Every year that I was a Brownie or Girl Scout, my troop marched in our local Memorial Day parade. What I remember about it is that it began in the center of our small town and wound its way to two cemeteries, at both of which there were speeches and prayers and three-volley salutes among graves festooned with flowers and flags and surrounded by old men wearing Garrison caps emblazoned with service ribbons. Afterwards there was always a hot-dog-and-potato-salad picnic in our backyard.
When I was older and able to understand the importance and solemnity of the day, I agreed with those who argued against the Uniform Monday Holiday Act of 1968, pointing out that the purpose of the Memorial Day holiday was to honor our war dead, not to give people three-day weekends.
The numerous ancestors and relatives in my family tree who fought for America in various wars all survived their service, except for my father's brother, Irvin Knez. His regiment participated in the invasion of North Africa in November, 1942. His remains were never recovered; his name appears on a tablet at the North Africa American Cemetery in Carthage, Tunisia, among those missing.
I never met my Uncle Irvin, but I am proud to be able to remember him today as well as all the other men and women I never met who have given their lives for our freedom.
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