A Poppy in his Buttonhole

Grand Uncle Palmer

They shall grow not old, as we are left to grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning we shall remember them.

Laurence Binyon

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The poetry above is from the poem For the Fallen, written by Laurence Binyon in 1914 during the early months of World War I. My uncle Palmer served in that war, and this is one of only a few photographs I have of him. My grandfather served as well. He lied about his age and enlisted at just sixteen years old, like so many boys of that generation who felt called to duty before they were truly ready.

Military service became woven through the generations of my family. My father served during World War II and, perhaps because he spoke French, was stationed in France. Years later, my husband served with the Marines in Vietnam. Different wars, different eras, different young men — yet all connected by a willingness to serve their country during uncertain and difficult times.

Looking at this photograph now, I’m reminded that history is never only something found in books. Sometimes it lives quietly in family stories, in faded photographs, and in the memories passed down from one generation to the next.

As we celebrated Memorial Day this past Monday, I found myself thinking about the sacrifices so many made for our country’s freedom. Growing up, Memorial Day was a very big deal in our small town. Flags were carefully placed on every military grave in the local cemetery, transforming it into a sea of red, white, and blue. The high school band played patriotic music, and when Taps echoed across the grounds, the entire crowd fell silent.

The American Legion sold crepe paper poppies on street corners, symbols of remembrance and gratitude that nearly everyone wore. I can still picture my grandfather with a bright red poppy tucked into his buttonhole, wearing it quietly but proudly. At the time, I don’t think I fully understood the depth of what the day represented to his generation. Many of them had lived through wars that touched nearly every family, and Memorial Day was not simply the unofficial beginning of summer. It was a day of remembrance, reflection, and respect.

Now, looking back, I realize how deeply those traditions shaped my understanding of patriotism and sacrifice. The ceremonies were simple by today’s standards, but perhaps that simplicity made them even more meaningful. They reminded us that freedom is never free and that behind every flag placed on a grave was a life, a family, and a story.

Back in those days, it was common to see flags flying proudly in front of homes in honor of Memorial Day. My grandparents had a large flagpole in their front yard, and part of my grandfather’s daily routine was to raise the flag each morning and lower it carefully every evening. He treated the ritual with quiet respect and dignity, never as a chore but as something meaningful.

This Memorial Day, I was saddened to notice how, with each passing year, fewer and fewer flags seem to be displayed. Perhaps traditions change, and life moves faster now, but I couldn’t help feeling that something important is quietly fading along with them. Those flags once served as small but powerful symbols of remembrance, connecting ordinary families to the larger story of the nation and to one another.

Maybe remembrance itself has become quieter now. But I hope we never lose it completely. Because behind every name etched into stone, every folded flag, and every weathered photograph is a story of sacrifice, service, and love of country that deserves to be remembered.