Toward Peace 'n Quiet: Greatness from the Corner of Market and Main, (part two)

Where was I? Oh yes, on the corner of Market and Main Streets, just exiting the ice cream/coffee shop/bistro located across from the county courthouse, headed to the outdoor portion of a small, midwestern town's Memorial Day service.

The town seems to do the Memorial Day remembrance a bit different each year, but it always begins with a speech at the middle school, followed by an outdoor service that starts on the grounds outside the courthouse.

We find a shady spot on this unseasonably warm day. People are beginning to drift in from every direction, families, senior citizens, troops of brownies, girl scouts, cub scouts and boy scouts, individual military veterans… -A motorcycle pulls up directly in front of us and a man in his 60s hops off, takes off his protective helmet, exposing a head of silver hair, upon which he places his veteran of foreign wars cap. A woman, carrying two military rifles, walks past. Kids of all ages clutch flowers in their small hands.

White crosses bearing the name of each war or conflict from the Spanish-American War to the present day Afghanistan War line the grounds on Market Street. Today’s celebration will include a portion where individual veterans ceremoniously place a wreath on each of the crosses, as we, collectively, pause a moment to remember those whose lives were lost.

Like I said, this little town seems to do the Memorial Day service a bit different each year, but no matter how it’s done, it never fails to bring me to tears. This year I am reduced to barely-controlled, audible sobs. Even the youngest of children seem to recognize the solemnity of the event.

As I gaze about taking in all of the people, I spot the guest speaker standing off alone. Usually Practical Husband, a Navy veteran, can identify the man’s uniform from at least 100 yards away as that of an Army Sergeant Major. I identify that he is a handsome, dignified black man. I’m happy to see a non-white person, representing our military in this rural area, with demography indicating a 98.53% white population. I could only have been more pleased had it been a female speaker. I glance at him once, okay maybe it was twice, before I decide to snap a photo, okay maybe it was two photos of him.

So I’m guessing, you probably don’t rise up through the ranks to the most senior enlisted position in the U.S. Army without some intelligence and observation skills. He has instantly noticed my glances and photo taking, and has fairly quickly made his way across the grounds to me. He extends his hand, respectively nods his head, looks me in the eye and addresses me, “Ma’am.” As I reach out, he envelops my hand with a warm, solid yet gentle enough grasp. I beam and he returns with an eye-crinkling, dimple-showing charmer of a smile. He asks how I’m doing. “I’m fine,” I answer. “I, as well, Ma’am,” he responds, “but I see I'd better check and find the location they’d like me to take,” as he gestures to the parade beginning to assemble. As he heads down the stairs, a gray-haired man extends his hand, “Thank you, Sgt. Major, for your inspiring speech. Very well done. I appreciate your words.” I can tell that Sgt. Major shook this man’s hand with a bit more firmness and physical strength than he did with my hand. He continues down the stairs to the middle of Market Street, where the veteran directing the ceremony puts his hand forth and escorts him to a spot saying, with utmost respect, “Sgt. Major, please stand here, directly behind our colors. I will walk beside you, followed by our veterans.” And so they line up, with the scout groups forming behind the veterans, followed finally by the veteran drummer and the trumpet player, followed by the tractor pulling the veterans, who due to age or injury cannot walk the distance to and from the cemetery.

An audible "Ten’ hut,” calls the Sgt. Major and veterans to attention, and you can see their spines and appendages immediately straighten. And as many times as I’ve heard the call and seen the reaction, it still fills me with a chilling pride for our military. The drum roll begins and the director calls “Forward march!”

As the groups pass, the audience files in behind and the procession to the river begins. "Ppparrumm, ppparrumm, pparrumm, ppumm, ppumm,” the group’s pace matches the beat of the snare drum. We stop at the river, where there is a twenty-one gun salute and Taps is played. Adults and children come forth and drop flowers in the river, to honor those who died in service for their country and are buried at sea.

The group reassembles and continuing to follow the cadence of the drum, marches to the town’s cemetery, where there is another twenty-one gun salute and Taps is again played. Flowers are placed on individual graves of those who died in military service.

I feel solemn, my heart weighted with sadness, and yet I feel good about myself, about this little midwestern town and about my country. There are many great places in the world to live. Many of those places have people who are also proud of their heritage and are also happy with their homeland. And so it is with me.

From the corner of Main and Market, I say, unabashedly, that America is great, it’s always been great, it’s always going to be great… But, recognizing that America doesn’t have a lock on “greatness,” as greatness comes not from a nation but from the individuals within a nation.