Memorial Day

The American tradition of Memorial Day began more than 100 years ago. It was at the end of a brutal war, a war in which brother fought brother and the best of friends became the worst of enemies. It was the Civil War, one of the worst wars ever fought by the people of this nation, and it was fought on our own soil. At the end of this war, family members of the many soldiers slain in battle would visit the grave sites of their fallen relatives or friends and decorate their graves with flowers.

On May 5, 1868, General John Logan proclaimed this day a holiday through his General Order no. 11. The day was entitled Decoration Day. Decoration day was first observed on May 30, 1868. The northern states celebrated this day every year, but the southern states celebrated a day similar to this on a different day until sometime after World War I.

In 1882, the name Decoration day was changed to Memorial Day, and in 1971, Memorial Day was declared a national holiday to be held on the last Monday of May every year.
From DCPages.com




I am the wind you cannot breathe, until I touch your face.
Once you feel essence of this simple thought, look pass the complex termed dead to believe.
I am always with you.

From “Faith” by Luke Wilbur

A sight in camp in the daybreak gray and dim,
As from my tent I emerge so early sleepless,
As slow I walk in the cool fresh air the path near the hospital tent,
Three forms I see on stretchers lying, brought out there untended lying,
Over each blanket spread, ample brownish woolen blanket,
Gray and heavy blanket, folding, covering all.

Curious I halt and silent stand,
Then with light fingers I from the face of the nearest the first just lift the blanket;
Who are you elderly man so gaunt and grim, with well-gray'd hair, and flesh all
sunken about the eyes?
Who are you my dear comrade?

Then to the second I step - and who are you my child and darling?
Who are you sweet boy with cheeks yet blooming?

Then to the third - a face not child nor old, very calm, as of beautiful
yellow-white ivory;
Young man I think I know you - I think this face is the face of the Christ himself,
Dead and divine and brother of all, and here again he lies.

An excerpt from "Leaves of Grass" by poet Walt Whitman, who served as a nurse in military hospitals during the Civil War