Happy Memorial Day!

Kind of an oxymoron, I know but, still, enjoy your Memorial Day weekend. Its a nice long one. You can stay out late. You can sleep in late. You've earned it.

At the little house on the flowage, we're honoring the Sacred Dead in the customary American Way. Water balloon fights in the morning, softball in the afternoon, booze-up, BBQ, and karaoke in the evening.

Summonses for violating county noise ordinance Tuesday morning.

The house is crammed. Friends and relatives have homed in across a three state area. Presently there are eleven adults, two teenagers, seven kids under the age of nine plus the regular household staff.

I'm not exactly sure where everyone is sleeping. All I know is my entire well ordered routine is undone. Entirely.

This morning I woke up with two little boys curled up next to me and I know they weren't there when I retired for the evening. By the time I got their tooths brushed, faces scrubbed, and butts parked at the kitchen counter for breakfast, there were three more shorties, mouths tipped open like house finch nestlings, chirping for the morning worm or, in this case, fried egg, to be flung into the gaping maw.

Once I had them egged and juiced and corn-flaked and packed off to back yard with blistering admonitions and dark threats of severe punishment if they didn't stay 20 or 30 yards back from the shoreline, another squad, like a third hockey line, had filled the benches along the kitchen counter and were shrieking their breakfast orders.

Not all our time has been spent breaking the night's fast. Several of the young persons accompanied me to a nearby cemetery where we helped to flag veterans' graves. On the way over I talked a little bit about what we were going to do and why we were going to do it. I warned them to behave themselves and show respect for the people laid to rest.

I was, nonetheless, worried about their deportment but, you know, they acquitted themselves soberly and (relatively) quietly. When one of their number did forget him or herself, hollering or capering about, the others shooshed with authority and restored the gravity of the undertaking.

There was not a lot of chatter on the way home.

Well, that's not true. There was the usual amount of chatter but none of it really penetrated my reverie without the chatterer raising the volume a goodly bit and repeating the query, Uncle Taddy, are you listening to me?

I wasn't. I was thinking of my buddy Spoon and how he would have loved messing around with a pack of kids. How he would have had so much fun with them and how they would have had so much fun with him. The way I remember Himself, he was a half a kid anyway.

Of course, he had only just emerged from kidhood when he lost everything in Thua-Thien-Hue province.

When we lost him.

And that's what I was thinking. Spoon should be here. That's the way to honor our Sacred Dead. Keep them alive. Keep the country out of these useless, endless, pointless, colonial wars.

Then we can enjoy our beers and BBQ on a beautiful Memorial Day Long Weekend. With Spoon and the rest of them.

Here's to you Spoon! Slainte, brother!