The sun’s late afternoon trajectory, a fiery arc, pierced through the dense forest on my right. As it descended lower on the horizon, the trunks and branches, like sentinels, intermittently blocked my view, teasing the shards of light that danced and shimmered as I pressed on, maintaining a steady pace.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The Memorial Day wind, at times boisterous, whipped through the leaves and the light, infusing the scene with a sense of vitality. It animated the red, white, and blue flags, <\/a>proudly unfurled on poles and posts along my route, as if they, too, were paying tribute to the fallen.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The lawns seemed neatly groomed, much more so than usual, an added homage to show respect to the fallen. It might have been the one extra detail a homeowner could attend to. The additional time spent on trimming meant to show they cared about the day and, in turn, the people and the loss. For who could they tell about how they felt? Instead, they displayed green and expansive concern under their flying flags.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Route 9 is a lonely road, especially at the end of a holiday weekend, just as I like it. I sipped the coffee and reflected on the day, my automatic headlights finally giving in to dusk and the ensuing darkness that follows that golden hour.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I had not attended a parade but heard the echo of the songs. I have personally thanked vets\u2014even on non-holiday weekends, and I’ve hugged a few widows, too. On this day, I remained silent and tried to be thoughtful.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I sipped the coffee, then recalled being six or seven in western Maine, scrambling with other like-minded youth to grab the hot brass shell casings as they tumbled from bolt-action rifles\u2014the honor guard aimed high and fired blanks; seven guns, three shots each\u2014a 21-gun salute.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I didn’t know my actions were disrespectful then, but I learned later when Dad mentioned it as I emptied my pockets of the two treasures I had retrieved.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He said I should keep them and set them on my bureau, but never to do that again. I understood, and I think about it even more today. Lessons about respect can be delivered sparingly, and keeping it concise and kind was how my father did it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Flags shouldn’t be publicly burned, no matter what you are trying to say. I’ll stick with the philosophy. He didn’t have to tell me that; I feel that in my bones.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Flags should be flown, and the lawn trimmed. Leave the brass alone until the public display of respect has passed. People died so you could burn it, yes, technically. But letting it fly says so much more about why you can say and do what you want almost every day of the year.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

After all, it’s not about you. It’s about all of us, But it’s primarily about those who weren’t here for the ride home on Memorial Day.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

From the Jagged Edge, I remain,<\/p>\n\n\n\n

TC<\/p>\n\n\n\n

<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Thanks to all of you who support the writing efforts through the BuyMeACoffee Tab. tc<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

The sun’s late afternoon trajectory, a fiery arc, pierced through the dense forest on my right. As it descended lower on the horizon, the trunks and branches, like sentinels, intermittently blocked my view, teasing the shards of light that danced and shimmered as I pressed on, maintaining a steady pace. The Memorial Day wind, at…<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"pgc_meta":"","footnotes":""},"categories":[17,19,1],"tags":[129],"class_list":["post-76852","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-blog-posts","category-home-posts","category-uncategorized","tag-memorial-day"],"post_mailing_queue_ids":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.timcottonwrites.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/76852","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.timcottonwrites.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.timcottonwrites.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.timcottonwrites.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/2"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.timcottonwrites.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=76852"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/www.timcottonwrites.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/76852\/revisions"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.timcottonwrites.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=76852"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.timcottonwrites.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=76852"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.timcottonwrites.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=76852"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}