Childhood Reflections on Memorial Day

It’s early Sunday morning, Memorial Day weekend, and I’m sitting outside enjoying a cup of coffee and the fresh air of suburbia. It’s not often that I get a chance to just sit outside and enjoy nature. Being in a home two down from a busy street, doesn’t lend itself often to peacefulness. By day, there are always cars speeding around the corner, and by night, there’s police cruisers with sirens blaring at least two or three times a week. But the earlier in the day; especially a weekend day, the better the chances of hearing more birds than cars, seeing more of butterflies than people; and taking in the whiffs of the lavender and rosemary purposefully positioned right next to my outdoor chairs. 

I don’t have a real front porch, so I confiscated the right side of my driveway and set up my two chairs and table. Because my backyard’s covered in shade, thanks to the neighbor’s overgrown trees whose branches hang low over my small (and thankfully, temporary) rental home’s backyard, I planted my herb garden in containers that also found their way onto my driveway turned faux porch area.

This morning, as I sat quietly in my chair, occasionally batting away a few unwanted guests, like flies and gnats, I started reflecting on Memorial Day, which brought my thoughts to remembering some of the things I experienced being born and raised a military kid. On the Army bases, we took patriotic holidays (Armed Services Day, Memorial Day, Flag Day, Independence Day, Veterans Day), very seriously; often with official ceremonies to mark the celebration. But we also took community seriously, and almost always had post-wide or company-wide cookout outings as well.

I remember hearing the music blasting from the speakers. Hot dogs and hamburgers were the typical cookout items, with all the fixings. There were large buckets of iced down soft drinks for the kids on one side, and equally large metal buckets of iced down beer on the other side; obviously for the adults. Our company outings usually included either a huge game of tug-of-war or softball — sometimes even both.

As I was thinking back on some of the good times of my childhood, I heard a familiar sound, which seemed out of place for a Sunday. As I turned to look towards the street, I saw the yellow school bus pull up, preparing to turn left down the other side of my street. On the side of the bus were the large letters of the name of a baptist church. As it took the turn, I couldn’t help but have more flashbacks. The smile on my face grew bigger as thoughts turned to our time in Kansas.

We lived on Schilling Manor which was in Salina, Kansas, in the early 1970s, during the time prior to the end of the Vietnam War. We moved there when my dad was sent on a second tour of duty to the war zone. There were virtually no men in the community, outside of the MPs (military police) and the men who ran the place. It wasn’t a full military base, but rather a place designed for those of us who were the family dependents of soldiers serving in Vietnam. It would be almost a decade later before I started learning more about the politics that kept America in that war; and maybe a decade after that when I began hearing more about how certain men were able to avoid being drafted and going to off to war, even as my dad and many of his comrades went multiple times. 

The church bus went down the street, turned around, and came back up, stopping right in front of a house. A man got off the bus, and walked towards the house. I couldn’t stop staring; seeing the man from a distance, he immediately reminded me of another man.

I thought back to my Sundays in Salina. Each weekend, a church bus would come through our community, picking up kids to take to their church. It was like being picked up for school, only we didn’t have to stand outside waiting for the bus to arrive. They would pull right up in front of the house, and the Youth Pastor would get off the bus and come to the front door. And we looked forward to it.

Larry was his name. I’m not surprised that I remember his name after over 45 years. He just really made that kind of impression on us. Larry was a tall, thin man, with short dark brown hair; not military short, but short. He wore black rim glasses and always had on a suit and tie. And I never remembered seeing him without a smile on his face.

While I remember the details of the bus, and the description of Larry, I don’t know if I ever knew the name of the church, and haven’t a clue how we got connected with them in the first place. I’m sure my mom knew details like that at the time. Perhaps it was a flier placed in the mailbox, or word-of-mouth from some of the other families on Schilling Manor. However it came about, my mother must have really trusted this guy to allow a one-time stranger to come through and pick up all six of her kids and take them to a church a few miles away.

And while I can’t remember specific details about the church itself, I do remember looking forward to going each week, first to Sunday School, and then remaining for the church service. I don’t know why they spent each Sunday morning, driving around and picking all of us up. Maybe they felt sorry for us because our fathers were away, fighting for this country. Maybe they were hoping that by getting us hooked on attending, our mothers would also go and start giving money to the church. I think maybe they were just following the tenets of what a Christian church is suppose to be about — going out into the community, seeing a need, and filling that need not just by sharing the Good News but also by showing the love of Christ. Whatever their motivation, Larry helped make our time in Salina a little more tolerable.

Looking down my street, refocused from the past back to the present, I watched as two young boys came running out of their house and on to the bus. They looked close in age; like my two brothers were. The man continued his same walking pace back to the bus as he had approaching the house. A few seconds later, the bus pulled off and headed back in the direction they came. I couldn’t tell how many other people were on the bus, or if the boys were the first to be picked up. In that moment, it didn’t matter. The boys’ laughter racing each other to the bus suggested to me they were happy to be going. And the thought that there were still churches willing to come into a community to pick people up and take them to their church, rather than waiting for the community to find them and show up, was pretty impressive; even nostalgic to me. The fact that I witnessed this on a day already filled with a trip down memory lane, seems almost providential.

There are many aspects of my childhood I’d rather forget. But most of it was worth remembering. The year we lived in Schilling Manor was definitely a mix of both.

As I reflect on this Memorial Day, I can’t help but to think back to our time in Salina. Schilling Manor was a unique place. It wasn’t a typical military base. We were a small knit community of moms and kids who had at least one thing in common. Our dads were thousands of miles away fighting a war in a place the majority of us couldn’t find on a map. And when someone’s dad didn’t come home, we all knew. It impacted us all. Would we be next…to watch that car, filled with those men, driving slowing down our street?

Hold the ball.

Stop the play.

Frozen in place.

Now Wait.

Hold your breath.

Squint your eyes.

Heart beating faster.

Still Wait.

Mama hears the silence.

She looks out the door.

Not wanting to open.

So she waits.

Heads turn.

Hands folded in prayer.

Shaking.

As we wait.

Car gets closer.

Wind feels colder.

Don’t slow down.

Don’t stop here.

Wait…

It passes by.

But still dark skies.

Inside we run.

Game, no longer fun.

While we wait.

For the news.

Whose daddy won’t be home.

Not for dinner, anymore.