When we arrived, the high sehoolrnband was still rehearsing and colorrnguards from the American Legion andrnVFW posts, the Marine Corps League,rnthe Navy League, the retired officers’rnassociations, the Disabled Veterans, andrnthe Amvets had gathered in a semicirclernaround the flagpole, under the blazingrnsun. Various dignitaries chatted under arnsmaller marquee, waiting for the ceremonyrnto begin, and red-coated MarinernCorps League veterans hustled about,rnas they were the hosts. Meanwhile, microphonesrnwere tested, the band keyedrnin, and the radio station set up its truck.rnAt last the ceremony started, v’ith thernraising of the flag and that bugle call tornthe colors that every trained military personrnhas heard morning after morningrnshortly after reveille. All the veteransrnstood. Most were grey-haired, their rightrnhand held at attention, saluting that flagrnonce again. Then the halyard raised thernflag to the top of the pole, and the bandrnintoned the national anthem, the realrnone that so many liberals want to replacernwith “America the Beautiful.” Standingrntall and proud, the veterans heldrntheir salutes until the very last words.rnAs the last strains echoed over the water,rnthe color guards, commanded by a singlernvoice, were directed to order arms, whilernall in attendance pledged allegiance tornthe flag.rnThence began the commemoration,rnas the local VFW chaplain offered arnprayer. Next, Vero’s mayor, a retired officer,rnpresented a profound reminderrnthat soldiers have two sets of R&’R: restrnand relaxation, and, on days like today,rnremembrance and reflection. He spokernonly five minutes, had the right tone,rnand finished eloquently. There followedrnanother prayer. Last, a retired Marinerncolonel who, aside from warning usrnabout the dangers ahead (the weaponsrnstill available to the Commonwealth ofrnIndependent States and, the “in” thingrnat defense seminars, the so-called Islamicrnbloc), noted that Memorial Dayrnwasn’t always a time for huge sales atrnshopping malls and just another workrnday for many. He recalled a time whenrnMemorial Day was more solemn, whenrnstores and businesses closed, and whenrnpeople soberly visited cemeteries to decoraterntombs, to put American Legionrnflags on veterans’ graves and flowers onrnthose of others.rnNext, four Wodd War I veterans werernpresented, thin old men in their 90’s,rnjust four of them left in this retirementrncommunity. It reminded me of 1991rnwhen my father, on what was to be hisrnlast Memorial Day, recalled as a boy seeingrna few old Civil War veterans in hisrnPennslvania hometown. And now herernI was, gazing at the Great War ‘eteransrnsurrounded by greying World War IIrnvets. I thought of my uncle, a newlyrncommissioned ensign in 1941, whornpassed away last year. His generation, Irnthought, now was slipping from thernstage.rnIn light of this, seeing the vets ofrnWodd War I made me happy. The’ hadrnsurvised a long time. Hopefully werncould expect the World War II vets tornsurvive for awhile as well—at least forrnanother 24 years, the period between therntwo conflicts. Seeing these slight, bentrnold men, who remember a major warrnthat most of us only aguely know hadrnsomething to do with Sarajevo, producedrna sense of bonding between thernpast and the present that united mernwith the era of George Washington andrnthe Minute Men. For these old vets hadrnseen Spanish-American War and CivilrnWar vets who, in turn, had seen MexicanrnWar, Indian War, and War of 1812rnvets, who in turn had seen. . .rnSpeeches done, the eeremoiry oncernagain turned serious. The real ritual ofrniVlemorial Da was to begin. For indeedrnit is a ritual, a mode of remembrancernthat is practiced across America, one wernall know by heart. Color guards arerncalled to attention. Silence descends.rnTaps are played, in this case echo taps,rnwith each stanza reinforced by a distantrnbugle. Taps finish. Silence descendsrnagain. Then the “Present arms” andrnthe command to hre. One. Two. Three.rnEach round explodes and echoes acrossrnthe blue water. “Order arms.” Thernship’s bell tolls. All the ets, men andrnwomen, stand at attention. A bagpipernband rings out and marches in a circlernwith a lone piper. Silence returns. Thernhigh school band plays “God BlessrnAmerica,” as everyone sings to thernbrilliant blue, cloudless sky above therncircling pines that ring the island. Againrnsilence, as the color guards march off,rnone at a time. Then the bagpipes wailrnand the high school band’s snare drumsrnbeat the retreat. It’s over. Not a fewmoistrnees are seen.rnIt may be that my memory is faulty,rnbut it seems that in my youth, afterrnWorld War II, Memorial Day was personifiedrnby this ritual. It was not a da)rnof hot dogs and beaches, but of a bit ofrnwork, as flowers, almost always geraniums,rnand flags were carried to cemeteries.rnThere, ceremonies were brief, likernthis one, with a few short speeches. Forrneven politicians, like Vero’s mayor, understoodrnthe need for solemn dignity.rnMemorial Day was a serious affair, oftenrnaccompanied by graveside prayers.rnIn contrast, 1 recall, the Fourth of Julyrnback then was the big holiday, the onernthat was turned into a weekend if possible,rnthe one with a parade, long speeches,rnhot dogs, hamburgers, bunting, andrnbands the day long at the town park,rncrowned by evening fireworks. Therernwas ritual, too, as the veterans. NationalrnGuard, Armed Forces reserves, schoolrnbands, 4-H clubs, and Shriners allrnmarched. Back then, the Fourth was arnnational day, one of lighter mood thanrnMemorial Da’. I suppose one could sa’rnin the modern idiom that it was a dayrnof in-your-face pride of country. Nowrnit seems that the Fourth has disappeared,rnlike the friends of my youth. Indeed,rnit is difficult to recall a real Fourth,rnexcept that God-awful one held for thernStatue of Liberty, a monument to thernFrench, not the American, Revolution,rnwherein naked girls tap-danced andrncelebrities sang—the kind of celebrationrnyou see in Third World dictatorships torncelebrate the day of the coup d’etat whenrnthe tyrant triumphed, a day that Presidentrnand Mrs. Marcos planned and reveledrnin. That ill-conceived Fourth embarrassedrnme with its assumption thatrnHollywood and vaudeville represent thernAmerican Dream.rnThus, all we have left today for a dayrnof national ritual is Memorial Day—thernone annual national Sabbath, so tornspeak. The Fourth seems to be an embarrassmentrnto our elites; I guess it’srnconsidered anti-English or something.rnAs for Memorial Day, the good thingrnabout it is that no one of any importancernattends the ceremonies, so no onernmuch worries about it. Who cares aboutrnthose who do go, mostly older men,rngrey-haired, paunchy, lower-middlernclass, wearing Legion or Marine CorpsrnLeague caps or Vietnam fatigues? If 200rnpeople attend out of 50,000 in a townrnor county, it’s a big turnout. The onesrnwho go really want to be there. It’s definitelyrnnot a chic event. For instance,rnthe Vero newspaper and police station,rnwhen we called the night before, didn’trnknow what time their community’s eeremom’rnwould start. The person at thernnewspaper didn’t seem to care.rn40/CHRONICLESrnrnrn