(year: 1995 or 96, mom was in her mid-70’s)

Years have passed by. It’s now mom’s turn to be taken to the parade by her children. I phoned her, “Hi mom! We are going to the parade tomorrow. Would you like to come with?”

Mom hesitated. Not wanting to impose in any way, she half-heartedly declined, which wasn’t really unusual for mom. Coaxing, I said, “Ok, I’ll phone you tomorrow before we come and get you. We can sit in front of the church like we always did.”

I picked mom up bright and early the morning of the 4th but something was bothering her. It was like she honestly didn’t want to go to the parade. Although I ignored it knowing she would likely snap out of her mood when the parade started, I still wondered what was troubling her. As we sat in our chairs on the curbside, mom was getting noticeably edgy and finally I firmly asked her, “What is the problem?” With tears welling up in her eyes and the demeanor of a child she said, “I hate parades. I don’t want to see them.”

“What? Why? I don’t understand. You and dad always brought us to the parades when we were kids and we all had a great time.” I said.

“I didn’t. I hate parades.”

“Why?” I repeated.

“It’s the drums. Those big, loud drums. They sound like the bombs and the war and it makes me think of my brothers. How they got killed in the war.”

That is when all the pieces feel into place. In a flash all of the following came to mind:

Two of mom’s three brothers were killed in WWII. Not much was ever discussed about them but mom spoke of how her little brother Harold, “just loved to dance.” Mom would tell us how her sisters, Harold and she would take the train from Racine to Kenosha to go dancing at the Eagles Ballroom, the place where mom eventually met my dad. When my grandma Mary passed away, there were some poems that had been found she had wrote about her lost sons the first and second year after they were killed. Harold was killed on July 7th, 1944 and Lester on August 10, 1944. Those poems I had read once when I was a teenager were the following:

July 7, 1945

In loving memory of Harold Richtmyre.

He was killed in action a year age to day.

Peaceful be thy sleep dear son.

It sweet to breath thy name

In the lite we loved you dearly

In death we do the same.

Often we think of you dear son.

And our hearts are sad with pain.

Oh this world be a heaven

Could we hear your voice again.

You are gone but not forgotten

Never shall your memory fade

Sweetest thoughts shall ever linger.

Around the grave where you are laid.

Sadly missed by mother

Aug. 10 1945

In loving memory of Lester Richtmyre.

He was killed in action a year age to day.

Peaceful be your sleep dear son.

And many hearts you leave with pain.

In life we loved you dearly.

In death we do the same.

You are gone but not forgotten.

Never shall your memory fade.

Sweet thoughts shall never linger.

Around the grave where you are laid.

Sadly missed by your mother.

July 7, 1946

In memory of my loving son Harold.

2 years has passed to day.

God called your name in France

Somewhere on shore

And though ‘tis hard realize

That you’d come home no more

We have such precious memories

Of things you loved to do

And though you cannot come to us

Some day we’ll come to you

Very much missed by mother.

Aug. 10, 1946

In loving memory of my son Lester

2 years has passed to day

Since God has called you from us

In all our hearts your memory lingers

There is not a day dear son we do not think of you

Some may think we have forgotten

When at times they see us smile

But little they know the heartache

Our smiles hide all the while

Very much missed by mother

Our government, having a heart for a woman who lost her husband a year and a half earlier to a ruptured appendix and 2 of her 3 sons killed in action in less than 40 days, located her remaining son Danny and had him returned home …sort of like a real life “Saving Private Ryan”.

After this all flashed though my mind, my heart went to my throat. Mom was fighting hard to avoid outright crying. I told her I was sorry and we should go. She said, “No, we are going to stay.“

The parade was moving along now. Sure enough, the marching bands played. Then the loud drums. Every beat became a bomb to my mom and now to me. I never felt so much sadness coming from my mother until or since that 4th of July parade as I sat there with her squeezing my hand tightly and both of us weeping. For the first time in my life I felt what that parade was really all about and I have never seen a parade the same way since.

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