We were surrounded by red, white, and blue. The stars and stripes were everywhere, repeated over and over across the field in front of us. We sat next to my mom and dad, trying to read the names on the memorial that stood proudly in front of us. We saw the name Jones repeated over and over again, no matter the war.
Next to the memorial tombstone stood my normally jovial and cuddly grandfather, his American Legion uniform cap perched on his head. There was no smile on his face, and we could feel the seriousness oozing from his large frame. As the Post Commander of the Colquitt, Georgia American Legion Post 165, he was there to lead the most serious of services marking the sacrifice of those who had fallen during service to our nation: Memorial Day.
On the front of the podium hung a quilted pennant that my sister and I had been helping my mom make over the past year. It had an American flag waving on a dark blue-starred background with the words “Freedom Isn’t Free” scripted in white letters. My mom had begun work on this pennant when we found out that Poppie was going to be named Post Commander, and she was so proud of it.
As I got older, I realized that the gift meant so much more than we realized. My mom was a college student during the Vietnam War, and the younger sibling of one of her sorority sisters had been a victim of the Kent State Massacre. She had a very different relationship with the federal government than my grandfather, who had served as a Gunner’s Mate First Class during the Second World War. They had, I would learn, different interpretations of what the flag meant. And my mom presenting Poppie with that pennant was, in fact, a father-daughter healing.
But there was no doubt by either my mom or grandfather that Memorial Day was a revered day in our family. It was not just another day for a BBQ or a baseball game. It was a day to remind us that the sacrifice of the self is necessary for the greater good. It was certainly not a “Happy Memorial Day.” It was one of meaning, of mourning, and of not forgetting those who made the ultimate sacrifice.
I remember Poppie being so nervous that morning, saying “Oh foot!” more times than I had ever heard him say it before. He was a big man, so hearing him say the soft southern versions of curse words always struck me as funny. But not that morning. He knew too many who had served and been lost to make anything funny that day.
At my grandma’s house, there were two portraits of my grandparents, taken at the beginning of the war. My grandfather, in his navy blues with white stripe and the naval patch on his sleeve, and my grandmother, in full nursing regalia. These portraits were always front and center. I can remember staring at them for so many hours, wondering what my grandparents were like when they feared for their lives in their 20s.
Serving the nation was such a simple task back then. Kill or be killed. The enemy was drawn in such black and white. The Germans wanted to take over the world, everyone else be damned. The Allied Powers fought back and won. Hooray! It all made sense to me. But as I got older, I began to ask questions. My grandfather began to answer them as he never had before, telling me the truth of his service and leaving nothing out. I asked more questions that he couldn’t answer, but suggested I research so that we could learn together.
I spent my last few high school years and college running around the country researching the PQ Convoys. My research opened doors. I was allowed to study at the Nimitz Library at the Naval Academy in Annapolis and one massively intimidating session at the Library of Congress. It was … a lot. The research was intense, the interviews were overwhelming, and I dove way deeper into high-level International politics than I ever wanted to go again. Realpolitik scared the crap out of me.
From my grandfather, I learned to respect the commitment of our men and women in uniform and honor the fallen. From my mother, I learned that this must come even when you question why they fought and how they were led. Based on my research, I chose to cease my application to the U.S. Naval Academy, but I will always spend Memorial Day honoring the service of our fallen. May we never forget.
Merisa Sherman is a long-time Killington resident, global real estate advisor, town official, and Coach PomPom. She can be found on socials @femaleskibum or at [email protected].
