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Summertime in the BelgradesContentsfor Printing
Article Summaries |
Memorial Day 2005: Signs of Deeper Feelings
by Esther J. Perne The signs went up, one by one. The words were added, two or three brief ones, with sometimes a name — always a different name, sometimes a number — always the same number: 133! Welcome Home! Welcome Home Troops! Welcome Home 133! They were brief messages, but oh what feelings lay beneath. Those few words said we are proud of you. They said we care. They said we know we have an independent and coveted lifestyle because of you. And, they said thank you. Thank you because we don't know how else to put meanings of appreciation for those who go to battle for us into words. The United States is a country at war — way off somewhere. And, that's not unusual in our long history of wars. The news is filled with the bad and the ugly and the frustratingly impersonal. And, that's not unusual, too. 
But 133? Now there's something real that the Maine home front can put its feelings around. 133 stands for Maineiac, home-town, drive pick-ups and slosh through the spring mud men and women — neighbors who volunteer at benefits, raise families, help the elderly, fight fires, and somehow manage to make the pain of Maine, especially the capricious weather, more smileable. The 133er — those at home always knew he was off in the military. His picture was carried in a Memorial Day parade a year ago . . . taped on a general store cash register . . . tacked to a church bulletin board . . . tucked in a loved one's wallet. He was the chuckle missing from the locals' coffee table, the empty spot among parents in the stadium or at the playing field, the partner missing from a spouse's daily juggling of jobs and children, the infant about whom was whispered softly that her mother was away serving her country — but who was greeted strongly with reassuring smiles and words for, after all, strong is not the domain of just those on the battleground. Sure, life went on without Maine's 133rd, but life also went on because of Mainers who don't leave Maine easily — none do. And sure, there are other men and women from other states who deserve as much appreciation and credit. But 133 was from among us and there's nothing like one's hometown, home state own. 
Because of 133, home has a new ring. Home is what stays behind and remains thankfully safe, secure and same. Home, and hometown, is the humdrum of simple rituals that bore teenagers and are just fine for just about everyone else. Home is where folks really care and find trouble showing it. The messages went up one by one, randomly scattered on business marquees, in store windows, on makeshift sheets of cardboard — all with different looks but the same outward signs of inward feelings. | ||