An ode to Memorial Day
Today let's put aside antiques for a few moments and talk about Memorial Day. Of all our American holidays, tomorrow's is the most significant. It's not about greeting cards, gigantic meals and strings of lights. This one is a day to reflect on those we've lost, both on the battlefield and at home. None of us will live forever, but there are those whose lives were damaged or extinguished too soon for reasons far removed from old age.
So, allow me to reflect on my late dad for a few paragraphs, and I hope it will prompt you to take a moment to reflect on yours.
My dad was born in Minneapolis in 1924, the only son of an immigrant family from Russia. His dad was a struggling lawyer who did just well enough to put food on the table but little else. There were three daughters along with Dad, all of whom doted on their little brother.
In 1944, when World War II was still raging but the tide was beginning to turn in favor of the Allies, he enlisted in what then was the United States Army Air Forces. His instructors must have detected an element of leadership in him because he was plucked out of basic training and taught to fly bombers. By early 1945, he was a 2nd Lieutenant serving in England as a co-pilot of the notoriously hard-to-fly B-24 Liberator — by then known as the Flying Coffin. He was 21 years old.
Needless to write, I wouldn't be here if he didn't come home. Fortunately for me, he did, but not before 25 missions over Germany during which he earned a chestful of medals. Earlier in the war, the average lifespan of an American bomber pilot was barely 30 days, but things were somewhat safer during the war's final months. All the same, he witnessed planes around him hit by ground flack and watched their crews bail out into the unknown. One day his good friend and high school quarterback was among those who didn't come back.
After Germany surrendered, he returned to the U.S. where he was awaiting orders for deployment to Japan when the Pacific war finally ended. He remained eternally grateful.
Dad's been gone now for several years, but I still ask myself if I could have done what he did at that age. I'd like to think so, but I'll never know.
Anyway, the years passed, and he never talked much about the war one way or another. Suddenly it was his 90th birthday and we had a family gathering here in the desert to celebrate. It was rolling along as such things usually do when he got up during dessert and announced that he was going to tell us about the time he went to war. To our collective astonishment, he gave us a 40-minute monologue with names and dates and events that we never knew remained in his head. Even his surviving sisters who were present had never heard the whole story. The war had made an indelible mark on my dad, and he had remembered it in vivid color for the rest of his life.
So, that's the point of Memorial Day. If you have loved ones that served or are serving today, tomorrow is the day to remember them and give thanks for their return. For family members of those who never returned, tomorrow is a day of grieving as well as remembrance.
For the rest of us, let's stop for a moment to reflect on all those who remain in harm's way on our behalf. You wouldn't be reading this if they weren't there.
Mike Rivkin and his wife, Linda, are long-time residents of Rancho Mirage. For many years, he was an award-winning catalogue publisher and has authored seven books, along with countless articles. Now, he's the owner of Antique Galleries of Palm Springs. His antiques column appears Sundays in The Desert Sun. Want to send Mike a question about antiques? Drop him a line at info@silverfishpress.com.
This article originally appeared on Palm Springs Desert Sun: An ode to Memorial Day
