Here I am, poised to head in to work at Ho(t)Me(n) Depot, and I'm feeling really crabby.
It's Memorial Day dammit.
Now I will admit that for the better part of my life, Memorial Day meant a long weekend off from school before the home stretch, or an opportunity for a barbecue, or whatever. But back then, there wasn't a war on, little less a war that has taken the lives of over 4,000 americans.
Ho(t)me(n) Depot should not be open today. What the hell? If we don't sell lots of grills and patio furniture then the terr'ists win?
This black mood all came upon me last night when I was driving home and I saw fireworks over Chalfont, PA.
A fitting way to remember those who gave their lives?
Among the things I found cleaning up my father's bedroom was a little wire with a rippled shiny red plastic disk on one end. I knew immediately what it was. It was the faux poppy he would wear on Memorial Day every year. In his youth, the recent war was World War I, and the poem they had to memorize in school referenced poppies... "In Flanders fields the poppies grow/between the crosses, row on row..."
I believe I threw out my father's poppy, but I wish I hadn't. I would have liked to have worn it today, wrapped around the strings of my orange apron.
Off to work.