In the summer of 1996 when she
was about a eighteen months old, Haeley, our second child, stepped through a
neighbor’s railing just off the side of his third front step and got herself
into a bit of a jam. Summer, her three-year-old
big sister, burst into the house, “Dad, Dad, Haeley’s stuck! C’mon, c’mon! Hurry, dad!” Out we went!
 |
| Military funeral of Major Douglas A. Zembiec, 2007. |
I got there amid the normal panic
that seems always to accompany these kinds of things, people yelling “bend the
bars,” ”put grease on her ears,” “call the fire department,” etc. She stood there on her tippy toes, my
neighbor holding her up from behind carefully to avoid hurting her neck. Her
head was a bit too big to pass through and was awkwardly turned sideways on the
concrete step. I got in front of her, and chuckling a little bit said, “hey
dolly, stay still for me.” I reached down, as my neighbor and I gently turned
her sideways and moved her back though the way she went in. I lifted her up to
calm her and she grabbed me around my neck with all her might. I began laughing
softly to put her at ease and before long she was laughing, too. There were
many such calamities with Haeley, each starting with a bit of real danger and
ending in a belly laugh.
The summer of 2015 found us all
together in a limousine. Haeley, in her intrepid way, had the year before
entered the United States Naval Academy. As we readied ourselves for the day,
she asked if I thought she should wear her uniform to the service. “Well,"
I said, "Pop was a WWII veteran and in his honor, I think it would be the
right thing to do.”
She did not like wearing her
uniform off USNA grounds, but as a first-year (Plebe), she was obligated to do
so while traveling to and from the academy. She expressed this dislike to me on
more than a few occasions. Once, while I was taking her to the train station
after a brief stint home, she appeared to be a bit shaken. I asked if she was
okay, and she told me she was afraid for us - me and her brother - when she was
traveling in uniform. I knew why, of course. She, like all U.S. service
personnel, was a target in that uniform and she knew it. On this bright and
cloudless day though, I doubt these thoughts were in her mind. Today, we were
burying her Pop-Pop.
It wasn’t until we arrived at the cemetery
that I fully realized there would be an honor guard. There was talk of it of
course, but the undertaker who’d arranged the service was non-committal; he
said that he would try to arrange it, but as it was July 4th week,
he was not certain that those he relied on for that task would be able to make
it.
As Pop’s immediate family, we
were in the second car, just behind the hearse.
As we pulled up to the
grave site - the procession of attendees’ cars
lining in behind us - I noticed with satisfaction from the opposite window a
dozen or so older men in uniform standing at attention, their commander
saluting as we came to rest in front of them. I thought immediately of how
proud Pop would be that these men, themselves all veterans of foreign war,
would assemble to honor his life and the effort he willingly applied to the
great cause of mankind, which had compelled so many as boys and forged so many
as men. The bright sun shone off of their polished insignia, momentarily
blinding any whose eyes were caught by the glare. Proud but not prideful, they
assembled silently in two rows behind Pop’s carriage along with several younger
pallbearers. These now very old men had
donned their uniforms with an earned pride and deliberation that imparted to me
a sense of reverence. I watched as a small detachment of them began to take
positions around our car. They opened our doors and stood solemnly as we
climbed out.
 |
| Navy funeral of Commander Charles Keith Springle, 2009. |
As I exited the car, looking for
small ways to be useful, I noticed my daughter Haeley in the midst of several
of the honor guard. One man in particular was talking quietly to her as the
others listened intently. Seeing her in her “dress whites” had apparently
attracted their attention. It occurred to me that she was part of this world
now, and I was happy for her. After watching for a moment I got moving, helping my mother-in-law to the
front of the assembling procession, seeing that my wife and our two other daughters
were okay and finally, checking back on “Diddaboy” (our then eight-year-old
son, Eman), who was only too happy to be pulled from the busyness surrounding
him in the car.
A few minutes passed and the procession
began: Dad’s flag-draped casket led the
way up the small hill, followed by the priest and the rest of us. We assembled
at the grave, where one white chair was located about eight feet from the
center of the sarcophagus. Mom, now
ninety years of age, was then seated in this chair, with her daughter (my wife,
Annamarie) and the remainder of our family standing on either side of her. I
glanced behind me at the crowd of about fifty people. Some were smiling gently
and chatting. I nodded in affirmation at one or two and turned back as the
funeral director began to talk, interrupted almost immediately, as though to
break the tension, by a noisy crow in a nearby tree.
During the preparation for the
funeral, Annamarie and I had assisted Mom with the selection of the passages
that our priest would read. Now as he
did so, we all stood and reflected on those words, Pops’s life, our lives, our
impending ends, and our hopefulness for the hereafter. As he finished, I heard
the guard commander call the guard to order. They marched in lock step, to a
place in front and to the side of us, where they halted, turned, aimed and
fired. They fired three volleys, each time crisply returning their rifles to
their ready. With the same precision and without pause, the bugler began to
play Taps as the echo from the last
shots faded.
At his moment I looked down the
line to my left to see Haeley, standing crisply at salute along with all the
remaining guard. At its finish, her hand fell slowly and deliberately to her
side. I recall being so impressed with
how she’d left us as a smart, confident and adventuresome kid, and stood here
now as a thoughtful, diligent and
responsible young woman.
The commander then turned and
stood at attention at the head of Pop’s casket.
We waited there as five guardsmen approached the casket, marching as
they did as young men. Of the five, three moved to one side and the commander
assumed a position as the third man on the other. In perfect unison, they gripped, raised,
snapped, creased and folded the flag over the casket, where it made its way to
the commander’s hands in that perfect triangular form. I could hear whispers
behind me. People were chatting affirmations in small bits trying not to
interrupt, but unable to conceal their admiration for this venerable tradition.
The crow cawed again and again, but no one seemed to notice.
And then it happened. From the
corner of my left eye I noticed Haeley break from the rank and step forward. One
slow step - then another - and again! Stop!
Pivoting to her right at a crisp ninety degrees, she stood there, perfectly
still. In what seemed like a long-rehearsed interplay, the commander, now
facing Pop’s casket, snap-turned to his left-face as Haeley, in her blinding
white uniform and gloves marched in lock step toward the waiting commander, who
himself mirrored her movements exactly. They stepped forward one step - then
another - until they stood apart facing each other at the center of the grave.
The chatter had completely
stopped. There was no sound. I glanced up at the crow, who seemed to be as
stunned by this as any of us. No one moved. We were now a collection of
transfixed figures, as though cast there in stone by some unknowable force. Slowly,
Haeley extended her gloved hands to receive the flag, which was placed neatly
between her palms. She took one step backwards, then turned on her heels and
stood squarely in front of her grandmother. Tears the size of nickels fell from
her face like heavy rain, yet she stood solid and still in her frame. There was
a gasp from somewhere behind me and I heard a woman’s voice whisper “Oh, my
Lord!” No one saw this coming. I stood there and, closing my trembling jaw,
swallowed hard as I felt my heart rise in my chest.
Stepping forward and bending
slightly at her waist, as still as granite, she knelt before her Mom –Mom, the
woman who had been there every day of her life. Patiently, without the
slightest adjustment in her body or the faintest quiver in her voice, she
extended her hands. It had fallen so quiet, I could hear the pat-pat-pat of
Haeley’s tears hitting the flag as she held it. Glancing down and to my left, I
saw mom looking up at her granddaughter with wide eyes. She smiled faintly, as
though the heartache she’d carried to the graveside had suddenly lifted. She
seemed to be floating there, not only unaware in that moment of her grief, but
seemingly oblivious to her purpose there.
“Mom-Mom. On behalf of the United
States Army and on behalf of a grateful nation, I present to you this flag of
the United States of America as a symbol of our gratitude for Pop-Pop’s service
to his country. “
Haeley stayed in that position,
holding her grandmother’s hands until she steadied. Slowly, she rose to
attention, took one step back, turned and marched slowly until in front of her original
place, she fell into the rank, lowered her head and wept, shaking from shoulder
to knee. I wanted to go to her - to once again pull her though that railing -
but this time I could not.
I turned to see if anyone had
really absorbed what I had just witnessed. Seemingly everyone was weeping
quietly to themselves. Many held their hands on their foreheads or over their
mouths; others, like me, stood with watering eyes and beaming smiles. They knew. They knew what I knew: that this
was a singular event and they would not see it again.
All of us, I’m sure, experience
moments in our lives which impact us in a visceral way. They imprint a mark on
our souls, and although the years pass, we recall them in ways more tactile than
abstract. Our hearts still skip that beat. We still breathe in the same spotty
rhythm we did in those moments. Sometimes these memories remind us of our great
regrets, our failures in character or judgment.
Other times, these remembrances return us to our moments of greatest joy,
moments that we knew when experiencing them would never leave us. People often
say “You can’t take it with you.” No matter where you finish, you leave as you
came. I don’t think that’s true. When I go, this mark comes with me.
Author’s Note: Haeley will graduate
from the United States Naval Academy on May 25th, 2018.