Memorial Day

Yesterday was Memorial Day.  The unofficial kick-off to another scorching summer here in South Florida.  People enjoyed the day outside: swimming, boating, and grilling.  The pool at our complex was full of soggy, loud children flaring foam noodles around and their even louder Hispanic parents singing along to the Spanish music on blaring a thumping boom box. There was food, laughter, music, and just all around good times had by all.  When I was a kid, I do not recall swimming or grilling on Memorial Day--that was usually reserved for the 4th of July or Labor Day.  In fact, my Memorial Day was vastly different.

My mother lost her father to a heart attack on June 15, 1991.  He was only 62 years old.  I was 5 years old and visiting Lebanon for the first time with my Dad and little brother.  My Papa passed away early into our trip overseas.  Since my brother and I were young and because my parents wanted to perserve our happiness a little while longer, they did not tell us about his death until we returned to the United States.  By then my Papa had been buried for close to a month.

The first thing I asked for when my Mom picked us up from the airport was Nana and Papa.  I was acccustomed to seeing my grandparents every day. As you can imagine, my little heart broke when my Mom told me I couldn't see Papa anymore.  Ever since then, Memorial Day was dedicated to my Papa.  He was a veteran and a hardcore patriot. 

My fondest memory of my Papa is of him teaching us how to properly fold the American flag.  Every single day without fail he proudly raised his American flag on a flag pole that stood strong in my grandparent's front yard.  Each evening after supper, he would go outside and take the flag down.  He made sure the flag never flew at night or in the rain, and it NEVER, EVER touched the ground.  To this day when I see a tattered flag flying above a random parking lot I cringe. Don't they know you shouldn't fly a destroyed American flag?  If I see an American flag getting soaked in the rain, I get annoyed.  Obviously, not everyone has/had a Papa as good as mine

Memorial Day as a kid meant visiting Papa's grave.  My Mom and Nana would have already made an arrangment of fake, red flowers to clip to the top of Papa's grave.  We would empty the cement vases on each side of his stone and replace them with fresh flowers.  Every Memorial Day, my Papa's grave was beautiful, proud, and patriotic just like him.

Now we live in Florida which means I am unable to visit the Oklahoma grave where my Papa, and now my Nana, rest.  I pray that a distant relative or another kind soul replaces the old flowers with something fresh each Memorial Day.  Either way, I think of my Papa and his old school values.  I am thankful he had the chance to pass them on to me.