Memorial Day 2007
I spent this holiday weekend as many Americans did…relaxing with family and paying tribute to our dead. For the Cullison clan, this means four generations swimming and fishing, cooking and eating at the lake house in Northern Indiana. I watched THE RACE (in Indy there is no need to be more specific in the month of May) with my grandmother Edith. At 89 she remains sharp of mind and spirit as she was in the days she flew aircraft delivery missions before the US officially entered WWII. A patriot, she will not speak of the state secrets she was sworn to protect, even though they’ve long been published in history books. My three year old daughter and I laid daisies on the graves of my great grandparents, my grandfather, his brothers and their wives.
The cottonwood fluff was flying and I took a walk around the lake. Every house displays the stars and stripes, and Japanese cars are rare in these parts. Here and there, a faded yellow ribbon is tied about the waist of a sycamore or ancient white oak. A symbol of pride, sorrow, and I imagine for some, a subtle rebellion. No signs here shout “Bring the Troops Home”.
Down the road I see a bolder statement. A picket fenced garden with an arched gate bears a sign in small print. “Peace Garden”. No victory here.
Today I think of those close to me who have served in their way. My Great Uncle Arno who survived WWI only to die of a broken heart after his beloved wife and infant son perished for lack of a cesarean. And neighbor Betty’s Jack, lost over Kobe, Japan during a mission as a bombardier. My father took a leave from his Vietnam river salvage unit so that he could attend my birth. The young man who replaced him died too. My father, Rear Admiral Thomas Cullison still serves proudly today.
I think of my medical assistant’s brother serving overseas. And his new wife who bore a son far from home as my mother did with me. I see so many young wives in my medical practice now, families stressed by extended deployments and insufficient support. I think of my own family divided in part by the weight of that same strain.
In 1838 General John Tipton drove the Pottawattamie Indian tribe from their home on the banks of the lake my children now enjoy. During the Great Depression, triggered at least in part by war debt policies after WWI, my family’s business failed and they moved from town to a fishing shack at the lake. That shack is now the house I cooked and slept in this holiday weekend. The poverty that swept Europe after the market crash set the stage for Hitler’s rise. And necessitated my grandmother’s brief career as a pilot and the loss of young Jack. The rise of communism after WWII led to conflict in Southeast Asia which sparked my father’s lifelong devotion to his post. And today we create our own enemies even as we try to protect them.
Conflict and violence have shaped our history. Some of our leaders have shown wisdom, others have not. All connected over time and geography, each action resulting in a reaction.
I wonder how the actions undertaken in my name will affect my children in years to come.
I don’t have answers but all around me I see the costs.
