I think we’re far enough now from the real reverence of Memorial Day for me to post this story.
While much of the rest of the country was observing the day with parades and, well, memorials, for us much of this past weekend was spent with my nieces and nephew over at my Mom’s house. While there, the kids found a dead bird. As a result, the three adults present were witness to a ceremony of delightful solemnity. I have to apologize that I didn’t have my camera during this documentary-worthy event, but in hindsight, maybe it was better that way. Out of respect.
First the five kids (ages 8, 6, 6, 4, 3) examined the poor bird at close range, gently poking it with sticks. Then the oldest carried it around the yard (with sticks) to find a suitable hole in which to inter the remains. They found one, plopped it in, and set about to decorate the gravesite.
The kids arranged flowers, grass, leaves, a brick, an old bird nest, a notebook, and a keychain reading “NC STATE RECYCLES” on top of and in front of the hole. This they did quite reverently, except for the screeching of one child at the appearance of a few largeish beetles from under the bird carcass. That was pretty much the end of that particular child’s involvement in the project.
Then it was time for the actual service to begin. By this point two of the kids had wandered off, and the other three stood in a line, gazing down at the grave. I knew we were in for something good. I waited for what would come next. This is what I heard:
“I pledge allegiance to the flag of the United States of America, and to the republic….”
When they had finished, the oldest sort of looked around, wondering what was to come next. Inspiration hit, and he went down on one knee and gestured dramatically to the grave. The other two eagerly followed suit. They said a few words.
“I’ll always remember this bird.”
“I’m sorry you won’t be around to make eggs next spring.”
And a few more oddly appropriate sentiments. Then, the clincher came. The moment that it all became perfect.
It was during the eulogy that the sound of Taps could be heard wafting over the trees.
I joke not. Taps was being played. Somewhere downtown a Memorial Day ceremony was being held at just the right moment. Close your eyes for a moment and picture it. Three solemn children, kneeling, extolling the virtues of a bird they hardly knew, while a lonely trumpet plays Taps. It was almost more than we grownups could bear. I wanted to howl with laughter, but somehow remained quiet enough so as not to disturb the service.
As the small group began to depart, the oldest stood facing my son, a concerned yet resigned expression on his face. He put his hand on Gannon’s shoulder, looked him in the eye, and nodded comfortingly, a gesture that was lost on my son.
At the conclusion of the affair, the gang of cousins went back to playing knights and ladies in distress. (I must say, however, that it was the girls’ dresses that were really in distress. Tulle does not hold up well to hemlock branches and lilac bushes.)
