Photo of the Day: Memorial Day 2011 - Stony Point, New York

By Richard K. Barry

 

This picture appeared in The New York Times yesterday. It's a fairly ordinary shot depicting an older veteran and a young boy at a Memorial Day celebration. It could be anywhere, but it happens to be in my home town of Stony Point, New York. I grew up in the area. I still have family there, though I have lived mostly in other places for the past 30 years.

According to the Times caption, the older gentleman is Arnold Rist, who is 86 years old. The youngster is Thomas Cahill, age 3. On Monday, Mr Rist played taps, as, the caption states, he has done hundreds of times at military funerals. In April 1945, it says that he was among the soldiers who liberated the inmates of Dachau concentration camp.

My sister sent the picture and she and I were trying to figure out where it was taken. We are pretty sure it's at the Stony Point Town Hall because that's where the local parades ended when she and I marched in them as part of our high school band when we took part in the annual celebrations many, many years ago.

I mention all of this, in part, because I marvel at how the political right so aggressively claims patriotism for themselves as if those of us on the left couldn't possibly understand what pride in community and the sacrifice of others means. They like to paint all of their political opponents as radically different and therefore wrong about everything.

I do hate to disappoint people like that, but I grew up in a small town. I've worked hard to understand the history, culture, and politics of my country. I take pride in what is good and criticize passionately what needs work, which is not a bad definition of patriotism from my point of view.

If you want to disagree with me, do it on the facts and not on some bogus claim that you are more American than I am simply because you think you are, as you wrap yourself in the flag and refuse to listen to any other voice but your own.

I hope everyone had a great Memorial Day and remembered to remember the sacrifices made by people like Mr. Rist and so many others.

(Cross-posted to Lippmann's Ghost.)

Memorial Day

By Mustang Bobby.

This post originally appeared at Bark Bark Woof Woof on May 25, 2009.

I grew up in Perrysburg, Ohio. It's a small town, a suburb of Toledo, and when I was a kid in the 1950's and '60's, it fit all of the images that small towns in the Midwest have: tree-shaded streets, neat homes, lots of churches, and a main street -- Louisiana Avenue -- with little shops like the drug store with the fountain, the dime store, the barber shop, the hardware store, the bakery with the smell of bread baking and the sweet scent of icing, and the bank with the solid stone exterior. They're all still there, just under different names now, and my parents, who still live there, still call the drug store by its old name, even though it's changed owners and become a jewelry shop. In the winter the Christmas decorations line the street, and each Memorial Day there is a parade that starts at the Schaller Memorial, the veterans hall, and proceeds up Louisiana Avenue, taking a turn when it reaches the Oliver Hazard Perry Memorial ("We have met the enemy and they are ours...") and marches down West Front Street past the old Victorian homes that overlook the Maumee River.

When I was a kid the parade was made up of the veterans groups like the American Legion and the VFW, and platoons of soldiers and veterans, including, through the 1970's, the last remaining veterans of World War I. They wore their uniforms and their medals, and those that couldn't march sat in the back seat of convertibles, waving slowly to the crowds that lined the sidewalks. They were followed by the marching band from the high school, the color guard, the Cub Scouts, the Boy Scouts, the Girl Scouts, the drum and bugle corps, floats from church groups, all of the city fire equipment, antique cars, and the service groups like the Shriners, the Elks, and the Kiwanis Club. After the last float came all the kids on their bicycles decorated with streamers, bunting, flags, and all the patriotic paperwork we could muster. My friends and I would try to outdo each other, and it had less to do with patriotism than it did with seeing how many rolls of red, white, and blue crepe paper we could thread in between the spokes of our wheels.

I was about ten or so on one Memorial Day when I spent a lot of time getting my Schwinn Racer ready for the big parade. It was a perfect day; the sky was a sparkling spring blue and all the floats, cars, and fire trucks were gleaming in the sun as the parade organized on Indiana Avenue in front of the Memorial Hall. The high school band in their yellow and black uniforms marched in precision as the major led off with a Sousa tune, and as the parade slowly made its way down the avenue we could see the crowds along the sidewalks waiting and waving. As we waited our turn we wheeled our bikes in circles, just like the Shriners in their little go-karts, and finally we got the signal that it was time for the kids to roll. There was an organized rush to lead off, and then we were slowly pedaling down the street, waving to everybody outside the library, the Chevy dealership, even the people lined up on the roof of the pizza parlor. I looked for my dad shooting movies with the 8mm camera, but didn't see him. Oh, well, it didn't matter; we were supposed to meet at the home of friends who were hosting a post-parade picnic in their backyard. Their house was at the end of the parade route, so that was the perfect place to pull out of the parade and have the first of many Faygo Redpops that summer.

But for some reason I stayed with the parade, on down West Front, and then up West Boundary and past the gates of Fort Meigs Cemetery. The floats and the fire trucks were gone, but what was left of the parade -- the color guard and the veterans -- went through the gates and along the path. There was no music now, just a solemn drumbeat keeping a steady muffled tapping. The color guard turned at a small stone memorial, and then past it to a gravesite where a family was gathered; a mother in a black dress, a father in a grey suit, and a teenage son and daughter, looking somber and out of place. The grave was still fresh, the dirt mounded over, the headstone a simple marker with a flag. A minister spoke some words, and then the color guard snapped to attention. A volley of rifle fire, then Taps, and then a tall young soldier in dress blues handed a folded flag to the mother, who murmured her thanks and tried to smile.

I suddenly realized that I felt out of place there with my gaudily-patriotic bike and my red-white-and-blue striped shirt. No one noticed me, though, and when the people started to slowly move away from the gravesite and back to the entrance, I followed along until I was able to ride slowly back to our friends' house, park my bike with all the others, and find my parents, who probably hadn't even noticed that I was not there with all the other kids running around and playing on the lawn.

Photo by Mark Wilson/Getty Images via Andrew Sullivan.

Great Speeches For Great American Holidays

FULL METAL JACKET - Welcome to Paris Island South Carolina maggots !


ANY GIVEN SUNDAY - Inch by inch !



ROCKY BALBOA - Nobody hits harder than life !



300 - Remember us he said to me



HENRY V - The Feast of Crispin - "Band of Brothers" Speech





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