I awoke on this Memorial Day thinking of one of these holidays -- over 50 years ago -- when my youngest was just about three years old years old. I was hanging out clothes so I would be free to join my three kids in watching the annual 5-minute American Legion parade that was just about due to start in our sleepy little town.
It was a ritual for us four to sit on the front porch steps and watch the uniformed men and woman's auxiliary march past to the beat of a drum strapped to one of the men's body. The color guard proudly strutted in the front line while our local fire department followed behind the marchers with our only truck.
The parade would start at the Legion Post on a side street near us, and end at the uptown bridge where it would come to a halt so the Commander and Vice-Commander could throw memorial wreaths into the river while one of the men played taps on his bugle.
Anyway, on this particular day, as I hung laundry and -- my two older sons (who'd just gotten through with a bout of chicken pox) -- were racing around the backyard, I realized my little guy -- hanging onto my legs and whining -- was now sprouting those telltale pimples on his little face .
That day is so real in my mind; the coolness of the air- typical for late May in these Adirondack foothills, the smell of clean laundry as I clipped it onto the line, and the sounds of a whiny three-year-old who clung to me for comfort seem like it was only a few minutes ago. And today I wonder how could 50 years pass in what truly seems like just a wink?
While I have lived through many variations of this heartfelt Memorial Day tribute during my more than 3/4 of a century on earth, this particular one always stands out in my mind.
