I’ve been looking at the Facebook posts imploring people to remember our veterans on Memorial Day. I must confess the first person I think of on Memorial Day is not a veteran. I think of a mother who served her community and country, too.
I think of Mrs. Gladys Beamgard. C.W.’s wife. In my mind, she is standing on a platform in the middle of our local cemetery. The surrounding grave sites are adorned with a rainbow of flowers. Small American flags are planted in honor of those who served. Larger flags line the car paths leading to the place where she stands.
A single microphone adorns the stage. Mrs. Beamgard wavers in the wind but stands firm behind the mike with the help of her cane. It’s early in the morning yet the wind already is blowing in gusts of ten to twenty miles per hour across the Kansas plains.
She must be in her late 80s by now. I don’t know for sure. I’m only a boy and don’t give much thought to such things. She suffers the symptoms of a long life. Not able to stand as straight as she could just a few years ago. Her eyes provide little sight.
The crowd goes silent as she begins to speak. Soft but compassionate laughter flitters among the audience when Mrs. Beamgard announces that she will read. She hasn’t read on Memorial Day in years. Not because of her failing eyes. Rather this is a community ritual she has repeated for decades. She could recite the words she is about to speak on any day without preparation.
None-the-less she announces to her waiting audience in a voice strong and clear, “I shall read In Flanders Field by Lieutenant Colonel John McRae of the Candadian Army.” Standing by my father, I look down at the Legion Auxiliary poppy in my hands making the connection once more in my mind between the symbolic flower and the words I am about to hear.
In Flanders Fields the poppies blow Between the crosses row on row, That mark our place; and in the sky The larks, still bravely singing, fly Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow, Loved and were loved, and now we lie In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe: To you from failing hands we throw The torch; be yours to hold it high. If ye break faith with us who die We shall not sleep, though poppies grow In Flanders fields.
Mrs. Beamgard was the mother of three veterans who served in Europe during World War II as well as the Korean War. I can only imagine that being a mother of sons serving on the front lines is a duty nearly as, perhaps more, difficult as actually being on the front lines. While a child is at war, the mother waits at home in dread for a telegram she never wants to come.
Mrs. Beamgard was blessed that her three sons all returned home — at least one wearing a Purple Heart. The sense of civic duty that compelled these three boys to serve their country continued their entire adult lives. All three served as mayor of their small community. All three contributed countless hours of time.
I can imagine it is a sense of duty that began at home, with their mother as well as their father. I can imagine it is this belief in community and country that gave Mrs. Beamgard the strength to climb the platform stairs on the windswept plains long after her body should have allowed to recite another time, In Flanders Field.
She was there to honor the veterans, for sure. I can also imagine she was there to honor the mothers of veterans, too. Especially, the mothers of veterans who were less fortunate than she. The ones who stood on the threshold of their homes to accept the telegrams they never wanted to receive.
Happy Memorial Day to all the mothers of veterans. Thank you for your unique and special service.
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John Creighton can be found on Twitter @johncr8on and on Facebook.
Photo credit: Skenders (Flickr)