Laura said it far better than I could, so I decided to let her words stand yesterday, for Memorial Day. But I could not help but reflect yesterday about those no longer with us.
The threads of this post may seem scattered as I go, but I hope to weave them together in the end. Remembering always takes on a tangled character, as strands of different memories intersect, interact, and diverge through consciousness. As I think of one person, others follow.
For example, I spent a great deal of time yesterday remembering my grandma Elsie. She was an amazing woman, whose peers included a number of the Ingalls family in northern Wisconsin. She married at 16 in 1932, had the first of her six sons at 17 in the thick of the Great Depression, and raised them all in partnership with her spouse, Harvey, on a dairy farm that provided for most of their needs. Harvey worked as an auctioneer as a sideline; Elsie, in her middle age, worked as a nursing assistant in a nearby hospital. (She was on strike when I was born in 1972, and both of my grandparents were outside the hospital when I was born. It happened to be my grandfather’s birthday, and my own dad walked out with a cigar to say, “Happy Birthday, Dad! It’s a girl!”)
I dedicated my latest book to Grandma Elsie, because from her I learned all things are possible; women need to take care of themselves; and education turns the key to all locks. She also provided the unconditional love and support that made my dreams possible.
I miss her.
I thought, too, of those in my family who served or continue to serve in the military: Grandpa Tom, my mother’s father, who served in World War II; Uncle Jim, my father’s oldest brother, who served in Korea; Uncle Dave, another of my father’s brothers, who served during Vietnam; my cousin Nicole, who served in the 1990s; my brother, Andy, who serves today. Though he hasn’t been deployed to Iraq, it’s always a worry that he might be sent.
Those brave men and women served–and continue to serve–their country well. And their family sacrifices their presence, and strives to maintain a unified whole in their absence.
But it isn’t easy. It never is.
I read today Caroline Quiner Ingalls’ letter to her sister, Martha Carpenter, catching her up on the family news during the Civil War. Not yet “Ma”, Caroline wrote about the rest of the family, the illness that had nearly taken their mother and two of their nieces and nephews, the crops, and, briefly, the war. Her brother Joseph would leave to serve in two weeks.
A second letter, from Joseph’s wife, Nancy, reveals the worry and heartbreak that go along with being the family at home, the sacrifice and struggle, and the overwhelming fear.
Nancy’s fear was justified; she could not have known that Joseph died, from wounds sustained at the Battle of Shiloh, two days after her letter was written.
And so, yesterday, we remembered.
But today, we should continue to do so. Our past is prologue. And what we remember today will affect our tomorrows.
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