Remembering Memorial Day 1968: Be Good. Be Careful of the Streets. We’ll See Ya.

What's your favorite Memorial Day to honor others and your past? One of mine was in 1968.

“Girls, it’s time to get up. Remember we have a big morning with Dad playing trumpet at all the Memorial Day Ceremonies,” Mom said.

I stretched and opened my eyes with happiness and anticipation of an event-filled morning that also served as the grand archway to summer days at our Detroit Lakes cottage.

It was 7 a.m. and the almost summer sun streamed into the south-facing window of my sister Connie’s and my bedroom.

“Put on your Easter dresses girls, it’s a beautiful day. And hurry up, the first ceremony is at Holy Cross Cemetery and we don’t want to miss it,” Mom added.

I kicked off my bedsheets covering my skinny but strong, white but scabbed legs. In one fluid, 10-year-old effortless movement, I threw my legs over the side of my bed and leapt lightly from the top bunk to the hardwood floor.

Nine-year old Connie’s legs were a little shorter than mine as was her route from the bottom bunk to the floor. Like a pair of roller derby veterans, we pushed and maneuvered against each other lightly battling to see who got to the bathroom first. With only one bathroom for eight kids and two adults, this shoving match was a ritual performed by Stoa natives pretty much throughout each day, but especially first thing in the morning.

To combat combats, Mom would generally stagger times to awaken four sets of kids so as not to have all eight storming at once the not so restful restroom.

As I waited for Victorious Connie to free up the bathroom, I threw off my pajamas and pulled over my head the light cotton pink, green and white floral dress that was a close match to Connie’s ensemble. As always, we would be recognized as a Stoa, even though Connie showed off more of the Norwegian genes while I had more of the Irish and German traits showing in my face and hair color.

I got my turn in the bathroom before more siblings began running to and from it. Ready to roll, I sat at the kitchen table watching Dad gobble breakfast and gulp coffee while he and Mom made plans of where we should stand at the three ceremonies. Since Mom and Dad only had one car, Dad would get a ride with a bandmate and leave the 64 Dodge station wagon for Mom to crate all of us to the events.

Hearing a car horn honk, Dad jumped up from the table. Out of habit, as he stepped out the front door, he turned to look back into the house and blew a kiss, saying, “Love you. Be good. Be careful of streets now. We’ll see ya.” Throughout our childhood, that was his daily blessing for us each time he left the house for work. To this day, over 50 years later, my siblings and I smile when someone mentions Dad’s sweet ritual.

With his old trumpet case in one hand and his sheet music and trumpet mute in the other, Dad ran down the driveway and hopped into the car of his waiting bandmate.

Not long after, with eight semi-ready kids in tow, Mom headed to University—still a two-way street in that year—making her way to the far North end of town. In reality, the “far end of town” was only a couple of miles away. We made it to our destination within a few minutes, going only 20-25 miles per hour and hitting a couple of red stop lights.

Mom parallel parked the big station wagon in a growing cadre of cars strung throughout the meandering asphalt road within the Holy Cross Cemetery.

“Now be quiet kids and don’t horse around,” she said in a hushed tone as we exited the car like an army of ants escaping the colony to enjoy a picnic watermelon.

Mom was 5’ 7”. That morning, she had her long legs in high gear and was covering distances quickly because we could see Dad and the band ready to start.

“Kids! Don’t run across the graves,” Mom said quietly as she noticed some of us cutting across the grass to keep up with her.

“Yeah,” oldest brother Teddy said. “You know there’s dead people under there.”

“Yeah,” second oldest brother Danny added. “You’re walking on dead people.”

That was enough to scare the rest of us. My heart pounded at the thought of upsetting dead people. I jumped like when my bare feet burned on our silver-painted lake dock at high noon on the Fourth of July. My younger siblings followed in hop pursuit. I was nervous thinking that the poor people beneath me were squirming and uncomfortable with the weight of all of us traipsing on top of them. Increasing my level of anxiety, I felt the lumpiness of the lawn and imagined I was feeling the graves underneath.

“Judi, kids, stop it,” Mom said. “Walk quietly.”

“Yeah, quit monkeying around,” Teddy added.

“Yeah,” Danny added, but he too walked furtively.

Mom gathered her gaggle and we stood as quietly as we could, to listen and watch the band begin to play. I was mesmerized by Dad and the band playing rich, chest-reverberating music in the beautiful, peaceful setting of blue sky, white fluffy clouds, newly leaved trees, and spring sprung grass.

God of Our Fathers.

Battle Hymn of the Republic.

My Country Tis of Thee.

Today those songs bring me to tears anywhere and anytime I hear them, but that Memorial Day, I was less moved. Like the rest of my siblings, I held my right hand over my heart. Yet I was more interested in watching Mom and other adults hold their hands over their hearts and sing reverently along with the band. I watched Dad, and the band standing tall and solemnly play their brass instruments and drums. I listened to birds sing along with the band. I felt blades of grass tickle my ankles. I looked down to ensure that I hadn’t shifted my position to be standing on any grave.

Then a group of four military men—two in the middle holding flags with a man on each end holding rifles—marched to the front of the crowd. At the same time, seven other soldiers marched in a straight line to a short distance to the left of the band.

Mom whispered, “Okay, kids be ready. You can plug your ears if you want to. You’re going to hear loud noises.”

“Yeah, it’s the 21-gun salute,” Teddy whispered excitedly.

While my younger siblings plugged their ears, I saw that Teddy and Danny had not covered theirs so I didn’t either.

Big mistake.

When the first of three rounds went off my body shook uncontrollably from head to toe. I had never been that close to gunfire. Again, my heart pounded, but for that frightening moment I had forgotten about the people beneath me.

To heck with Teddy and Danny and trying to look mature like them, I quickly plugged both ears and squeezed my eyes tightly shut, waiting for the next two rounds. Waiting was half the scary part. But inevitably following their sergeant’s barking orders, the seven men shot off two more body-convulsing rounds.

“It’s okay now, it’s over,” Mom said, giving Jon, Angie and Monica hugs. They were crying and hanging tightly to her legs. I opened my eyes and saw and smelled gun smoke as it curled into the air before being dissipating in the magnificent morning sky.

“Hey that’s Dad walking over to the woods,” Larry said.

“Shhhsh,” Mom said quietly.

A trumpeter in the foreground began to play Taps and, in the distance, Dad echoed the same forlorn notes on his trumpet. Then he walked back to the band and they played,” God Bless America” to conclude the ceremony.

Mom piled us back into the car and she drove to the Armory on the Southwest end of North Dakota State University, where Dad and the band repeated their performances. In the Armory however, we had the extra treats of having our cousin Cliff Johnson in full Army uniform carrying the U.S. flag, and having the 21 gun salute shot outside of the building. After that, we drove to the South end of Fargo to the Riverside Cemetery where the band, military guard, and Stoa kids repeated their performance for the last time that day.

Dad drove with us on the way home. He and Mom talked about how moving the morning had been, and how it meant so much to them and all those who attended the events.

I knew I had witnessed something special, but as we rode home, I kicked off my shoes and began dreaming of getting down to the lake later that day.

I’m now 61. My lesson from that day that I share with you is of love. Love your family. Love music. Love, honor, and respect. Love patriotism. Love those who are here now, have come before us and will come after us.

Happy Memorial Day.

Now kick off your shoes. Feel the spring sprung grass. But don’t think what might be lying underneath. I’m just sayin.

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