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Memorial Day in Lawler 2003 From Depot Street Memories by Bill Sheridan |
story by Bill Sheridan is very similar to my experience in Protivin, just 12 miles away, in 2004. I had not been in Protivin for Memorial Day for 32 years. The parade was not as grand, the aging vets took a short cut to avoid the steep hill to the church, but the spirit, such spirit from the few remaining vets that still marched in memory. I especially remember Gene Kovarik reading all the names of all the vets from our humble little town that had ever served and now were gone in the flesh, but not in the spirit, including my own father who saw some mean action in WWII which the horrible details remained mostly unknown to even his own family. I also vividly remember the tears in the eyes of the soldiers that day as they left the church. They no doubt were remembering their own bit of hell and the proud and brave they served with so the rest of us could remain free... We must never ever forget all who have served to bring us peace and freedom. Please remember those who have served this and every Memorial Day! Randy Novotny |
- Memorial Day 2003
There were countless patriotic ceremonies conducted throughout the United States this past week. Some
attracted dignitaries and politicians who delivered rousing oratories produced by paid speechwriters. Others
featured elite military bands, F-16 flyovers and elaborate stages designed for television viewer-ship.
But not one of them could have been more moving to this northeast Iowa native than the traditional gathering
conducted in Lawler—the home of my youth.
My wife, Renee, and I had driven up from our Des Moines area home on Sunday to celebrate the high school
graduation of our niece in Fort Atkinson. That evening I suggested to her that we get up early on Monday, visit
the cemeteries of our respective families and get to Lawler in time for the Memorial Services in the city park.
Although I moved away from the community in 1964 at the age of twenty, there have always been wonderful
memories of my childhood there. Many of which are directly connected to the small piece of ground just north of
the tracks next to the lumberyard. There were pick-up baseball and football games with the Scallys, Timlins,
McGreeveys, and Leonards. Ice skating on cold January evenings when they flooded the area for us. A berry
tree on the east end that bore fruit for the taking. And the Memorial Day parade in which soldiers from World
Wars I and II and Korea marched from the legion hall three blocks west on Main Street to the corner with the fire
bell by the lumberyard. They turned north for one-half block and entered the park. The ex-military men seemed
old to me then because I was so young.
My friends and I eagerly anticipated the twenty-one gun salute so we could dive for the empty shell cases. Paul
Junko always got there first and got the most. The rest of us begrudgingly respected his courage and timing.
And even though I never fully understood the full significance of the pageantry, I knew instinctively at some level
that it was important for me to be there. Then a simple request was made by a teacher, Alice Costigan, during
my freshman year in high school.
“Bill, will you recite In Flanders Field in the park on Memorial Day?”
“Of course,” I agreed.
And I have never taken the day for granted since. Too old to dive for shells and too young to understand the
horrors of war—I memorized that wonderful poem about the dead asking to be remembered by the living, and it
somehow changed my life. For the first time I really began to appreciate the sacrifices that have been made.
Military men and women who survived and those who did not. Lives were given so that my family and friends
could live in a free society. In New York or Los Angeles or Washington, D.C. or Chicago. Or Lawler, Iowa. And it
moved me in a way that I had not been moved before.
Until this past week, thirty-nine years have passed since I experienced the ceremony in person. However, every
year I have thought of and thanked God for them—the brave soldiers, sailors, marines, and airmen from Lawler.
Going back might have been one of those letdowns that occur when you return decades later. The creek bed
that’s not as wide or deep as you remembered. The buildings not as tall. The people not as friendly.
But it was not a disappointment. Rather, I was quietly overwhelmed with emotion as the veterans—who didn’t
seem quite so old now that I am fifty-nine—marched west on Main Street. The building where they congregated
to prepare for the march is no longer known as the Legion Hall. The fire bell on the corner has long since been
dismantled. But they still marched with pride a dignity. With a sense of purpose. I watched as my cousin, Jack
McKone, carried one of the flags. I heard the Turkey Valley band play God Bless America. And I stood there with
a lump in my throat as they turned north at the west end of the lumberyard for one-half block and entered the
park. Men, women and children stood with hands over hearts, each bearing secret thoughts and memories of
their own.
And then a young man stood on the bandstand overlooking the hushed assembled and began to recite, “In
Flanders Field the poppies blow…beneath the crosses row on row…”
I thought of Alice Costigan and Paul Junko and soldiers and sailors and marines and airmen. And days in the
park as a child. And more recent wars in Vietnam and Kuwait and Iraq.
As he finished the poem, tear drops unashamedly down my face. At that moment there is no place in the world I
would rather have been on a beautiful sun-lit morning than in Lawler, Iowa.
On Memorial Day.
Published Here with Permission From:
Bill Sheridan
William_sheridan1@msn.com
www.sheridanwrites.com
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