Following a 30-year career with Reader’s Digest, senior editor James “Jim” McCracken retired to Maine with his wife Betty in 1976. In retirement, he became a regular contributor for several prominent national publications, including his former employer.
McCracken’s late career work included this article, which appeared in Reader’s Digest May 1984 edition and details his impressions of Memorial Day in the Twin Villages.
In honor of what would have been his father’s 100th birthday this year, McCracken’s son, Michael has arranged for permission from the Reader’s Digest to have the following piece reprinted in The Lincoln County News.
It was the end of May, but Mother Nature’s calendar still read March. She was wearing the same tattered gray dress she’d worn for most of the winter.
Clouds, like porridge grown cold, stretched from horizon to horizon. And it was cold, cold even for Maine. The wind had been strong all month, and my wife and I would venture out between rain squalls to dig a few furrows in the garden.
Then, drenched or cold, we’d come disconsolately back into the house. May was not supposed to be like this.
Tomorrow was Memorial Day. There was to be a parade, of course. Old soldiers had taken uniforms out of mothballs. A band had practiced and tootled and marched. The cannon was dragged out from its moorings and polished until it gleamed. And all this while the cold rain rattled in the gutters and downspouts of the house.
But then, sometime during the night, there came a sea change. The chilling, lonely wind backed out of the east and swung through the compass until it stood in the northwest. A clearing wind.
It was as though a magician had whipped away the cloth that covered the bluebird’s cage. In the morning the east wind in our bedroom was bright with light.
Great clouds, like coastal schooners with all the sails set, fled downwind, going east, east, and out to sea. And there, through the window, we could see blue sky.
Ducks paddled about in our cove of the river, and sea gulls, too. A great blue heron stood one-legged close by the shore. Downriver, the harbor seals heaved themselves out of the water and up over the rocks to soak up the sun.
We see all this, my wife and I, and we remember that this is Memorial Day. This is the day we honor our dead, those who went off to war and did not come back home.
Despite the somber overtones, a parade, particularly in a small town like Damariscotta, is a festive occasion. Crowds two and three deep line Main Street, with more arriving each minute.
Hello, Joe. Hi there, Everett. Lobstermen and lumbermen, bankers and buoy-tenders, mothers and merchants. And lots of children. We’re all here.
And then my mind flies back to Memorial Days in a small town many, many miles from here. And many, many years. We lined our own street, Broad Street. There was a band. No, not really a band. Just a collection of people who could blow horns and beat drums. But they made music that stirred the soul.
A company of young soldiers marched by, veterans of the war to end all wars. And then came another company. Paunches rebelled against the structures of uniforms. They were the veterans of the Spanish-American War.
Then, ah, the Old Soldiers in their uniforms of blue. Their single line spanned Broad Street. Some marched proud and stiff, trying to keep step. But it’s difficult to keep step with someone who hobbles and another who lurches on a cane. Their flags were there. Antietam. Bull Run. Gettysburg. Valor, and the most tragic of wars.
Back in Maine now, the northwest wind is running out. The sun is hot. The spectators stand quietly, and gazes wander across the bridge that makes our town a twin of the next.
The parade will be forming. But there is always something to watch. A black-and-white mongrel, just in off the farm for the day, his tail flying like a flag, prances down the street. All eyes follow him. There are whistles and calls. He pays no attention. He has center stage. He knows what day it is.
Two weeks ago, under the direction of Commander Bud Colby, members of the American Legion cleaned and trimmed every war veteran’s grave in the area. A large and devoted task. On each grave they placed a small American flag. Those flags are there this day. Those men will not hear the music or see the pageantry in their honor. But each one has his flag, the flag he fought and died for.
Quiet descends on the street. The greetings have been said. Eyes wander. Children in groups of four or five, themselves looking like small clusters of flowers, pass by, clutching balloons on strings.
There is a stir. From a distance come faint sounds of music and the thump of drums. The parade is not in sight yet. Across the street from us is a flagpole near Charlie Adams’s real-estate and travel agency.
The flag, like others on this day, is at half-staff; it will remain so until noon. That is the custom on Memorial Day. For the present it is lifeless. No breeze at all. The red stripes seem to be running down, down into the brown earth at the foot of the pole. Flanders Field blood.
Now come the marshal and the distinguished guests. Three Girl Scouts and the color guard. They cross the bridge, and then stop. One Girl Scout drops out of formation and walks back to the bridge. She bears a wreath. The band has fallen silent, and there is a long moment when time is suspended.
Then the voice of a minister intones a benediction. He stands, as do members of the band, in the middle of the bridge. There, too, is the firing detail of the militia from nearby Bristol. The unit has its cannon, a three-incher. A voice barks: “Ready-Aim-Fire!” The cannon roars, its thunderous voice rolling downriver, and the Girl Scout gently drops her wreath into the water.
The wreath spins and floats, a current catches it, and it moves away toward the sea. Once more the voice of the firing detail shouts: “Ready-Aim-Fire!” The cannon fires a third time, and a boy from the band raises a bugle to his lips. Taps.
The wreath commemorates the lives of Maine men – sailors and soldiers alike – who have died at sea in the service of their country. The thin voice of the bugle rises, and the wreath is gone from sight.
A breath of air, light as a feather from the breast of a mourning dove, tugs at the corner of the flag. Our bugler touches the last note of taps, slides off, and then tries again. This time he holds it. He finishes. There is a pause; another bugler, standing on a pier a hundred yards away, begins. He is the “echo” of taps. The ceremony honoring the dead closes with the last note from his lips.
There is a shouted command. It sounds strident in the quiet of the moment. The marshal glances behind him; then he steps out. The guests follow, and then the color guard and the Girl Scouts. Also Boy Scouts. Floats. Kids on bikes. Some riding horses and fire trucks. The cannon begins to roll on its carriage, hauled by the firing detail.
Now a band strikes up, and marches. As though by divine plan, a breeze sweeps in off the water. The flag notices, and waves. The parade passes. People stir, and most clap. It’s gone now. The music fades. Up Main Street to another monument where another wreath will be placed.
A Legionnaire walks over to a flagpole at the end of the parade route. He looks at his watch. It is twelve o’clock. The flag stands out straight in a rippling breeze. The man raises it to the top of the staff. He steps back and salutes.
The buglers who sounded taps not only played for the dead of all our wars, but also signaled the death knell of winter. It died on the ebbing tide. Spring, new life, is here at last.
(Reprinted with permission from Reader’s Digest. Copyright© 1984 by The Reader’s Digest Association Inc.)
