For special days, I have traditional postings. This is one of them. 

Memorial Day is a day for reflection and a day to give thanks. It is a day for honoring the men and women who died while serving in the U.S. military, those who gave, as President Lincoln once said, their “last full measure of devotion.” This is my annual tribute. 

Memorial Day, originally called Decoration Day, is a day of remembrance for those who have died in our nation’s service. It originated during the American Civi War when citizens placed flowers on the graves of those who had been killed in battle. There are many stories as to its actual beginnings, with over two dozen cities and towns laying claim to being the birthplace of Memorial Day. There is also evidence that organized women’s groups in the South were decorating graves before the end of the Civil War: a hymn published in 1867, “Kneel Where Our Loves are Sleeping” by Nella L. Sweet carried the dedication “To The Ladies of the South who are Decorating the Graves of the Confederate Dead.”

While Waterloo N.Y. was officially declared the birthplace of Memorial Day by President Lyndon Johnson in May 1966, it’s difficult to prove conclusively the origins of the day. It is more likely that it had many separate beginnings; each of those towns and every planned or spontaneous gathering of people to honor the war dead in the 1860′s tapped into the general human need to honor our dead, each contributed honorably to the growing movement that culminated in General Logan, Commander in Chief of the Grand Army of the Republic, giving his official proclamation in 1868 designating May 30 as a memorial day “for the purpose of strewing with flowers or otherwise decorating the graves of comrades who died in defense of their country during the late rebellion, and whose bodies now lie in almost every city, village, and hamlet churchyard in the land.”. It is not important who was the very first, what is important is that Memorial Day was established. Memorial Day is not about division. It is about reconciliation; it is about coming together to honor those who gave their all.

Earlier, clouds covered the sky, but the sun has broken through. After all the rain, the sunlight is brilliant. Some leaves are in shadows while others shine in the light. According to the weather report, though, the sun is transient. The day will be cloudy and in the high 50’s, but I’m skeptical or maybe hopeful. I see blue. (Aside, the sun is gone as is the blue. The day is dark.)

Some things are sacred. My morning coffee is on the list, always at least two cups with cream, not milk. I drink coffee from all over. My last coffee was from Vietnam. I don’t like girly coffees like French vanilla or peppermint. They are ice cream flavors.

Since my retirement, almost twenty one years ago, I have lived in mostly cozy clothes, a sacred ensemble. Every day when I worked, I wore a dress or a skirt and blouse and panty hose, yup I said panty hose from an egg. Now, I wear flannel and corduroy in the winter and short sleeves and light pants in the summer. The last time I wore a dress was Easter a few years ago. The dress was blue and flowered, perfect for spring and Easter.

My house is a sacred place. It is all of me. It is filled with treasures from my travels. They hold my memories. So many are from Africa, from my town and from my trips back to Ghana. I have baskets, tablecloths, napkins, art, wooden figures and gold weights. I remember a first time visitor to my house called them knick knacks. I was horrified. I wanted to snarl at her. I still have a few pieces from my South American trip in the 70’s and from my trips to Morocco, Panama and so much of Europe. I love the memories the different pieces conjure, of the singular experiences in each country, the different foods, the shapes of houses and shops, the smells, and colors. The strongest memories are of markets, of me wandering the streets and the souks and meeting new people. My memory drawers are the most sacred places.