Memorial Day

The Book of Ron · 24 of 48 · 3 minute read

When I arrived in Memphis, Tennessee, for aviation school, Memorial Day was approaching. The instructors came around to the different school classes and drafted those of us who had recently completed boot camp. We still knew how to march, so they formed a platoon and we were assigned to march down the parade route for Memorial Day ceremonies.

It was an interesting time. Vietnam was winding down. There were those who despised the military. The country was deeply divided. Very interesting indeed.

As we marched down the parade route, I noticed four distinct sections of the crowd. Some shouted and clapped, applauding us. Others were silent, indifferent. But at the very end of the route, there was a section where people ran up to spit on us, yell “baby killers,” shout obscene insults, and throw beer. I truly think someone even threw urine.

I wanted to fix bayonets. But we stayed in formation. We didn’t blink. We didn’t react. We just endured the humiliation and the shame that was being heaped upon us.

As I marched that route, I swore to myself that I would never let a Memorial Day pass without recognition. It wasn’t about politics. It wasn’t about feelings or emotions. This day was for those who had given their lives in service to their country. They followed orders. They obeyed the Uniform Code of Military Justice. They served a noble cause with honor and dignity. They deserve respect. They deserve our utmost respect.

I constructed 21 crosses, as carefully crafted as I could, and painted them. Each Memorial Day, I place them in my yard, along with banners, signs, and other items I’ve had made for this period.

For about a week, I sit on the front porch and, for each cross, I create a fictitious character—who he or she was, how they died, what their life was like at that point. I think about the lives they affected and those they left behind, and I pray for them. I usually pick out two or three crosses each day and spend time in reflection and prayer.

Even if I’m driving or otherwise occupied, during that week I continue to create these individuals in my mind and pray for them. It is an absolute privilege. Each time I do it, each time I think about it, I am deeply moved.

We cannot let Memorial Day be just about hamburgers and hot dogs and a passing comment about respect. I would encourage everyone to pick a way to make it meaningful—a rose, a broomstick, whatever works. Bring your family to that point. Let them know what it represents. Create that fictitious person together, pray for them, and teach what this day truly means—and what we owe to those who gave the greatest sacrifice.

And as I reflect on this each year, I remember my own service and the vow I made that day in Memphis: to honor those who gave everything, and to never let their sacrifice go unnoticed.