The Echo of Taps and Rifles
The celebration of our Declaration of Independence from Great Britain reminds each of us of the heroes that built and protect our nation. My first encounter with a hero happened a long time ago.
Bloomington, Minnesota, was a sleepy town when I was a child, mostly farmland. My youth was blessed by an era in which you knew your neighbors, the name of the postman and milkman, and looked forward to a wave from the engineer riding the rails of the Dan Patch line.
I attended Assumption Grade School. The brick structure had eight classrooms and a general area in the basement, which included a small stage and kitchen. The parish’s school, convent, church and rectory stood side by side in that order.
Each winter a part of the playground was flooded for skating. In the spring it became a softball field. There were no organized sports, no clubs, teams, or bleachers. Pockets of friends played jump rope, tag, hop-scotch and marbles. A few played catch and keep-away.
The school’s only organized activity was for altar boys. Being an altar boy offered a special benefit beyond staying in the good graces of the nuns. We were excused from class for special religious events. Weddings were unpopular duty because they were held on Saturdays. But we loved funerals. Most included a trip to a cemetery which ate up half a school day.
Altar boys were paired by height and always served together. My partner was John Swietzer. We were teamed in the third grade—the same year the Korean War flared. Trips to the Fort Snelling National Cemetery became commonplace by the time we reached the fourth grade.
Fort Snelling sat on a bluff, surrounded by grain fields, meadows and forests. It was quiet and pristine. Even then the rows of white crosses disappeared over the hill’s crest. A short walk away, the Mendota Bridge, its feet usually shrouded in mist, spanned the Minnesota River.
A stone entrance and immaculately dressed guards met all who arrived. I don’t know why I remember it was a Friday—that day I served at the funeral I will never forget. It was a cold morning. The packed snow squeaked as we walked behind Father Covert to the burial site.
We passed groups of mourners. The sounds of Taps and the crack of rifles followed us to a flag draped coffin. It was a familiar scene. I remember about ten people, including a woman and three children. One, about my age, was wearing a plaid jacket, red stocking cap and no boots.
She was shivering so hard, I offered her my mittens. She put them on and nodded her thanks.
After the flag was folded, a soldier played Taps on another part of the grounds, a gentle way of breaking the silence, like a loon’s wail at sunset.
While the others hugged each other, the woman, flag in hand, walked over and kissed my forehead. It embarrassed me.
Father Covert must have noticed. During the ride back to school he said it was nice of me to lend my mittens to that girl. And then he explained that her mother kissed me because she couldn’t kiss the hero she had just buried.
Remember a hero on this July 4, 2007.
Bloomington, Minnesota, was a sleepy town when I was a child, mostly farmland. My youth was blessed by an era in which you knew your neighbors, the name of the postman and milkman, and looked forward to a wave from the engineer riding the rails of the Dan Patch line.
I attended Assumption Grade School. The brick structure had eight classrooms and a general area in the basement, which included a small stage and kitchen. The parish’s school, convent, church and rectory stood side by side in that order.
Each winter a part of the playground was flooded for skating. In the spring it became a softball field. There were no organized sports, no clubs, teams, or bleachers. Pockets of friends played jump rope, tag, hop-scotch and marbles. A few played catch and keep-away.
The school’s only organized activity was for altar boys. Being an altar boy offered a special benefit beyond staying in the good graces of the nuns. We were excused from class for special religious events. Weddings were unpopular duty because they were held on Saturdays. But we loved funerals. Most included a trip to a cemetery which ate up half a school day.
Altar boys were paired by height and always served together. My partner was John Swietzer. We were teamed in the third grade—the same year the Korean War flared. Trips to the Fort Snelling National Cemetery became commonplace by the time we reached the fourth grade.
Fort Snelling sat on a bluff, surrounded by grain fields, meadows and forests. It was quiet and pristine. Even then the rows of white crosses disappeared over the hill’s crest. A short walk away, the Mendota Bridge, its feet usually shrouded in mist, spanned the Minnesota River.
A stone entrance and immaculately dressed guards met all who arrived. I don’t know why I remember it was a Friday—that day I served at the funeral I will never forget. It was a cold morning. The packed snow squeaked as we walked behind Father Covert to the burial site.
We passed groups of mourners. The sounds of Taps and the crack of rifles followed us to a flag draped coffin. It was a familiar scene. I remember about ten people, including a woman and three children. One, about my age, was wearing a plaid jacket, red stocking cap and no boots.
She was shivering so hard, I offered her my mittens. She put them on and nodded her thanks.
After the flag was folded, a soldier played Taps on another part of the grounds, a gentle way of breaking the silence, like a loon’s wail at sunset.
While the others hugged each other, the woman, flag in hand, walked over and kissed my forehead. It embarrassed me.
Father Covert must have noticed. During the ride back to school he said it was nice of me to lend my mittens to that girl. And then he explained that her mother kissed me because she couldn’t kiss the hero she had just buried.
Remember a hero on this July 4, 2007.
Labels: Assumption Grade School, Fort Snelling, July 4
posted by David at
6:24 AM
