Pandemic Story: Memorial Day 2020

July Fourth is the big one — city parades with floats, fireworks and firecrackers, high school bands, barbecues and beaches.

Memorial Day, the little sibling, normally warrants a short local parade, flags at automobile dealerships, summer clothing sales at the mall, iffy weather in New England. Like today, overcast, damp, not quite reaching mid-fifties. Not many ventured out for gatherings at home or in the park, even though the governor okayed a limited reopening phase and the hype escalated all week leading to the first holiday outdoors. 

I hope you are faring well today, wherever you are.

A member of my congregation plants small American flags for the veterans buried in Mount Jacob Cemetery I told her that my husband had served in the Army Reserves for six months, training as a medic for MASH units at Fort Sam Houston, then in training and on call yearly until his gig was up.

He rates a flag for his honorable discharge from military service.

Paul often told a story about a soldier on night guard duty at Fort Sam. The desert heat didn’t cool down much from the one hundred degree days. The only available cold drink off hours was a bottle of Dr. Pepper from the one vending machine. The PFC put in his nickel but it failed to produce. He added another, but no success. After the machine swallowed his third and last nickel, he found a sledge hammer (or maybe an axe) and whacked the machine over and over, failing again, until he was removed forcibly from his mission, still flailing with desperation.

My husband told the story much better than I do, and he sympathized greatly, swearing that it was absolutely true.

He also remembered that members of a local synagogue invited the Jewish guys (there were just a few) for Shabbos dinner. I’m sure their daughters of marriageable age were in attendance. A great excuse for the recruits to get out of guard duty on a weekend night. 

The Levine Family has a military history. My father-in-law, a naturalized citizen, served in the Marines sometime between the World Wars. He was also involved in building the Holland Tunnel, so goes the family lore, hauling bags of cement into the depths. This may have been part of a military service assignment sometime between 1920 and 1927. I can well imagine him doing so—he was a muscled fireplug of a man. Paul’s brother Allan served in artillery in the Korean Conflict, losing his hearing to repetitive gunfire.

But there is a special person I wish to honor today who lost his life on active duty. The Tunick family lived two doors down the street in my Linden neighborhood. Their daughter Elaine, my childhood friend, had an older brother, Frank, who had enlisted in the Navy.

Lieutenant Tunick, husband and father, was stationed aboard the freighter USS Oriskany on 26 October 1966, when a fire erupted on the starboard side of the ship’s forward hangar bay and raced through five decks, killing 44 men, including my friend’s brother. Many who lost their lives were veteran combat pilots who had flown raids over Vietnam just a few hours earlier.

The news spread rapidly through the neighborhood and shocked us all, bringing the chaos of war home. I stood in front of their house with many others, not knowing what to say or do for the bereaved family. Frank’s mom opened the front door and waved everyone in to join in a shiva (memorial) service for her son. I always thought of her as brave for doing just that.

When I visited the Vietnam Veterans Memorial in Washington DC years later, I looked through the catalogue and found his name etched deeply into the polished black granite wall, along with 58,000 others.

I offer tribute to Frank this Memorial Day. His sister named her first son Michael and her little boy Frankie in memory of her brother. In 1983, Elaine died of breast cancer, after fighting hard for her life, when she was just thirty-seven. Then I heard that their father, Henry, died and that their mom, Jean, had moved to a senior community down the Jersey Shore.

I found her new address and corresponded for a time, always keeping in mind the sad losses of this family, her son and daughter picked off one by one. Jean survived to age ninety, a long time to carry sadness for her children taken in the prime of their lives.

My cousin David also served in the Vietnam War. My mom’s side of the family always makes sure to “thank him for his service.” My aunt, now gone, claimed that the best day in her life—ever—was when David was discharged from active duty and arrived safely home.

After college, I worked for the Veteran’s Administration, first in Newark, then in Boston, adjudicating claims for education benefits and payments to vocational schools and colleges from 1966 to 1971. I will always have a place in my heart for veterans, even though I opposed the war and participated in anti-war protests and peace marches.

My day of solemn tribute has been uplifted by a strictly socially-distant visit from my daughter. I set up chairs on opposite sides of the deck and we wore masks for maximum precaution. The children played in a corner, away from the steps, and away from Gramma.

My little grandson had made up three original stories that he earnestly related to me from six feet away. All involved trains and engineers and conductors and saving people (his little sister and me) by jamming on the brakes just in time.

He assured me, “Don’t worry Gramma, I’m telling you safe stories.”

Safe Stories are just what I need now, to help me get through yet another one of these pandemic days.