I did not wish anyone a “Happy Memorial Day”. What I felt in my heart was not happiness or excitement because of a “three day” weekend and bank holiday. What I felt was a heart full of pride and gratitude for all who left the United States years ago…. young, innocent stalwarts… supporters of the freedom they cherished as American citizens. They embarked to fulfill unknown missions in faraway lands, never to return to continue their lives as sons and daughters, newlyweds, uncles and aunts, fathers and mothers. These men and women were so proud of their country they gave their service through various military branches, knowing they might never again step onto the tarmac of their local airport to feel the hug of a loved one carrying a sign saying “welcome home”. On this one weekend of the year, we are able to honor their ultimate sacrifice, and acknowledge to their families our deepest appreciation and thank you for their loved one’s service to us, the people of the United States of America.
Fortunately I found myself this Memorial Day weekend at my daughter Rebecca’s home in Washington, DC. After loosing our closest family veteran last October, my Dad who passed away at the age of 94, it seems proper to be in the Capitol of our nation this weekend. This is our first Memorial Day without Dad present.
Sunday morning, May 30, I perused the online news to locate any parades or ceremonies that could be attended by the public, keeping in mind we are all still gripped in various ways with pandemic restrictions. Then a noticeable rumble occurred outside….I couldn’t quite place it. There is a heliport across the Anacostia River, two blocks away from my daughter’s house. And, for anyone who has spent any time at all in DC, you are fully aware of the continuous din of helicopters passing overhead. At first I thought a large chopper was hovering close by, but the sound dissipated. Soon I heard it again, but it was even louder. When I opened the front door to investigate, I discovered the source of the sound…..motorcycles. Harleys, to be exact. At least two dozen were coming down the street, riders decked out in black leather, some bikes with two riders and others sporting sidecars. Most had American flags. There were many different models, but each one emitted the tell tale sound that is an unmistakable Harley Davidson rumble….like thunder…..rolling thunder!
Rolling Thunder, a non-profit organization comprised of both veterans and non-veterans, was formed in 1988. The group of both motorcycle riders and non-riders seeks to bring accountability for those soldiers who became Prisoners of War and Missing in Action in all US wars. The last ride named Rolling Thunder was in 2019, but the group continues to be known by that name. This years ride carries on the yearly Memorial Day tradition as “Rolling to Remember”, with the added mission of bringing awareness to suicide prevention and other issues plaguing our nation’s veterans.
A spectacular event like this can only truly be appreciated in person, and for years I secretly longed to witness the miles of riders on the back of these thunderous Wild Hogs! This year, the route was snaking within 2 blocks of my location, and would be one of the first places the riders would pass within feet of the spectators. “Rebecca, I need to make a sign, and I need a flag!” My daughter, her golden retriever and I set forth on our own mission….one to find poster board, large markers, and a small Old Glory to hold and wave. She was eager to do her part to help honor those often forgotten on Memorial Day.
The CVS store on Pennsylvania Avenue is 3 blocks away. When looking to the left before crossing Pennsylvania Ave., it is hard not to notice the amazing view of the Capitol dome. This store should be one stop shopping for all things patriotic, one would think? Why wouldn’t we expect that we could find any and all things to celebrate a National Day of Remembrance in a CVS store literally a stone’s throw (or at least a trebuchet’s reach) away from the seat of our entire country’s government, the building that is a symbol of the heart of our nation? After strolling up and down the aisles, we easily located the school supplies. Large foam poster board? Check. One black and one red large chisel tipped marker? Check. One small flag? Anyone? Anyone? Flag? Red white and blue streamers? A balloon? Patriotic napkins or dinnerware? Nope. We couldn’t believe it. I asked the cashier where the flags and patriotic decorations were located. “We don’t have any” she replied. Not “we are sold out” or “we’ve had a run on items for Memorial Day”. Just plain and simple…None. We were crushed.
We purchased the poster supplies, walked out of the store and spied Frager’s Hardware. Recently moved from it’s original location, it has been in operation since 1920 and holds the title of DC’s oldest continually operating hardware store. Inside you wind up and down narrow aisles packed with everything from kitchen ware to paint, dog toys and birdseed to grills. Canning supplies, tools, plumbing essentials, socks and any type of nail, screw, hook hinge and bolt imaginable! It’s the Harry Potter wand shop of household necessities. “Where are the flags?” my daughter asked an employee standing near the Benjamin Moore sample swatches. He didn’t know. But she suddenly remembered seeing some flags on a previous trip to the store, in the basement’s far back corner beside various sizes of dowel rods. She led the way, and sure enough, they were there…3 different sizes. We purchased the largest one.
It had been a very long time since I made a poster of any description…probably decades. But within about 15 minutes, I crafted a poster I was proud to carry, and hoped it would let the Rolling Thunder participants know they were appreciated.
By noon, I was stationed at the corner of 11th and Southeast Blvd. One family was piling out of a pickup, and had driven in from eastern Maryland with their two young children to witness the event. It turns out the father previously rode with the group, and wanted to share the experience with his family. There were multiple police units, a firetruck, and an ambulance all parked blocking traffic for safety purposes. Others gathered across the street up the embankment to the onramp of I-695. All eyes were focused on a point in the distance where intuitively we knew they would soon arrive.
Quietly, I was smiling inside, knowing that others made the effort to seek out a spot to cheer the riders onward towards their journey around the National Monuments and the Mall. It gave me satisfaction to know that these who gathered knew the importance of making an effort to honor the many who paid the biggest price, giving us the freedom to assemble in this manner.
As the police motorcycle escorts started appearing, lights flashing and riding in perfect precision, I started filming. At first I had to lean my sign against my legs so I could film and wave my flag at the same time. After just a few minutes, I stopped filming, so I could hold the poster and wave. It was important to soak in the experience without the impediment of looking through a camera lens. I had never waved continuously for so long, but they kept coming, and coming, and coming. Riders passed by for 30 minutes before the final bike crossed 11th Street, with a policeman bringing up the rear.
The small crowd began to disperse, and the emergency vehicles monitored the situation so they could allow traffic to safely resume in this massive intersection. By now, the first riders were snaking there way around the Lincoln Memorial, past the Marine that stood in the road near the Lincoln Memorial, honoring the riders with a precise salute. The salute is a universally known gesture of respect and sign of comradeship among all military personnel. My arms felt heavy. I could only imagine how tired the saluting Marine must be by the end of the procession, standing at perfect attention.
Tired arms were a very small price to pay. My wish is that all Americans make some effort to give the respect to our service personnel that they deserve. I also pray that we all take time to reflect on the sacrifices that so many made for us. In honor of Daddy who served and came home, but has now joined all those who didn’t return, I give my most heartfelt gratitude and respect. Thunder, keep on rolling!
Cary to Calcutta 
Well written.
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Thanks for sharing!
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