Small town Memorial Day

There are two traffic lights in town, one on either side of the river.  The Town Hall is on the west side; churches, restaurants and shops on the east end.  The cemeteries are west of the river, so the Memorial Day observances and parades to the cemeteries begin at the Town Hall.  The road crew clears out the garage, steam cleans and seals the floor every May, in the run up to Memorial Day.  New flags are purchased for the flag pole. The fire department bring down the tanker, or a squad, or both, to display in the garage.  They pass out coffee and donuts inside the garage.  The people and the cars assemble in the lot; they’re marshaled into order by a remarkable cemetery trustee who has brought order from chaos for forty or fifty years, and off they go, for ceremonies first in one and then in the other cemetery.  About five hundred people went through the garage this weekend, ate donuts, looked at the fire trucks, got in order for a parade.

Our road super, the poster child for conservation, faced a dilemma.  A sunflower through the concrete.  I asked him what he would do.  The plant put itself square in the middle of a door that a fire truck would drive through and several hundred people would walk through.  “I’ll cone it off,” he said.

Friday, when I left work.

Tuesday morning.

Malvina Reynolds, remembered as one of folk music’s most inspirational writers, would be proud of the sunflower, the road super and the paraders.

God bless the grass that grows thru the crack.
They roll the concrete over it to try and keep it back.
The concrete gets tired of what it has to do,
It breaks and it buckles and the grass grows thru,
And God bless the grass.

God bless the truth that fights toward the sun,
They roll the lies over it and think that it is done.
It moves through the ground and reaches for the air,
And after a while it is growing everywhere,
And God bless the grass.

God bless the grass that grows through cement.
It's green and it's tender and it's easily bent.
But after a while it lifts up its head,
For the grass is living and the stone is dead,
And God bless the grass.

God bless the grass that's gentle and low,
Its roots they are deep and its will is to grow.
And God bless the truth, the friend of the poor,
And the wild grass growing at the poor man's door,
And God bless the grass.