He was a submariner for the first part of our relationship, then was assigned to a surface ship towards the end. I used to get postcards and packages and phone calls from all over the world. It was a bittersweet excitement to be exposed vicariously to such worldly adventures while at the same time counting the days until he came home on leave. This was back before email and the internet, so every day I would run to the mailbox to see if there was a letter from him. Since I knew he loved feeling connected to home, I wrote him faithfully at least once a week, usually twice. I sent the care packages, the cookies, the pictures, and occasionally, a silk garter or stocking that smelled like my skin, and my perfume. I remember once during a particularly long sub run to the Meditteranean Sea ( I almost said "Med run"-it's funny how memories can make you lapse into the old terms and phrases from back then), I sent him something like that, a garter or thong or something silly like that. Now, the way they'd get their mail when on a sub run was they'd surface a couple times a month for a mail drop. So, I sent him the lacy whatever, and about a month later, I got 39(!) letters from his shipmates asking for more of them because when you get 133 dudes on an enclosed submarine, it can get kind of ripe, and the scent of lotion and perfume on the item I sent made the whole ship smell better. Since I was fortunate to have a girlfriend who worked at Fredericks of Hollywood (and who got amazing discounts-I suspect most of the time it was a whatever-she-could-sneak-out-in-her tote-bag kind of discount), the next time the boat surfaced, there was a big package in there from me filled with garters, stockings, thongs, and lacy panties all liberally sprayed with my perfume. My boyfriend said the guys hung them all over the ship, and as a result, it looked less like a nuclear submarine and more like a french bordello. I haven't thought about that in years. Anyway, as happens so much with military relationships, it was too much to keep the relationship going when he was on the other side of the world. After 2 years, with sad hearts, we drifted apart. We reconnected as friends many years later, and still chat occasionally. They say you always have a soft spot for your first, and I am no exception. I still smile when I think of him, and am grateful that my first love and lover was such a wonderful man.
My little sister is in the Air Force. My older sister served in the Navy for years before leaving the service to devote her time to raising her children and taking care of her family. Her husband, my amazing brother-in-law, is career Navy, and served as a medic in Afghanistan for a very long time. My step-dad was career National Guard. My cousin was Army. My grandfather and his father were Navy. Many of my closest friends have served. I tried to enlist in the Navy after high school. I was turned town for horrible eyesight, and hereditary stomach ulcers. Typical military reasoning: you can't enlist with such issues, but if they develop after enlistment, you can stay. Sigh.
I just realized how much I am rambling. This was supposed to be a simple "Thank you", but...you know me. Why use only a few words, when you can use a thousand?
Anyway...thank you to all who have served and are serving to keep the rest of us safe and comfortable. I'm thinking of and remembering you today.
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