It is for me a day of rest, of planting tomatoes, of weeding the flower beds, of relaxing in the warmth of the yellow sun.

But before all that, I may go to Danvers Town Hall to observe Memorial Day, walk along part of the parade route, record the band for a video. I am the editor of the paper. But, since I also have a cold, and since Community Editor Myrna Fearer will also be there, I may not go.

Still, there is something very folksy and old-fashioned about the Danvers Memorial Day Parade. It brings to mind the parades of my youth, when I marched with the Brownies or, after I’d quit, ran alongside my friends who belonged to some other troop. It was a fun time, not at all sombre. I didn’t listen to the speeches. Unfortunately, now I do.

They’re not eloquent. After all, there aren’t very many Abraham Lincolns in the world who can hit the absolute perfect pitch of sadness, regret, and respect for the sacrifices made by those who serve and by  those whose sons, fathers, brothers — and today, daughters, mothers, sisters — are maimed or killed.

I am in general a pacifist. So, sometimes it is difficult for me to listen to these annual, hometown speeches, since they tend to include a little glorification of war along with honor for those who serve. War is not glorious. It is the greatest failure of human beings, no matter how heroic its participants are individually and collectively. It is an abomination.

Wilfred Owen, an English soldier and poet, died a few days before the end of World War I. He was 25, I think. He is one of the greatest anti-war poets ever. Just think, had he lived, what he might have achieved!

ANTHEM FOR DOOMED YOUTH

What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?

Only the monstrous anger of the guns.

Only the stuttering rifles’ rapid rattle

Can patter out their hasty orisons.

No mockeries now for them; no prayers nor bells;

Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs, –

The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells;

And bugles calling for them from sad shires.

What candles may be held to speed them all?

Not in the hands of boys but in their eyes

Shall shine the holy glimmers of goodbyes.

The pallor of girls’ brows shall be their pall;

Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds,

And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.