WHAT WE OWE OUR SOLDIERS

Memorial Day has always held a special place in my heart.  Each year, our high school choir was invited to sing at Memorial Day observances at Oneota Cemetery in West Duluth. 

Oneota lies on a lovely hill overlooking the Duluth harbor.  We'd stand there, our choir robes billowing in the breeze, and listen while politicians gave speeches and an honor guard fired a 21-gun salute.  A lone musician--sometimes a military man--would play "Taps," and the sound would echo mournfully off the rocky hillside.  Little flags placed by American Legion and VFW members fluttered over the graves of the fallen soldiers buried there. 

These ceremonies always touched me, but they held little personal emotional significance. After all, what do any of us understand of tragic loss or noble sacrifice at the tender age of 15 or 16?

When I became the mother of a son, I came to know the universal fear of all mothers--that their sons (or daughters, now) might be called to serve.  Thankfully, by the time my son reached draft age, the draft was history and the U.S. was into the all-volunteer army.  Now he is past the age where the military might consider him useful.  (Sorry, buddy, but they don't draft 41 year olds unless they're really desperate.)

Now, when we celebrate Memorial Day, my feelings are a jumbled mix of sadness, relief, guilt and anger.  I feel sad to think of the immeasurable losses experienced by mothers and dads, brothers and sisters, husbands and wives.  And the poor children--all those children who will grow up without their moms or dads because of "the war." My heart breaks for them.

I feel relieved that my son was not one of those who was called to make the ultimate sacrifice.  I feel a weird kind of guilt, as if somehow I was given a gift I didn't deserve at the expense of other mothers who did the heavy lifting, carrying the grief of their generation on their brave shoulders.

And I feel anger--an intense, up-from-the-gut anger that our world can't find better solutions to conflict than sending our sons and daughters out into the mess to kill or be killed. I believe it would be accurate to say that almost every war fought throughout human history was the indirect result of a previous war.  Boundaries change, religions change, leaders change, ideals and values change, tactics change.  But war still breeds war; aggression breeds aggression; hate breeds hate, and our children continue to die.

On this Memorial Day, perhaps each of us can vow to do everything in our power to stop the hate, and strive instead for understanding, tolerance and respect for the rights of others. It is the least we can do to honor those who died for our own rights.

A BOOKLOVER'S LAMENT

I'm getting ready to put my house on the market.  I almost put the "for sale" sign out last year, but a local real estate agent convinced me to wait and see if the market would improve in 2010.  I did--and it didn't.  So here I am, a year later, cleaning out my basement and trying to visualize cramming all the junk I stuffed into a four-bedroom, 3200-square foot house into a 1200-square foot, two-bedroom townhome. I'll be taking some of my furniture, selling off a few things, trimming down my kitchenware supply--but what about my books?

What is it about books--and I'm talking hard-covers here, not so much the paperbacks--that makes it impossible for us to say goodbye to them?  I've let go of relationships in my life much more easily than I can let go of a box of books.  As I rummage through the boxes, deciding which books to keep and which to donate to the Woodbury Public Library, I have to fight my natural instinct to put every other volume in the "save" pile.  

So far, I've come up with a couple of rules.  I can't give away any of my "collections" by favorite writers. I can't give away any of the old classics with the faded fabric covers. They are like dear friends: Imperial Woman by Pearl Buck. Katherine by Anya Seton. The Gentleman from Indianapolis, a collection of Booth Tarkington's work. Here Lies Dorothy Parker, her collected poems and short stories. An beautiful old illustrated version of Heidi by Johanna Spyri. The Water Babies by Charles Kingsley. My mother's copy of I Capture the Castle, her all-time favorite book and mine too. 

And I certainly can't part with a very faded old book  enscribed on the flyleaf "To Babs, some of the recipes your grandma used to make, from Aunt Florence."  Babs was my mother, Barbara; Aunt Florence, my grandmother's sister, was the only one who ever called Mom Babs. The book contains many of my great-grandmother's favorite recipes.  

I was a reader from the time I first learned how to sound out the words.  Books have been my friends, my escape, my comfort and solace, my shield against loneliness and disappointment. It hurts to part with them, for sure. But they'll have a good home at the library, and soon they'll be best friends with hundreds of other avid readers who will love them just as much as I did.