There is a brightness in this Piedmont morning. It is not unusual, since this is a lovely place with new bright green illuminated by the equally brilliant heavens above. It contrasts with the gloom of the past week, the perfectly natural parade of clouds and rain that in their time nurture the growing foliage that has raised the winter wheat at the end of our farm lane to maturity. It will be cut in time to provide another crop in this season of warmth and the bounty of the soil on which we lightly tread.

So, basking in that benevolence, we have a weekend that demonstrates the power of life and the glory of life. In its way, this day demonstrates the collision inherent in our society. We have applied our emotions to a natural surge of the life force. We bask in this rich sunlight, shake off the chill moisture, and exult in the power of life.

And we remember.

For the military members of the Writer’s Section, it is a poignant day. Sometimes our shared recollections evoke the occasional inconvenience of deployment and conflict. Sometimes the irony of humor amid the order of destruction. And sometimes the recollection of things that went wrong or right in massive collective efforts expended in the cause of a greater good.

The memory of those events conjures the effort of an entire nation. General John a. Logan was not the first to remember, of course. He had service in the Mexican War that determined some order to a border apparently still in question. This day passed twice without particular mention for two years after the conclusion of the most savage conflict even conducted in the Americas. As the Spring season gave way to the riches of Summer, he channeled the raw emotion that lingered from the death of 600,000 soldiers into something constructive about the memory of their early deaths.

General Logan called it “Decoration Day,” a time to visit the graves of the fallen and place the symbols of growing new life on the soil enriched by the passing of those whose vitality was expended in violence. There were other conflicts to come, ones even greater in scope and destruction. We celebrate it- a curious word that reflects the collision of purpose on lovely peaceful days- as Memorial Day.

We have no heroes here at the Fire Ring. We do have men and women who volunteered and a few who were simply notified that it was time to serve. The Chairman emerged from the Big House as the dawn’s early light flooded the southeastern pastures. He made no attempt at a formal address. He did raise his voice in a forceful but respectful tone. We looked up, since public address from the platform overlooking the working parts of the farm are unusual.

“A moment on a lovely morning. A moment to pause and remember those whose days were cut short. I am remembering one on this morning. He was a volunteer. He flew one of the Air Force’s big jets, laden with the most powerful deterrents of his age.” The Chairman paused, gathering his thoughts.

“He was not committed to acts of war. He was dedicated to the proposition of peace.” The Chairman looked down at a card in his hand. “Returning his B-47E Stratojet, side number #52-0171, from deployment in Terrajon, Spain, there was a failure during re-fueling with a KC-135 aerial refueling tanker off the coast of Newfoundland. He had performed the routine of his job with alert precision. Precise course, rendezvous and connection with the tanker accomplished high above the gray and moving seas. And as that small but significant bit of routine peacetime operations was nearing completion, something went wrong.”

“A dozen people were there with him as the routine event erupted in catastrophe. The load of fuel, not bombs, erupted. Still professional, his hands moved to activate other systems in precise order in fiery chaos. Hurtling at hundreds of miles per hour through rarified air, they worked.” We thought of tugging straps tight against mischance in the air, or survival at sea in the event it was suddenly required.

“He landed in the waves safely, activated raft, detached the shrouds of the parachute and breathed the chill, moist air that would be his last communication with life.”

We considered that moment on a sunny day in a peaceful land. The Chairman summed it up simply. “He was returned home, and we helped decorate his grave. He had been young, fit and brilliant in his capabilities. He served for Peace, though ready for its alternative if necessary. He was the only one found of the seven who were lost that morning. The others now spend eternity unmarked beneath the trackless sea. The flowers that mark his place in this green and growing earth are not just for him.”

The Chairman’s arms fell to his sides, then he turned and walked back into the Big House. We didn’t need him to finish, since we knew who the flowers are for.

They are for all of them.

Copyright 2022 Vic Socotra
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