Memorial Day, men growing beards, fire trucks, the Capitol rotunda, my hometown church, the American Legion, and lemonade -- all today at Word and Song!
Indeed, there are too many ings today!😸 Great post, as usual. A friend drives a Cadillac Escalade; I never know if that should rhyme with lemonade, or with the charades about which Oscar Leroy talks scornfully in Corner Gas.😆
Not a comment about this post, but the only way I know to communicate with both of you. Have you ever come across on YouTube the half-hour videos of Ben Maton? He is a charming young English organist who films himself walking across fields towards old rural churches, whose architecture he often comments on, then entering and looking at the old organs, discussing them, and playing them. As I watched this one just now I thought of you and of Davey. I hope you'll take a look; I'm pretty sure you'll like him. (Many thousands of people have subscribed to him, I found.)
Because my dad was a Methodist minister and we moved about New Jersey, I had to choose a hometown, and that was my maternal grandparents’ at the shore. First my parents, then my siblings who went off to school and jobs tended to gather for holidays there. That continued into my early adulthood. This was especially true of Memorial Day since it was the start of the summer, after all.
They had the BEST parade. No real floats, but every volunteer group in town marched; the Boy Scouts and Girl Scouts, when there were such things; one fire truck from each of the two volunteer fire companies. And yes, kids on bikes. The sirens and bells were the only music. And some police and veterans’ groups. It was fifteen minutes, tops. And we followed to the park at the head of the lake with lawn chairs where we listened to a speech or two. Then the names of the fallen were read off the monument with a gun salute. The World War II dead were the good friends of my parents, and I know their names still. No other parade matches that town and family tradition for me, though I’d like to think every town honors its war dead so.
When our son was growing up we took him every year. By then, thirty years ago, they had added a middle school band from the town next door, the band stood in the square and played John Philip Sousa, and the speaker was a big shot from Fort Monmouth.
The parade held future and past, the promise of summer days, families sunning at the beach and ice cream on the porch in the evening. And it was a reminder of the debt we owed to the fallen, to remember, to be grateful, to love life.
In my very urban Chicago neighborhood, we have a parade every Memorial and Labor Day- the WOOGMS parade, hosted by the Wellington Oakdale Old Glory Marching Society. Wellington and Oakdale are the streets where this 50+-year-old parade begins, and it winds through some usually quite busy streets. It’s comprised of drummers followed by streams of families with often decorated bikes and strollers. The parade ends on the lawn of St. Joseph Hospital, where the Jesse White Tumblers amaze everyone with their acrobatic performance.
My father’s family used to have a huge reunion on Memorial Day. A picnic preceded the trek, sort of a parade, up the mountain to lay flowers at the grave of our American Revolutionary War ancestor.
The farmer, who owned the property where he is buried, would kindly clear the path and mow around the grave in preparation for the family visit.
Sadly, this gathering has ceased. The elderly couple, who organized it, have passed away and no one stepped up to carry on the tradition.
Even our once active family FB page has been archived.
All that’s left are the memories and pictures. I am blessed to have an old picture of one of the earliest reunions, taken when my father was a boy.
Indeed, there are too many ings today!😸 Great post, as usual. A friend drives a Cadillac Escalade; I never know if that should rhyme with lemonade, or with the charades about which Oscar Leroy talks scornfully in Corner Gas.😆
Not a comment about this post, but the only way I know to communicate with both of you. Have you ever come across on YouTube the half-hour videos of Ben Maton? He is a charming young English organist who films himself walking across fields towards old rural churches, whose architecture he often comments on, then entering and looking at the old organs, discussing them, and playing them. As I watched this one just now I thought of you and of Davey. I hope you'll take a look; I'm pretty sure you'll like him. (Many thousands of people have subscribed to him, I found.)
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=i5PBfvBBYAQ
Because my dad was a Methodist minister and we moved about New Jersey, I had to choose a hometown, and that was my maternal grandparents’ at the shore. First my parents, then my siblings who went off to school and jobs tended to gather for holidays there. That continued into my early adulthood. This was especially true of Memorial Day since it was the start of the summer, after all.
They had the BEST parade. No real floats, but every volunteer group in town marched; the Boy Scouts and Girl Scouts, when there were such things; one fire truck from each of the two volunteer fire companies. And yes, kids on bikes. The sirens and bells were the only music. And some police and veterans’ groups. It was fifteen minutes, tops. And we followed to the park at the head of the lake with lawn chairs where we listened to a speech or two. Then the names of the fallen were read off the monument with a gun salute. The World War II dead were the good friends of my parents, and I know their names still. No other parade matches that town and family tradition for me, though I’d like to think every town honors its war dead so.
When our son was growing up we took him every year. By then, thirty years ago, they had added a middle school band from the town next door, the band stood in the square and played John Philip Sousa, and the speaker was a big shot from Fort Monmouth.
The parade held future and past, the promise of summer days, families sunning at the beach and ice cream on the porch in the evening. And it was a reminder of the debt we owed to the fallen, to remember, to be grateful, to love life.
In my very urban Chicago neighborhood, we have a parade every Memorial and Labor Day- the WOOGMS parade, hosted by the Wellington Oakdale Old Glory Marching Society. Wellington and Oakdale are the streets where this 50+-year-old parade begins, and it winds through some usually quite busy streets. It’s comprised of drummers followed by streams of families with often decorated bikes and strollers. The parade ends on the lawn of St. Joseph Hospital, where the Jesse White Tumblers amaze everyone with their acrobatic performance.
My father’s family used to have a huge reunion on Memorial Day. A picnic preceded the trek, sort of a parade, up the mountain to lay flowers at the grave of our American Revolutionary War ancestor.
The farmer, who owned the property where he is buried, would kindly clear the path and mow around the grave in preparation for the family visit.
Sadly, this gathering has ceased. The elderly couple, who organized it, have passed away and no one stepped up to carry on the tradition.
Even our once active family FB page has been archived.
All that’s left are the memories and pictures. I am blessed to have an old picture of one of the earliest reunions, taken when my father was a boy.