No more shall the war cry sever,
Or the winding rivers be red.
They banish our anger forever
When they laurel the graves of our dead!
Under the sod and the dew,
Waiting the judgment-day;
Love and tears for the Blue,
Tears and love for the Gray.—Francis Miles Finch, “The Blue and the Gray”
THIS year, Memorial Day falls on May 27. It is different from Veterans’ Day in November, which honours all who have served in our country’s armed forces. Memorial Day very specifically commemorates those who have died defending the United States of America. Where the British, Commonwealth nations, and French keep our Veterans’ Day as Remembrance Day, it stems from Armistice Day, and honours those who died in World War I, being closely connected to the cult of the Unknown Soldier. But Memorial Day owes its origins to that conflict known variously as the War Between the States, the Second Civil War, the War of the Rebellion, the War of Northern Aggression, or just plain old Civil War.
Starting in 1866, the widows and mothers in a number of towns in the South (several dispute which was the first), when decorating the graves of their deceased husbands and sons, noticed that — as might be expected — the graves of fallen Yankees nearby were untended. Realising how their counterparts in the North would feel under similar circumstances, they decided to adorn the graves of the fallen invaders as well. “Decoration Day,” as it was called, spread North and South, and played a huge role in the kind of reconciliation that allowed aged veterans from both sides of the conflict to rush into each other’s arms at the Gettysburg Reunion of 1913. This was no mean feat in recovering from a war that claimed the lives of more Americans than all the others we have fought combined.
In time, however, Southerners felt that they needed a separate day to honour the Confederate Dead. True to Southern notions of States’ Rights, however, they could not agree on a Confederacy-wide date. So the various Southern States chose various dates in April, May, and June as Confederate Memorial Day; with the rise of Wokery and other Weeneyisms, several have derecognized it.
Indeed, the same spirit of self-hatred is abroad throughout the land. If, as an historian, I might feel that many if not all of our wars were better off not fought, that should not and cannot take away from the self-sacrifice and valour of those who gave their lives in the belief that they did so for God and Country. I certainly had no use for Mr. Bush’s Global Democratic Revolution; but I — as must any American — honour those who gave their lives in the “Forever War,” and do what I can for those who returned. As St. Ambrose says, it is not up to the Soldier to judge whether the cause in which he fights is just; it is only given to him to fight justly.
For me, however, Memorial Day is more than merely honouring our gallant dead — important and essential to the day though that is. It is a remembrance of the Country into which I was born 63 years ago, which has since passed away. It was the Country of the Stars and Stripes, the American Legion, the VFW, the Elks, the Moose, the Eagles, Kiwanis, Rotary, the Knights of Columbus, and the Boy Scouts of America. I am no American exceptionalist to be sure, and I must admit that it was also the Country of the Freemasons and the Odd Fellows. But that was at least as much the fault of the nation’s Catholics who were willing to skip evangelising their land in return for respectability and a crack at the White House. But all of that aside, with its weird quirks and strange elements, it was my country, and I loved it — as did my father and uncles, my grandfather and great uncles, who served in her armed forces when she called.
Of course, my Dad and the rest were the kind of men I aspired to be — and, as I do the Country of my birth, I remember that sort of Manhood on Memorial Day. I was deeply reminded of it recently, in London of all places, in a tobacconist’s called JJ Fox. There, I bought a cigar, and in their upper smoking room, smoked it in a comfortable chair — in a room filled with other men doing precisely the same thing. I was reminded of the late, lamented Tinder Box in Santa Monica, an old shop filled with masculine bric-a-brac where my father bought his cigars and pipe tobacco. When I was 12, as he had promised my brother before me that if I did not smoke cigarettes for the next four years, he would take me there on my 16th birthday, and buy me a pipe, tobacco, and cigars. As did my brother, I promised — and Dad was as good as his word. One of my fondest memories of him is sitting in the backyard by his side, puffing away with him — how adult I felt!
But that was only one of the appurtenances of Manhood in those days. The barbershop, with its mysterious bottles of coloured liquid, where the barbers would gossip endlessly with their customers as newspapers were being read, was another. The tailor’s, haberdasher’s, or men’s clothing store was yet another. Fishing and hunting — when and where possible — were other masculine pastimes, as were poker, bridge, and pool — at all of which Dad excelled (and I do not). A man knew his wines and liquors as well, and might even know something of tea and coffee, although that was much rarer.
The ladies had their own mysterious world, of course, that I as a boy rarely saw — although my mother would drag me to the Bullock’s Wilshire tearoom, where she and the other ladies in hats and gloves would drink their beverage and nibble sandwiches. I was bored stiff and hated to go; mother would buy me off with visits to the toy department afterwards, if I had behaved well enough.
There were of course special places the two sexes enjoyed together; dark restaurants with red leather banquettes and dark wood panelling, often boasting neon signs offering “steak, seafood, cocktails.” One of the true joys of such places was tableside service — say Caesar Salad, Steak Diane, and Crepes Suzettes — with a touch of flambe. For couples and families alike, such places were the acme of elegance. Often enough, such abodes boasted live music and dancing. There were of course supper clubs, dinner theatres, and ballrooms featuring various combinations of food and entertainment.
There was an etiquette that we were told required strict adherence — and it was intended both to make people feel comfortable (by knowing in common what to do) and to provide protection and respect for ladies, the elderly, and the enfeebled. It was, had we known it, the last gasp thus far of Chivalry. There was also a dress code; most people of both sexes aspired toward elegance — and it need hardly be said sometimes achieved it. Casual was a business suit; semi-formal was a stroller coat in the day and a dinner jacket (“tuxedo”) at night; formal was cutaway in the morning, and white tie and tails in the evening — 6 PM being the magic changing hour. For the country, of course, tweeds and woolen suits were fine — and linen, seersucker, and straw hats made their appearance from Memorial Day to Labour Day. Ladies had their equivalent wardrobes, the mysteries of which I was and am not privy to.
All of this required funding, of course, and in those far off days, Dad worked to get it. Mom kept house; although, once all the children were off at school (day or boarding) she might well do volunteer work at some good cause or other. I was in 4th grade before I met someone whose mother worked. Few housewives drove — and so the mouths of children on public buses were perforce much cleaner, because at that time, mothers had no difficulties correcting other people’s children.
Sunday brought Church. Now, back then, most newspapers had religion sections that offered lists of the available houses of worship, with the airy admonition to “Worship at the Church of Your Choice.” In those days — just as people dressed for any occasion of importance — they wore their best clothes to encounter their religion. For us Catholics, it meant attending Mass on Sunday morning — and, of course, back then it was in Latin. As with most families we would then go in search of a diner, and then drive around exploring the countryside. We would end at some “family restaurant,” dine, and then stop by church for Vespers and Benediction, and so would end our Sunday.
On this Memorial Day — and a great many before it — I honour all of these things. It is not simply a question of nostalgia; in truth, a great of what we have lost in so many ways in the 1960s were simply better than what we have now, in small things as in great. I wish we could have retained so much of what my generation chose to discard while attaining the technological heights we have reached. But that would be Heaven — and that, we know, cannot be in this life. But I hope that that younger folk may rediscover some of what we threw away and put it to good use.
