Memorial Day in Lawler 2003

Author’s Note: This is one of my favorite stories from “Depot Street Memories-The Lawler Stories” (available as an e-book on Amazon.com for 3 bucks)

There were countless patriotic ceremonies conducted throughout the United States this past week. Some attracted dignitaries and politicians who delivered rousing oratories produced by paid speechwriters. Others featured elite military bands, F-16 flyovers, and elaborate stages designed for a television audience.

But not one of them could have been more moving to this northeast Iowa native than the traditional gathering conducted in Lawler—the home of my youth.

My wife Renee and I had driven up from our Des Moines area home on Sunday to celebrate the high school graduation of our niece in Fort Atkinson. That evening I suggested to her that we get up early on Monday, visit the cemeteries of our respective families, and get to Lawler in time for the Memorial Services in the city park.

Although I moved away from the community in 1964 at the age of twenty, there have always been wonderful memories of my childhood there. Many are directly connected to the small piece of ground just north of the tracks next to the lumberyard. There were pick-up baseball and football games with the Scallys, Timlins, McGreeveys, and Leonards. Ice skating on cold January evenings when they flooded the area for us. A berry tree on the east end that bore fruit for the taking. And the Memorial Day parade in which soldiers from World Wars I and II and Korea marched from the Legion Hall three blocks west on Main Street to the corner with the fire bell by the lumberyard. They turned north for one-half block and entered the park. The ex-military men seemed old to me then because I was so young.

My friends and I eagerly anticipated the 21-gun salute so we could dive for the empty shell cases. Paul Junko always got there first and got the most. The rest of us begrudgingly respected his courage and timing.

And even though I never fully understood the full significance of the pageantry, I knew instinctively at some level that it was important for me to be there. Then a simple request was made by a teacher, Alice Costigan, during my freshman year in high school. “Bill, will you recite In Flanders Field in the park on Memorial Day?”

“Of course,” I agreed. “I would be honored to do so.”

And I have never taken the day for granted since. Too old to dive for shells and too young to understand the horrors of war—I memorized that wonderful poem about the dead asking to be remembered by the living, and it somehow changed my life. For the first time I really began to appreciate the sacrifices that have been made. Military men and women who survived and those who did not. Lives were given so that my family and friends could live in a free society. In New York or Los Angeles or Washington, D.C. or Chicago. Or Lawler, Iowa. And it moved me in a way that I had not been moved before.

Until this past week, thirty-nine years have passed since I last experienced the ceremony in person. However, every year I have thought of and thanked God for them—the brave soldiers, sailors, marines, and airmen from Lawler.

Going back might have been one of those letdowns that occur when you return decades later. The creek bed that’s not quite as wide or deep as you remembered. The buildings not as tall. The people not as friendly.

But it was not a disappointment. Rather, I was quietly overwhelmed with emotion as the veterans—who didn’t seem quite so old now that I am 59—marched west on Main Street. The building where they congregated to prepare for the march is no longer known as the Legion Hall. The fire bell on the corner has long since been dismantled. But they still marched with pride and dignity. With a sense of purpose. I watched as my cousin Jack McKone carried one of the flags. I heard the Turkey Valley band play God Bless America. And I stood there with a lump in my throat as they turned north at the west end of the lumberyard for one-half block and entered the park. Men, women, and children stood with hands over hearts, each bearing secret thoughts and memories of their own.

And then a young man stood on the bandstand overlooking the hushed assembled and began to recite, “In Flanders Field the poppies blow…beneath the crosses row on row…”

I thought of Alice Costigan and Paul Junko and soldiers and sailors and marines and airmen. And days in the park as a child. And more recent wars in Vietnam and Kuwait and Iraq.

As he finished the poem, tear drops unashamedly fell down my face. At that moment there is no place in the world I would rather have been on a beautiful sun-lit morning than in Lawler, Iowa.

On Memorial Day.

(Published in the New Hampton Tribune – June 6, 2003)

and

(Published in The Draft Horse Journal – Spring 2004)

Author’s Note: This is one of my favorite stories from “Depot Street Memories-The Lawler Stories” (available as an e-book on Amazon.com for 3 bucks)

Memorial Day in Lawler 2003
There were countless patriotic ceremonies conducted throughout the United States this past week. Some attracted dignitaries and politicians who delivered rousing oratories produced by paid speechwriters. Others featured elite military bands, F-16 flyovers, and elaborate stages designed for a television audience.
But not one of them could have been more moving to this northeast Iowa native than the traditional gathering conducted in Lawler—the home of my youth.
My wife Renee and I had driven up from our Des Moines area home on Sunday to celebrate the high school graduation of our niece in Fort Atkinson. That evening I suggested to her that we get up early on Monday, visit the cemeteries of our respective families, and get to Lawler in time for the Memorial Services in the city park.
Although I moved away from the community in 1964 at the age of twenty, there have always been wonderful memories of my childhood there. Many are directly connected to the small piece of ground just north of the tracks next to the lumberyard. There were pick-up baseball and football games with the Scallys, Timlins, McGreeveys, and Leonards. Ice skating on cold January evenings when they flooded the area for us. A berry tree on the east end that bore fruit for the taking. And the Memorial Day parade in which soldiers from World Wars I and II and Korea marched from the Legion Hall three blocks west on Main Street to the corner with the fire bell by the lumberyard. They turned north for one-half block and entered the park. The ex-military men seemed old to me then because I was so young.
My friends and I eagerly anticipated the 21-gun salute so we could dive for the empty shell cases. Paul Junko always got there first and got the most. The rest of us begrudgingly respected his courage and timing.
And even though I never fully understood the full significance of the pageantry, I knew instinctively at some level that it was important for me to be there. Then a simple request was made by a teacher, Alice Costigan, during my freshman year in high school. “Bill, will you recite In Flanders Field in the park on Memorial Day?”
“Of course,” I agreed. “I would be honored to do so.”
And I have never taken the day for granted since. Too old to dive for shells and too young to understand the horrors of war—I memorized that wonderful poem about the dead asking to be remembered by the living, and it somehow changed my life. For the first time I really began to appreciate the sacrifices that have been made. Military men and women who survived and those who did not. Lives were given so that my family and friends could live in a free society. In New York or Los Angeles or Washington, D.C. or Chicago. Or Lawler, Iowa. And it moved me in a way that I had not been moved before.
Until this past week, thirty-nine years have passed since I last experienced the ceremony in person. However, every year I have thought of and thanked God for them—the brave soldiers, sailors, marines, and airmen from Lawler.
Going back might have been one of those letdowns that occur when you return decades later. The creek bed that’s not quite as wide or deep as you remembered. The buildings not as tall. The people not as friendly.
But it was not a disappointment. Rather, I was quietly overwhelmed with emotion as the veterans—who didn’t seem quite so old now that I am 59—marched west on Main Street. The building where they congregated to prepare for the march is no longer known as the Legion Hall. The fire bell on the corner has long since been dismantled. But they still marched with pride and dignity. With a sense of purpose. I watched as my cousin Jack McKone carried one of the flags. I heard the Turkey Valley band play God Bless America. And I stood there with a lump in my throat as they turned north at the west end of the lumberyard for one-half block and entered the park. Men, women, and children stood with hands over hearts, each bearing secret thoughts and memories of their own.
And then a young man stood on the bandstand overlooking the hushed assembled and began to recite, “In Flanders Field the poppies blow…beneath the crosses row on row…”
I thought of Alice Costigan and Paul Junko and soldiers and sailors and marines and airmen. And days in the park as a child. And more recent wars in Vietnam and Kuwait and Iraq.
As he finished the poem, tear drops unashamedly fell down my face. At that moment there is no place in the world I would rather have been on a beautiful sun-lit morning than in Lawler, Iowa.
On Memorial Day.
(Published in the New Hampton Tribune – June 6, 2003)
and
(Published in The Draft Horse Journal – Spring 2004)