Stand By Me

by Larry Lee Mason

Memorial Day and Independence Day are two holidays that will always be linked in my mind. When I was a boy, Independence Day was more important. Memorial Day meant a visit to the cemetery, but Independence Day meant fireworks, picnics and the parade in my home town.  I looked eagerly for the United States flag to come in view, because that meant the parade was right behind.  Sometimes I lost interest in waiting and would play with my cousins.  Then I would hear my father say, “Here comes the flag, boys. Come stand by me.” I would then stand by my father with my hand over my heart as the flag went by.

Even though I don’t live there any more, I’ll always consider Carlisle, Iowa as home. My family has been a part of Carlisle ever since my great-great-great-grandfather, George Washington Epps, came to the town one year after the first log cabin was built.

People know Carlisle now as the home of the McCaughey septuplets.  But when I was growing up, Carlisle was just like many other small Iowa towns. The only time Carlisle was in the news was during track season. One year 96 of the 110 boys in the high school signed up for track. That rated an article in the Des Moines Register.

Our Fourth of July parade made the evening news in Des Moines also. People from all over came to see our parade.  On Independence Day, the population of Carlisle swelled to several times its official population, making it difficult to find a place to watch.  But, even though we lived a mile from town, our family didn’t have a problem seeing the parade.  It went right past my grandfather’s house, so we always had a great spot to watch. 

It seemed like every business, church and civic organization in town had an entry.  The high school band, the Lions Club, the Boy Scouts, the Quarterback Club, the Baptist Church, the Methodist Church, the Square Dance Club, the bank - all took their part.  The floats weren’t fancy, usually set on a hay wagon pulled by a tractor; decorated with crepe paper and hand painted signs.  The parade ended at the town park, which was filled with fund raising booths built by the same organizations that built the floats. There were dunking booths, ring toss booths and ‘spin the wheel for your lucky number’ booths.  There was also a softball tournament at the ball field and a band concert at the pavilion.

In the afternoon, the Mason or Epps family got together for a picnic.  We had hot dogs, hamburgers, fried chicken, baked beans, sometime corn on the cob, but always mom’s potato salad, then watermelon and at least three kinds of pie with homemade ice cream for dessert.

After dark, there was a fireworks display supervised by the Carlisle Volunteer Fire Department.  Before that took place, we would head for home, because the best place in the whole world to watch fireworks was from my tree house in our front yard.  From that big maple tree, I could see the fire works in Carlisle and the ones at the State Fair grounds in Des Moines, as well as several others in small towns nearby.

As I’ve grown older, Memorial Day has become equal in importance to Independence Day.  I don’t know when that happened.  Maybe it was during the family reunion as I was on my way to Viet Nam when the men got together to talk.  My Uncle talked about his experience at Pearl Harbor and my father finally talked about his war experiences in Germany.  Dad told us how he killed his first enemy soldier, the time his unit liberated the concentration camp at Nordhausen and the time when his unit was surrounded for three days by German forces, when teenage boys from the nearby Hitler youth camp attacked GI’s with nothing but their SS daggers.

Maybe it was during my first rocket attack at Phan Rang or the day I was walking through the San Francisco Airport in my Air Force uniform, newly returned from South East Asia, when a long-haired, pimply-faced teen spit on me.

Maybe it was when I stood in the American Cemetery in Manila looking at row upon row of white crosses.  Or when I stood on Corregidor Island and observed the barrel of an 18-inch mortar - twisted by the force of an exploding ammo magazine that was hit by a Japanese shell. Maybe it was when I walked the same road that American soldiers of the Bataan Death March trod twenty five years before.

Maybe it was during the seven years I spent in Southeast Asia watching people work for a year to earn what I earned in just two weeks, but from those meager earnings a whole family would save, so just one of them could go to America.

Maybe it was when the replica of the Viet Nam War Memorial came to town and I recognized the name of a young man whose bunk was next to mine in basic training. 

I’m sure it could have been during a ball game when the Star Spangled Banner was sung.  When the announcer asked the audience to sing along, I removed my hat and sang the words with the singer.  A few youths looked my way and snickered.  But out of the corner of my eye I saw my daughter watching.  When the song was over, she asked me, “Daddy, why are you crying?”

Why was I crying?  Because somewhere along my journey through life I came to realize the freedom our flag symbolizes and how precious that freedom is.  Freedom is more than parades, fireworks and home-made ice cream.  It’s also about responsibility and sacrifice. We have a responsibility to honor those who sacrificed to give birth to this great country and others who sacrificed to keep it free.

I remember my father telling me as I listened to the horrors he went through in World War II, “It's a shame you're going to Viet Nam, son.  I went to war, so you wouldn’t have to.”  But there I was, on my way to another war. Since Viet Nam there has been Grenada, Panama, Desert Storm, Somalia, Bosnia, Kosovo and since September eleventh, Afghanistan and Iraq. Who knows what other battles will have to be fought to win the war against terror. Every generation thinks they can do the job of bringing peace to the world better than their father’s generation and mine was no different.

Dad was wrong.  Because of human nature, there will always be wars.  There will always be a need for young men to be trained in the art of war so a temporary peace can be bought. There will be no “War to end all wars.”  And there will always be those who snicker when patriotism is shown.

But, fortunately there are those who still train in the art of war in hopes they will never have to practice what they have learned. There are those who stand, when Old Glory goes by, when it would be easier to sit and watch. 

Why was I crying, my daughter?  Because it seems there are fewer of us who remember those who sacrificed... fewer who stand when the flag goes by.  That’s why I’m writing my thoughts down now.  I want to pass my memories along to you, so that you to will know the thrill I feel as the flag goes by.  That’s what Independence Day and Memorial Day are all about.

So, honor our flag with me. Sing the National Anthem with me.  Let me know that you think what my father and I did was important.  Let me know that you’ll tell your children and your children’s children.  Stand by me as the flag passes. Stand by me.