I grew up in Washington, D.C., and both my grandparents were buried in the Arlington National Cemetery, which is considered a great honor since it represents (as so many landmarks do in our nation’s capital), one of the ultimate places to be buried if you served our country in war.
I was never allowed to visit where my mother’s parents were buried, and she never once went either, determined in her belief that their souls were not rotting in a box below ground; that they were free and had moved on. Although, of course, it was a great honor and that my grandfather was buried with every ceremonious honor a soldier could dream of (and especially now that Arlington was getting filled up), it became more and more of a big deal to be buried there. But nothing changed my mother’s mind. We were never, ever, to visit that site.
My father was a war hero as well, in World War II in the Navy, but when he died, we had him cremated (his wish) so fast, his own family had barely been informed of his death. He, too, was eligible to be buried at Arlington. Instead, his ashes were spread across the Maidstone Club golf course in East Hampton—a place (it is beautiful) he loved more than anything that existed in this world except his wife.
My brothers and their kids and wives plus my kids and Mom and close friends traipsed the hundred yards or so to where he died (on the way to the golf course) and sprinkled some ashes, and then slipped along across the memory-laden old East Hampton bridge crossing Hook Pond from hole 4 and the opposite way hole 16. We made our way to the ocean, on a full moon June evening, sprinkling Dad everywhere, because neither my father (who was eligible) nor my mother, wanted him locked in a box below the ground. Arlington National Cemetery be damned. It’s still the same as every place else when you die. But it was weird that Mom brought it up so much, like she was torn.
I was petrified to go Arlington as a kid, but have gone often since and there is nothing quite like it. The changing of the guards at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier has to have some effect on an American who truly is one, which is the terrifying question right now. President Kennedy’s eternal frame with his brothers next to him—well, they have the best view of the city. It is a beautiful city. I grew up there amidst Kennedy’s and Bushes and Sandra Day and all sorts of people who had influence and power both as a child and adult. But it really doesn’t matter all that much. What counts are those who actually fought for our rights and our freedom and for us to have the kind of country we envisioned. I don’t understand where that vision got so confusing, but right now I know it is completely different then the one I knew growing up in D.C. with politics and history and real people with huge power over this land in my backyard and the pride and singleness of purpose we all felt toward the United States Of America.
Even though I went to Arlington Cemetery often once I was older, I never looked up my Grandparents. I don’t believe they are actually there. It’s an honor that their bodies were asked to be laid to rest there though. It is one of the greatest honors bestowed on those who—how can one say it with meaning? Who literally put their lives on the line to save our country. Does it sink in to you? It doesn’t, I admit, fully sink in for me.
Our country seems ashamed, divisive, angry, confused, split apart, unsure, weak, vulnerable, and sad. I hope and pray (hey, I don’t mind saying it) we take today and the days and weeks and months in the future and try to stop acting like children and really work to take our pride and our nation back and teach our children the blessings they have living in this country. Everyone is angry about something. Including me
