The History: 'Memorial Day was officially proclaimed on 5 May 1868 by General John Logan, national commander of the Grand Army of the Republic, in his General Order No. 11, and was first observed on 30 May 1868, when flowers were placed on the graves of Union and Confederate soldiers at Arlington National Cemetery. The first state to officially recognize the holiday was New York in 1873. By 1890 it was recognized by all of the northern states. The South refused to acknowledge the day, honoring their dead on separate days until after World War I (when the holiday changed from honoring just those who died fighting in the Civil War to honoring Americans who died fighting in any war). It is now celebrated in almost every State on the last Monday in May (passed by Congress with the National Holiday Act of 1971 (P.L. 90 - 363) to ensure a three day weekend for Federal holidays), though several southern states have an additional separate day for honoring the Confederate war dead: January 19 in Texas, April 26 in Alabama, Florida, Georgia, and Mississippi; May 10 in South Carolina; and June 3 (Jefferson Davis' birthday) in Louisiana and Tennessee.'
My first remembrance of the day we now refer to as Memorial Day, was as a child of about three. I was with my Dad, and we had driven into town from our farm on an errand. As my Dad parked the car outside the Feed store, an older man, his left sleeve carefully folded, and its empty material pinned up at his shoulder, approached, with a tray of little red and green paper flowers. My father exchanged greetings with the man, and during their conversation, my Dad withdrew his wallet and handed over a few dollars. In exchange, the one-armed man withdrew a few of the pretty paper posies, and gave them to my father. One of these, my Dad slipped into the pocket of his work shirt, with the little red-headed flower plainly visible. One he tucked into the very top buttonhole of my blouse. He carefully tucked the stem of the remaining poppy under the sun visor above the steering wheel.
I touched the little paper creation, and asked my Dad, 'What are these, what are they for?' He told me they were poppies, a symbol, worn on this day to remember, and honor, all those Americans who had fought and given their lives during wars in which our country had been involved. He told me the little paper flowers were made by veterans, and the proceeds from their sales went to the Disabled Veterans of America. His voice had a grown-up, serious, approaching sad, tone to it, one I rarely heard, when he spoke to me or my younger brother. I have never forgotten that moment, or those words spoken by my father, a World War II. veteran.
Over the years, beginning after World War I., the day set aside to honor our war dead, became somehow transformed into a day to honor all those who have passed. Today, with our three day-holiday format, Memorial Day has become diluted into but another day off. There has been, in this country, for a number of years, a movement to see the day returned to its original status. These Americans would like to see Memorial Day given its due, as to importance, with its relevance understood and appreciated.
Beginning in 1915, the wearing of the red poppy, in remembrance, began. This tradition became not only an American one, but a European one as well. It was begun by a woman from Philadelphia, named Moina Michael, who, inspired by a poem written that year, by John McCrae, a medical officer during World War I., entitled, 'In Flander's Fields', crafted and wore, the first red poppy. The poem refers to the masses of red poppies, planted on the graves, in American Military cemeteries, in Belgium.
In Flanders Fields
John McCrae, 1915
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.
