The Incongruity between saying “happy memorial day” and honoring those who sacrificed.
USS Iowa - BB61.
By Patrick DePula
Memorial Day, originally called Decoration Day, is a day of remembrance for those who have perished in our nation’s service. Around the country, people will gather to remember the ultimate sacrifice that our brothers and sisters have made for all of us. Though I don’t support the missions in Iraq and Afghanistan, I very much support the troops involved. Many Americans seem to have forgotten that this is a time of remembrance and not just the ceremonial beginning of summer to be celebrated with cookouts, beer, and fireworks. Earlier today someone told me “Happy Memorial Day!” The incongruity of that statement struck me. I mean, would someone have the temerity to say “Merry 9/11″?
Memorial day weekend, for me, has customarily been a solemn time. Always, I think of my father and grandfather.
My Father, Ronald J. DePula. 1938-1982
The son of Italian immigrants, he enlisted in the US Navy at 17, trained at the Great Lakes Recruiting command and was billeted aboard the USS Iowa, the lead ship of the Iowa class fast battleships. While serving on the “Big Stick”, my dad was a bosun’s mate 3rd class, he boxed-and won-a couple of fleet championships and ultimately he was awarded the Navy and Marine Corps Medal for saving a life while he himself was in severe danger. As I understand it, the Iowa was refueling while underway in heavy seas when a fellow shipmate was injured and went overboard. My dad, without thinking twice, grabbed lifesaving gear and went in after him. He recovered the unconscious sailor and kept him afloat until they were rescued.
My father left this life early when I was but 10 years old. As a man, I never had an opportunity to truly know him. I’ve only been able to piece things together from conversations with relatives, recounted stories, and from the few items of his that I’ve kept through the years.
I believe that my Dad was probably at his happiest while serving in the Navy. He loved vessels of any type and my most vivid memories of him involve a trip to the South Street Seaport in Philadelphia to see the Tall Ships during the US Bicentennial celebration in the mid 1970′s. I was perhaps 7 or 8, but I distinctly remember being in awe of the many fully-rigged sailing vessels on display and my fathers encycolpedia-like knowledge of all things nautical. To this day I always think of him when I gaze at the sea, see ships, or read about anything having to do with the Navy. Here’s to you Dad. You are missed.
My grandfather, Pasquale C. Aversano 1920-2009.
If I could be half the man my grandfather was, I’d be content. He was born into poverty and raised by a loving family in Trenton New Jersey’s Chambersburg Section. Chambersburg, or “The ‘Burg”, was a close-knit Italian immigrant neighborhood in a city that once was a major industrial center. His father, Salvatore, spoke no english and could not read. He eventually worked for Roebling Steel, the company that provided the cable for the Golden Gate and George Washington bridges among others. Finding work during those years was difficult for Italians because they had a reputation as labor agitators. As the only male in a family with six sisters, my grandfather left school after 8th grade in order to help support his family. As a child, he shined shoes on street corners, sold newspapers and also delivered heavy blocks of ice to iceboxes around the city. Mere days after the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor, he was one of the first neighborhood men to enlist in the US Army.
He never spoke much about his service beyond stories of boot camp and a later stateside assignment guarding Italian prisoners of war. I know he was wounded, the circumstances of which I am not privy to. After the war, he married, had two children and built a solid foundation for his kids, and grandchildren. His work ethic was incomparable, retiring as a Union Bricklayer after 45 years. After my father died, he assumed that role. One of my fondest memories of him involves the shoe shine box he built when he was a child in order to make extra money for his family. Before any important event; communions, weddings, funerals, boy scout ceremonies, and more, he’d break out that kit and set about shining shoes as if it were a solemn ritual. He taught me how to spit shine my shoes and would offer bits and pieces about his life that enthralled me. Later, as I got older, he’d offer advice. He was never one to really share his deepest feelings, but during those now cherished moments he was at his most candid. In January of 2009 he passed away. After the funeral, and graveside military honors, my grandmother gave me his ancient shoeshine box. I took it home to Wisconsin, and didn’t open it for months. Finally, on a particularly troubling day I opened the box and discovered all his tools, polishes, dyes, brushes and rags neatly arrayed as they’d always been. The scent wafting from the box immediately transported me back to when I was 10, and the world was new. I spent 2 hours conditioning, then spit shining a brand new pair of boots. And I cried.
So today I’m reflecting on the deep gratitude that we all should have for those that have served, and more specifically, the contributions that my own family has made.
The old Neighborhood. Emory Ave, in Trenton, NJ
Beautiful tribute, Patrick. Thank you.
Thanks for this post.
I didn’t pay much attention to Memorial day until my dad, a WWII vet, died.
I used to play ‘Army” and ask dad about the war, but he evaded my questions until I was older. Vietnam was raging, and I was coming up for the draft and he began to open up.
He enlisted in the army and was on of the army’s elite special forces , a ‘Ranger’. He was a marksman and was issued a Browning Automatic Rifle, one of the two in his division. Dad was such a skilled marksman, he could hit ‘targets’ past the 1600 yard range of the “BAR.” His ammo handler would act as a spotter on Sniping missions. He was assigned to the Pennsylvania “Keystone” division.
During the Battle of the Bulge, his division was reduced to 1/3 its size, twice.
Germans called his division’s red keystone insignia “the bloody bucket.”
I got all the cool army stories I could have dreamed of, and more, and i was horrified.
So, I thought “I get it now”, war is some kind of hell. The soldiers that saw the most action want to talk the least about it.
Dad wisely held off telling me until I had a chance to understand.
Then he told me of a story of how he was hiding from Germans undewoundedge woundeddg a wonded soldier, and how in just a few seconds, the heat just left his body. But Dad thats impossible. “No, it happened” . But thermodynamically its impossible… “It happened”
Then I quoted WIlliam Burroughs, “Death smells. I mean it has a special smell, over and above the smell of cyanide, carrion, blood, cordite or burnt flesh,”
“Ha! word smithh a wordsmith, what a hoot.” “No, he’s right.”
“That can’t be. Death is an abstraction.” “No, he’s right.”
Oh my god. My dad knew the smell of death, and felt the life drain out of the body of a man he tried to save.
He saw the good and bad side of soldiers on each side.
As a POW he saw the an escapee shot on the fence and left hanging for days as a reminder of what happens if you try to escape.
After escaping 3 times, his captors got really upset with him and opened the closet full of torture instruments. They were trying to scare him. They Really Really wanted him to stop escaping! They didnt want to have to shoot him!
Were they Nazi’s ? I asked. No, kids, like me.
He marched through Dresden days after the massive firebombing of a civilian city.
Was he brave? In his words he was just trying to survive.
A cousin in Pennsylvania heard the recollections of a Vet recalling the honorable kindness of a soldier he’ll never forget, my father.
Mom could never accept that Dad was a sniper. It was too hard to believe. He was awarded the bronze star, for his service, but he didn’t want it. He didn’t want to do what he did there. He was 19.
He HATED war. Even that ‘good war’ the justifiable war.
I was 19 when the draft ended, and from then on I have paid attention to how our government tries to go to war and to get soldiers into it.
And when I hear blowhards like my congressman telling me he was in Iraq to give me my right to vote, I gag. I’m revolted at the phony praise for all vets no matter who they are or what they did.
The ceremonies and grand words may make us feel better, but they do not bring back the dead.
If we want to honor our veterans, the dead and the sacrificed, I think its not enough to find moving heart felt words. We have to prevent war as much as possible.
Its been over 60 years since we’ve been in a war that remotely was about protecting Americans.
Honor them not with the truth not a convenient comforting story that comforts us as we rationlize our way into the next unnecessary and bloody war.
“Why, of course, the people don’t want war. Why would some poor slob on a farm want to risk his life in a war when the best that he can get out of it is to come back to his farm in one piece. Naturally, the common people don’t want war; neither in Russia nor in England nor in America, nor for that matter in Germany. That is understood. But, after all, it is the leaders of the country who determine the policy and it is always a simple matter to drag the people along, whether it is a democracy or a fascist dictatorship or a Parliament or Communist dictatorship. Voice or no voice, the people can always be brought to the bidding of the leaders. This is easy. All you have to do is tell them they are
being attacked, and denounce the pacifists for lack of patriotism and for exposing the country to danger. It works the same in every country.”” -Hermann Göring
We owe it to them and to ourselves to learn the lesson of bloody war, to not allow ourselves to be dragged along into the next unnecessary war and to be, at the very least, more than extremely uncomfortable at the thought of it.
Thanks for this post.
I didn’t pay much attention to Memorial day until my dad, a WWII vet, died.
I used to play ‘Army” and ask dad about the war, but he evaded my questions until I was older. Vietnam was raging, and I was coming up for the draft and he began to open up.
He enlisted in the army and was on of the army’s elite special forces , a ‘Ranger’. He was a marksman and was issued a Browning Automatic Rifle, one of the two in his division. Dad was such a skilled marksman, he could hit ‘targets’ past the 1600 yard range of the “BAR.” His ammo handler would act as a spotter on Sniping missions. He was assigned to the Pennsylvania “Keystone” division.
During the Battle of the Bulge, his division was reduced to 1/3 its size, twice.
Germans called his division’s red keystone insignia “the bloody bucket.”
I got all the cool army stories I could have dreamed of, and more, and i was horrified.
So, I thought “I get it now”, war is some kind of hell. The soldiers that saw the most action want to talk the least about it.
Dad wisely held off telling me until I had a chance to understand.
Then he told me of a story of how he was hiding from Germans undewoundedge woundeddg a wonded soldier, and how in just a few seconds, the heat just left his body. But Dad thats impossible. “No, it happened” . But thermodynamically its impossible… “It happened”
Then I quoted WIlliam Burroughs, “Death smells. I mean it has a special smell, over and above the smell of cyanide, carrion, blood, cordite or burnt flesh,”
“Ha! word smithh a wordsmith, what a hoot.” “No, he’s right.”
“That can’t be. Death is an abstraction.” “No, he’s right.”
Oh my god. My dad knew the smell of death, and felt the life drain out of the body of a man he tried to save.
He saw the good and bad side of soldiers on each side.
As a POW he saw the an escapee shot on the fence and left hanging for days as a reminder of what happens if you try to escape.
After escaping 3 times, his captors got really upset with him and opened the closet full of torture instruments. They were trying to scare him. They Really Really wanted him to stop escaping! They didnt want to have to shoot him!
Were they Nazi’s ? I asked. No, kids, like me.
He marched through Dresden days after the massive firebombing of a civilian city.
Was he brave? In his words he was just trying to survive.
A cousin in Pennsylvania heard the recollections of a Vet recalling the honorable kindness of a soldier he’ll never forget, George Chilton, my father.
Mom could never accept that Dad was a sniper. It was too hard to believe. He was awarded the bronze star, for his service, but he didn’t want it. He didn’t want to do what he did there. He was 19.
He HATED war. Even that ‘good war’ the justifiable war.
I was 19 when the draft ended, and from then on I have paid attention to how our government tries to go to war and to get soldiers into it.
And when I hear blowhards like my congressman telling me he was in Iraq to give me my right to vote, I gag. I’m revolted at the phony praise for all vets no matter who they are or what they did.
The ceremonies and grand words may make us feel better, but they do not bring back the dead.
If we want to honor our veterans, the dead and the sacrificed, I think its not enough to find moving heart felt words. We have to prevent war as much as possible.
Its been over 60 years since we’ve been in a war that remotely was about protecting Americans.
Honor them not with the truth not a convenient comforting story that comforts us as we rationlize our way into the next unnecessary and bloody war.
“Why, of course, the people don’t want war. Why would some poor slob on a farm want to risk his life in a war when the best that he can get out of it is to come back to his farm in one piece. Naturally, the common people don’t want war; neither in Russia nor in England nor in America, nor for that matter in Germany. That is understood. But, after all, it is the leaders of the country who determine the policy and it is always a simple matter to drag the people along, whether it is a democracy or a fascist dictatorship or a Parliament or Communist dictatorship. Voice or no voice, the people can always be brought to the bidding of the leaders. This is easy. All you have to do is tell them they are
being attacked, and denounce the pacifists for lack of patriotism and for exposing the country to danger. It works the same in every country.” -Hermann Göring
We owe it to them and to ourselves to learn the lesson of bloody war, to not allow ourselves to be dragged along into the next unnecessary war and to be, at the very least, more than extremely uncomfortable at just the thought of it.
So glad to see you again, and RIGHT ON!
Thanks. Glad you remember. But Its a sad day.
I wish my spell checker replaced words properly …
Thank you so much – where I grew up, Memorial Day was a day to honor anyone who had passed in the family and was a long visit to the graveyards with many bunches of flowers to put on graves of our more recently deceased ancestors. I find that to be the case in some other communities as well, but do know that it is not all that unusual.
In the town my maternal grandmother and much of my extended live/lived, the ladies take flowers to the older residents on Memorial Day, in addition to decorating graves. One year my Grandmother was complaining that there weren’t as many old folks for her to take flowers to as there used to be. (She was 90).
I thank yo also Patrick Your article was uplifting and let everyone know the real meaning of Memorial day and what it should stand for and what many still do remember it is about.Also Beth Thank you for the U-Tube video.If I was that woman I would be very ashamed to show my face anywhere again not that I would ever had did what she did.Maybe this should be sent along so the Jewish community see how the republicans think of them or at least some of them.
Wonderful memories of your father and grandfather Patrick. Thanks for sharing.
I know little of what my father experienced in WWII as a far-too-young enlistee in the Canadian forces, but I do know that he was involved in the fighting in Sicily and that he had nightmares for the rest of his life. My stepmother told me he cried out in his sleep often, even after he was in the ravages of dementia/alzheimers.
He, like so many, was a good man who saw too much during the war. His horrors are what is known as PTSD these days, and far too many people are in its clutches, many with their lives destroyed.
War is dehumanizing and I do wish that people could learn to get along without the need for others to step in and attempt to defuse the hate. However, it seems that war has been with us since the beginning of time.
I myself have always found it somewhat insulting that Memorial Day be “commemorated” by sales of major household appliances and automobiles. The spirit and significance of the day is completely lost upon its being hijacked by wanton consumerism…and self-aggrandizing ex-half-term governors.
We have no holiday sales where I work and the owner refused to stock flags for a some time after Sept 11, 2001 as he couldn’t stand the idea of making money related to the tragedy .
I choose which days we close. Today we are closed .It doesn’t mean as much to the staff as it does to me and it torches the shorts of some of the i-wanna-shop-anytime-i-wanna-shop type customers but I don’t care.
If we all breathed purpose back into just one special day we set aside for remembering, honoring, reflecting and shut the doors on that sellathon hype…?
We might draw our communities back to ourselves…?
I am glad to here. I do my part by not shopping the sales.
Me, too. also. Not even the grocery. I remember going to my grandparents’ house to pick them up, then out to the cemetery to put flowers and flags on graves of friends and relatives who fought. Their only son died at the end of WWII, and was buried in Holland- so they gently insisted we honor others. We were glad to help. My other memory is of the peony bushes that lined their driveway; this time of year they were fulled with fragrant white and scarlet blooms-
I have a very special connection with peonies myself. I have about 10 peonies that my father (a veteran of WWII) planted at the house where I grew up. They were brought to NH for 15 years, down to Maryland for a year and then mailed to me when I bought this house. Because it was winter and the ground was already frozen, they stayed in my garage for several months until the next spring. For plants that are supposed to hate being moved, they certainly seem to have adjusted beautifully!
Every year they produce flowers the size of dessert plates in pink and white tinged with red. Not only are they gorgeous and fill the yard with the most wonderful fragrance, but they are also a very special reminder of my father who I think of every time I see them.
Beautiful sentiments,well written. My adopted hometown dedicated a Memorial today for all veterans of all our wars. Two veterans in fatigues handed out American flags,if you wanted one. The first thing I checked was the “made in ” label. To my surprise,these flags were made in AMERICA. Now I can believe there is some hope for us as a Nation.
Our Flag is flying and we, too, are thankful for our family, friends, and those who have served for our Country. Thank you for your contribution this Memorial Day.
Thanks all, for the kind words. I just wish that every single holiday wasn’t turned into some sort of commercial endeavor. Today, we took my son Sal to a memorial day parade that focused heavily on the true message of honor and remembrance. Lots and lots of veterans groups marching, military vehicles, and of course my sons favorite firetrucks were well represented. It was a very hometown old-school type of event. We then spent a couple hours in the park, kicking a soccer ball around with my son. And yes, we will have a couple of friends over this evening to cookout, but the true reason for the day is never far from my mind.
Love to you mudflaters,
Patrick
There was a story on my local news tonight about Waterloo, NY, a town not far from me in the Finger Lakes of Western NY where Memorial Day was first started. It has been officially designated as the birthplace of Memorial Day.
“On May 26, 1966, President Lyndon B. Johnson, signed a Presidential Proclamation recognizing Waterloo as the Birthplace of Memorial Day”
They take their celebration of the holiday, which began in 1866, VERY seriously.
http://www.waterloony.com/MemDay.html
(Now THAT’S an unfortunate web address…combine Waterloo with NY, take out the comma and you get ‘waterloony’!)
For years, while living overseas with the US Military, we would get Publisher’s Clearing House Sweepstakes (and similar items of mail) asking us: “Wouldn’t you love driving down the streets of Apony, NY, in your brand new [whatever car brand and make]?” or “What will your life be like in Apony when your name is picked as winner of [whatever the dollar amount was]?”
Ah, yes…good old Apony, NY. I’ve oft wondered if there was an Aposf, CA, on the west coast. beth.
Thank you Patrick for saying what I have been thinking. I was particularly irked this morning by an MSNBC weather reporter who seemed confused between Memorial Day, Veterans Day and Armed Forces Day which was Saturday May 21st this year.
http://www.timeanddate.com/holidays/us/armed-forces-day
Although my introduction to the “unofficial start of summer” was marching in Memorial Day parades (Brownie, Girl Scout, trombonist in school bands), it’s never been about barbecues and beaches for me. It’s about how I can make this world more peaceful. Since healthy people are more peaceful than sick ones, I’ve devoted my life to sharing how to be healthy. Peace follows.
Thank you for sharing your beautiful tribute to your ancestors, Patrick. I knew “the Burg” well as a kid (we lived not far from there, though we hailed from Brooklyn originally), and know Roebling well (there would probably be no Brooklyn Bridge if not for the Roeblings).
Health and peace.
Thank you, Patrick. As my niece-in-law, the wife of soldier about to deploy (again), posted today: “All gave some…some gave all. Remembering and honoring today.” You’ve remembered and honored your family, and by extension, all veterans, beautifully — would that everyone did… Again, thank you. beth.
BTW — When I read the title of your article, the word “mattress” popped into my head…why?– because I remembered this video clip from August of 2009. What the man says, I think, reinforces the reason for your writing such a moving Memorial Day tribute. (Caution: difficult to watch — an immigrant is talking about healthcare, soldiers, Memorial Day, and the US and Israel; a woman hurls a dispicable insult at him and then goes on to mock him further.) http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GVS4Zgjm8HE
That woman is disgusting. beyond that, I’m without words.
Thank you Patrick.
This is always a very, very tough day for me.
So many losses in my family, so many empty chairs at the table.
Sometimes thinking about what my family has contributed breaks my heart, sometimes makes me happy I come from where I do and from the people I do.
It IS a day of reflection and I appreciate the nudge to think in terms of gratitude.
I cried too.
It’s the shoe cleaning thing. For me, safety and love was sitting at the feet of my dad while he spat and polished all these brave, battered but very shiny shoes.
He enlisted at 15 in 1914, when the Great War began for us. He too never talked about it except to tell funny stories, usually when he was cleaning the shoes.
Whoa, 40 watt. Thanks for sharing.
Well said. And brought tears to my eyes, too.
Patrick, thank you.
I will second that.