Memorial Day

What does it mean to you?  The unofficial start of Summer?  No real sign of that in 2025.  It’s barely broken 60 degrees on the East Coast.  Remembering our veterans and our current military.  Yes.  Always.  My Uncle Hap is 106 years old and fought in the Battle of the Bulge. The man is a brick house.  Completely in the moment, mobile, and can still nurse a tumbler of bourbon (just one) all afternoon.  Humble.  Unassuming.  Most people that achieve great things usually are.  I mean if it’s that worthy, you don’t need to place your own value on what you accomplished, do you?  

Memorial Day is family picnics, the first firing up of the grill loaded with chicken and steaks or hot dogs and hamburgers.  Depends on what social circle you’re running in or aspiring to run in. I can run in any of them.  The barbecue and beer bust alongside the Hudson River in Washington Heights or the hoity-toity catered affairs in Connecticut or The Hamptons.  Paper plates?  Oh dear god in heaven no.  Firing up a grill.  No one knows how to do it.  For these stuffed animals it’s opening day at the Yacht Club, so many of them float by the people from Washington Heights with a modicum of sympathy as they sip champagne and finger through little serving plates of fresh seafood.  

When I was a kid, Memorial Day took on a very specific flavor.  Growing up in a small town in Connecticut, my older brother (and to some extent myself) marched in the Volunteer Fire Department band in just about any parade in any town you could fit into eight hours.  It was grueling for the members.  Now I wasn’t technically a member because I was 1) still too young and 2) lacked any inkling of musical talent.  So they made me a mini-uniform (kiddy couture) and I’d get to the parking lot where the bus was leaving from as early as possible.  I crossed off kids as they arrived and would rejoice in news like Kenny’s got Strep Throat.  

Woo Hoo.  That meant I was in the act for the whole day, all eight parades.  Then a chaperone would hand me a dented bugle with no mouthpiece to ensure I didn’t get overly zealous and try to blow a note.  All I had to do was stay in stride with people twice my size.  I may have torn a ligament my first year.  But that’s show biz in the burbs.  The pageantry, the regal salute to America.  I found it all so flattering.

And today, Memorial Day (pour moi) means one thing:  The French Open at Rolland Garros.  I went over to Paris a couple of years ago and I’m dying to get on a flight right now.  It’s Day Two of the Grand Slam.  My ass ain’t leaving the couch for two weeks.  Now Rolland Garros, well now that’s flattering and regal.  And of course you get a pinch of the French version of hoity-toity.  Oh it’s simply effortless for them.  But man are they rather rowdy match reactors.  Not like the US Open but they rival the Australians at crucial points in a good match.  Definitely not like the Wimbledon fans.  Those patrons clap politely and agree with just about any bad call.  Not ones to make a scene, those people.

I want to get to Wimbledon yet have no interest in attending the Australian Open.  You practically have to blow a member of the royal family (Prince Andrew is probably game for that) to get into Center Court so that ain’t gonna happen, but if you plan ahead you can see a lot of tennis on the side courts.  And maybe even stay in Wimbledon Village and soak up the local color and ale.

But on this 2025 Memorial Day, I’m settling into the pace of Philadelphia where things take on a more appropriate approach.  While some rush off to the beach, the Philly area hosts multiple events with a sense of remembrance befitting the holiday.  Across the city there’s parades, flag ceremonies and educational programming accompanied by patriotic music.  

There’s Memorial Day at Laurel Hill Cemetery which hosted Philly’s first Memorial Day commemoration in 1868. The afternoon will include wreath-laying ceremonies and honor guards. There will be gravestones given to three veterans whose graves were previously unmarked.