Memorial Day 1985

Uncle Joe wrote this essay on Memorial Day 1985. Uncles Ed and LeRoy had died suddenly a few months before. The goldfinches have turned yellow again, the wrens are back in their houses, deer are using the salt lick and towboats go up and down the river. Walleyes are biting, and there are mushrooms to be picked. Some things never change from year to year. Other things do change. There is an empty seat in the front of the boat. There is no green pickup in the driveway when a helping hand is needed with some carpenter work. Around us there are reminders that bring back memories this Memorial Day: the "Masterpiece," a brick fireplace, a faded denim fishing jacket, an empty shotgun shell that downed that last buck. We try to forget about operations, pain, funerals, and remember the good times we had together and the many things we have to be thankful for: baby A., who comes to visit us; a loving wife who cooked a big dinner every Wednesday night just to hear her guests say, "It tastes so good," a letter from a casket bearer saying, "He was a good influence in my life," sisters who ask for nothing for themselves but always put others first; the lady who came to stay with Mother when we needed her, weddings, graduations, birthdays and family members recovering from surgery, nesting bluebirds and spring flowers. "For everything there is a season," writes the poet. "A time to weep and a time to laugh." As we look back this day, there will be a time for both, but we also look forward to tomorrow and the promise of rainbows.