"Little girl had a feeling for men who fought in war" from the May 27, 1971 Door County Advocate
Decoration Day 1910
Little girl had a feeling for men who fought in war
The wooded hillsides surrounding the village of Egg Harbor were covered with wild flowers on Decoration Day, and how quickly our small hands were filled that morning, with lovely white trilliums and honeysuckle. But these alone were not sufficient, and as soon as we had tied our bouquets together with a piece of string and laid them on top of a tall stump which would enable us to locate them later on, we hurried toward the swale to walk precariously along wet, slippery logs to gather an abundance of marsh marigolds and dank, green ferns. The day was warm and our faces grew flushed, our hands sweaty and moist, but I remember our hearts were laughingly light as we traipsed from flower to flower.
When we reached the town hall our teacher helped us arrange them in large wooden buckets and soon the building with its acrid smelling stove, brass spittoons and green-curtained voting booths was transformed into a thing of beauty.
Now, in addition to making six wreathes from cedar boughs to which we attached sprigs of wild flowers, we began to spread a long strand of cedar boughs across the top of the railing which marked off an elevated platform. In the center of the railing the teacher tacked two crossed flags. Several large vases of purple lilacs stood on top of an old, dilapidated organ brought in yesterday from the schoolhouse. The flowers were only our first contribution, however.
“We will run through the program once more!” The teacher exclaims while taking her place at the organ. The organ is slightly out of tune but it does not matter and now you can hear a mixture of young voices reechoing throughout the building as the school children belt out the words to “America,” “Star Spangled Banner,” “Columbia the Gem of the Ocean.” She moves away from the organ and listens with an attentive ear as we, one by one, go through our recitations. The lively stamping of feet seems to fill the room as we practice our Flag-drill for the last time.
Now it is one o'clock and every one of the sixty pupils from District number one begins to march from the schoolhouse to the town hall. Every child is dressed in his Sunday best and his precious burden, a small flag, rests at the proper angle on his shoulder. There is no Brass Band to head the parade today, like on the 4th of July, and consequently there is no rolling of drums.
Everywhere about us there is evidence of growing things today. The six large cherry trees in our front yard are in full bloom — each tree looking like a brimful bowl of popcorn, white and kernelly. The rolling hills on my left are now a vast emerald carpet. Even the colt running beside his mother on his long, spindly legs as a one-seated buggy slowly approaches from the opposite direction, is as new as spring itself. There is the melodic sound of the mare's shoe striking a stone in the road. From the nearby woodlands, comes the lonely call of the whippoorwill and one debates which sight and sound is more beautiful.
Now we have reached the town hall, which is a half mile south of the village and we can see a large flag above the door, fluttering in a lazy, warm breeze. There is a loud tramping of feet as we enter and by this time it seems to be bursting with perfume. Forgotten now, is the stench of early morn. A long row of windows on each side stands wide open and the long, hard benches are filled to capacity.
The village doctor has again been pervailed upon to be master of ceremonies. One can hear the clinking of a few stray coins in his pants pocket as he stands there on the raised platform looking over the rims of his glasses to welcome the crowd assembled here.
Behind him are seated the few remaining Civil War veterans. Each is wearing a shabby, blue uniform with gold trimmings. Some lean more heavily upon their canes than others. Most of them will rise later to speak. Those whose feebleness is more noticeable, and are here out of sheer willpower, will remain seated throughout the program. Nevertheless, these men gathered here today have one common goal, “freedom.” It is as obvious as the dust which clings to their faded uniforms.
The organ sounds now and we children rise to sing “America.” Shortly we drift into another song:
“Tenting tonight, tenting tonight
Tenting on the old camp grounds.”
It is a song mother often sings and I know it well. What hardships has each of these men suffered, I wonder? My ten-year-old mind tries to picture soldiers cold, tired and hungry, but I cannot because I am too young yet to know the want of food or the lack of a warm bed. Suddenly into my mind flashes a picture of the high straw-tick mother fills each house-cleaning time and soon dwindles into a nothingness.
“A step away from heaven!” Mother says while boosting me into bed that first night because it is so high I cannot make it by myself. It is an angelic thought; my mind centers itself momentarily upon that little pink angel which each year rests so lightly upon a top branch of our Christmas tree. Does one have to die to become an angel, I wonder as I wipe away with a snowy white handkerchief a spot of dust on my new shoes. Quickly I recall a recurrent dream, the sprouting of wings and then upon awakening find it is only a spear of straw that is poking me in the back.
Well, so much for dreams. Now there is the loud scraping of chairs as the old men in blue rise and lead the way to the cemetery. There remains only one more task and that is to decorate the Civil War veteran's graves. It is the real purpose of this day.
We are approaching now the first grave we are to decorate in the cemetery across the road from the town hall. It rests upon a slight incline and I can smell the marsh marigolds and ferns in the wreath crushed against my white dress which I now solemnly place on the grave while another classmate beside me plants a small flag upon this same grave. The flag begins to wave in a light, spring breeze, and it makes me feel both humble and proud. Our flag, mother has often pointed out, is a symbol of our freedom for wherever it is flown people are free. I know even now I would never want to be anything but an American.
The sun's warmth has begun to penetrate my body. I am alive and warm and these men are dead. A wreath and flag seem so little to give. What were the words the veterans used back there in the town hall only moments ago? I try to recall them as we tramp toward still another grave. They come now like a bolt of lightning out of the blue:
“You children can look ahead, with clear eyes, to a brighter tomorrow because these men have sacrificed for you today.”
We have reached the sixth and last grave. A soft wind ruffles the hair on the men's bare heads. Each small flag keeps on fluttering. It is as if each soldier were trying to impart to every young American present, “Freedom is your heritage. If you keep on remembering you are the ‘flowers of freedom’ then we shall not have died in vain.”
Courtesy of the Door County Library Newspaper Archive
Articles relating to Memorial Day
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