Memorial Day Tribute

When I was a child, I remember how my father would drive my siblings and I from the country town where we lived to his hometown of Lorraine on Memorial Day. Sometimes, we’d go to Elyria Ohio and visit his other people too. My father never said why we were going to his hometown on Memorial Day just that we were going, and we’d better get ready or else. The ride there, which was several hours, was usually pretty quiet. My sister, brother and I would fall asleep, or we would count cars. We knew better than to argue in my father’s car. Sibling arguments could result in my father pulling over to side of the road, removing his belt then whaling on one or all of us. That threat encouraged us to maintain our silences or quietly count all of the out of state license plates we saw along the way.

I looked forward to the drive my father’s hometown for two reasons. My favorite aunt would ride with us or meet us there and the food in Lorraine and Elyria was great. I loved my Aunt Sadie. She was the only person I knew who could tell my father what to do in front of us kids and he’d sometimes do it. Sadie was my father’s older sister and one of three surviving siblings from a family of nine children. In my father’s time, children died of common diseases like influenza, measles, whooping cough, polio and pneumonia that we now can vaccinate against. Anyway, my aunt fussed and pestered my father until he did most of whatever she was asking of him.

The other reason I loved going was the barbeques in the backyards of my father’s people. His people could cook some unbelievably excellent dishes such as potato salad, egg salad, baked ham, collard greens flavored with smoked ham, baked sweet potatoes, fried chickens, baby back ribs, steak, burgers and franks. I imagined the men rebuilding fire pit in the backyard, placing a mesh screen over the pit. Then the men piled all kinds of vegetables, meats, chicken and fish wrapped in foil on the screen. The succulent scent of the meats being grilled filled the air all around us and made our bellies grumble and growl from hunger. I could hardly wait to dig into a plate piled high with food that I knew would be waiting for me.

I learned much later that some of the people we visited in Lorraine were my father’s old army buddies. My father was a veteran of WWII. He joined the paratroopers at a time when America’s military was segregated. Most Negro soldiers were relegated to being entertainers, cooks or monitoring supplies or digging latrines. The military had to be convinced that Negroes troops wouldn’t abandon their commands and runaway under fire. Almost convinced, the army decided to create a Negro unit of paratroopers. My father got lucky. Since he was a doctor with a degree, the army made him an officer. Had he not broken an ankle during one of his jumps, he would have been one of the first Negro officers sent overseas to fight in the European theater. Once his ankle healed, while still in the paratroopers my father became a smoke jumper. He helped put forest fires out all over the Southwest United States.

Unfortunately for me, most of this information I did not know until after my father’s death. That’s when I met some of the survivors of my father’s old unit. They called themselves the Triple Nickels or 555’s.

KUDOS TO ALL OF OUR TROOPS ON THIS MEMORIAL DAY. WE HATE THAT YOU HAVE TO FIGHT IN WARS BUT WE LOVE YOU FOR DEFENDING OUR COUNTRY.

Thanks for reading,

BL Wilson

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