Louie and I, for the past few years, have been going to the place where my
mother is buried each Memorial Day, and say a set of prayers for her and for
veterans. It's in a part of the church I grew up attending, called the "new
cemetery" as it was land hastily bought and put to use as veterans of WW2
and Korea began to leave the world. Frances, my adoptive mother, was a WW2
vet.

We started doing this because, frankly, her funeral in 1988 was a disaster
and a disgrace. My father was bombed out of his mind and had to be carried
in. A neighbor tried to get the police to keep me and my then-boyfriend out
of the Mass. An argument boiled right in the church about my presence. They
had no pallbearers and had to recruit young men dressed in filthy shirts and
disintegrating jeans.

Afterward, no one came to care for the plot except those paid by the church.
She didn't belong to the Legion or VFW, so they didn't come around to set up
a flag or one of those things that look like a tall lollipop with the
American Legion's symbol. So when Louie and I go, we get ourselves a small
flag for Frances and set it in the ground before the little headstone the
Navy provided.

When we went this past Monday, we saw last year's flag hanging on its post
for dear life. It was almost ready to crumble off the pole, and was frayed
and faded from our nasty weather. But looking closer, we saw that someone
had driven a long pipe into the ground and put the flagpole in it, and
crimped the end of the pipe so that what was left of the flag could still
stand securely, and higher than the others.

There are many veterans buried in the new cemetery. Sixty to seventy percent
of the headstones have a military plaque detailing their branch of service,
and whether they'd served in a war. Most were WW2 or Korean War vets, with a
few who'd been to Vietnam. We looked at them all. Not a one, besides
Frances', had a supporting pole to keep the flag flying; someone had gone to
a lot of trouble to do that, and the pipe was heavy-gauge stainless. It must
have taken a strong hand and a good pair of pliers to mold it to the pole of
the small flag.

My father is in Poland and will not return except when necessary by law, to
keep his Social Security coming. (He's a dual citizen of the US and Poland,
and must return every 2 years; and while he likes the money he really
dislikes America and Americans.) His marriage to Frances was arranged and
they did not get along well. I won't discuss what he did to me, except to
say that his dislike of Americans was taken out on me through years of
abuse. My foster-brother "doesn't do graves," believing it to be nearly
idolatrous and showing more attention to a dead body than a living memory.
The caretakers at the church knew nothing, and the residents of the convent
and rectory could not be found. The one friend Frances had in my hometown
was surprised at this story; she's an old lady though, and I'd find it hard
to believe she'd be shlepping pipes and hardware about.

So we placed a new flag before the stone, but decided to leave the other in
its perch until we come to town again, because we thought it was a mighty
symbol. Frances had been a prisoner of war under Hitler, but she did not
hate German people, didn't even have hate for the Nazis. She endured a
horrible marriage where any female in the household, adult or child, was a
target for beatings or rape, and shook her fist at it until Alzheimer's
claimed her mind and then body. And so does this flag. It hangs on, shaking
a fist at anyone who dares to pervert what it means, and the ideals upon
which it was first created; like after 9/11, we did not crumble and blow
away, but hung on and shook our own fists at the abuse brought upon us.

I hope we may be like Frances, and not have hatred for all because of what a
few crazy bastards did.

Someday I'd like to find the person who thought enough of a stranger in a
modest military grave to to raise the flag for her and honor her service and
thank him or her, the way I would like to thank those who died as
heroes--from those who went to save the Jews, to those who gave their lives
saving the poor souls at the World Trade Center.

I'll never find out probably. Damn.

Blessed be.

Baha
--

Three thousand years ago,
cats were deified in ancient Egypt.
To this day, they have not forgotten.