White Gloves

/ howardshapiro

Memorial Day 2018It is a good day to try to write. Morning has broken but the skies show no sign that there is sun lurking behind the cloud cover. The clay tiles of the roofs across the street are outlined against a grey that is of no particular color or interest. Everything is still on this Memorial Day 2018, except my memories.

Maybe the article in my “inbox” from The Forward propels them this morning. Reposted from Veterans Day two years ago, “Profiles Of Our Fallen” obits 37 Jewish men and women who died defending you and me over these past ten years. The image accompanying it is of hands gloved in white folding an American flag horizontally cuffed with the blue sleeves of a US Army dress uniform. I know those sleeves with the gold braid. They take me back to my responsibility as the Jewish Chaplain of Arlington National Cemetery when I served full time duty at Fort Belvoir in Virginia. That was the year before I was posted to Vietnam.

It was a strange and disturbing time. The beauty of a military funeral with its elaborate rites and rules played out against the rolling green and white of Arlington. So many stone markers standing at attention quietly witnessing the tragic sacrifice of what could have been and of what we will never know. I played my part, proudly. It was the least I could do for those who will never know another tomorrow. I played my part, religiously, not one hundred percent sure, event then, what the ancient words consummated. This I knew. If almost nothing could heal, at least these Hebrew formulas bound memory to eternity and offered a glimpse of a blue sky that seemingly goes on forever.

They weren’t all killed in action; they weren’t all too young to die. Some were career officers who died what we call a natural death. But too many were. Standing at an open grave you know many things. You know this could be you. You know this will be you. You know that for all we think we are, we are but dust and ashes, grass that grows and withers, a faded flower in the wind.

We owe so much to all of them. There is almost nothing we can give them to repay the debt, except perhaps: A life well lived, a life of caring; a life infused with giving; a life of service to the causes they died for. I ask one minute of your time today or tomorrow or whenever you read this. No matter what your challenges, you are blessed to be living in a country that still cherishes your right to choose how you will live your days. Think of them and remember.

In my head, the bugler is playing taps. They died for our freedom. It is that simple and that complicated. We owe them this country.

 

 

15 thoughts on “White Gloves”

  3. In an era when Memorial Day (or what my father still calls Decoration Day) has become one for mega-sales, sleeping in, and marking the official launch of the summer season, thank you for the poignant reminder of what it is *really* all about.

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    • Thanks Joe – people picked up on your “prayer” analogy – means alot to me that you thought it was worth the read

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  7. Thank you, Howard. Yesterday, I watched the Indianapolis 500 again. As I’ve done for the last 50+ years. Being touched by the lone soldier playing taps before the start of the race. Then rooting for a third generation Italian American, Marco Andretti, as I’ve rooted for his father and grandfather in decades past. They’re important to me because my children are half Italian. Last night, I watched the Boston Celtics. As I’ve done for at least 60 years. Remembering Red Auerbach, the Jewish American who drafted one of the first African Americans to play in the NBA, Bill Russell. Auerbach, the first NBA GM to hire an African American to head coach an NBA team, that same Bill Russell. Decades before the NFL hired a black head coach. We all get to live these wonderful lives, filled with opportunity and joy because of the sacrifice of so many. Thank you for your service.

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    • Love your stream of consciousness and how you got back to the subject – nice and thank you – sort of like your paintings

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  9. Began this Memorial Day before dawn on a cross-country drive from Cleveland to Portland OR to deliver a car to my son. Stopped at a Cracker Barrel for breakfast, because it was the only place open. You have to pay at a cash register in their faux Americana gift shop. I was told that all “military and patriotic items were 40% off in honor of the holiday. In case I need more red,white, and blue”.
    Thanks for what you wrote. It is a great antidote to fake patriotism.

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