Back in the 1950s, Memorial Day was truly a memorial. I recall vividly the annual parade attended by probably a thousand people — or more. From my grandparents’ front window over Bride’s Cigar Store, I watched the veterans in their uniforms, several two sizes too small, proudly march by.

They were followed by the high school band in purple and white (sorry West Canada-we had the colors first) uniforms. Later, trumpet in hand, I would do the marching, first with the high schoolers and later with Salvi Ferraro’s Military Band. Then came the policemen and fire trucks and on and on. Flags were flying everywhere.

After the parade finished, everyone would congregate at Eastern Park for the ceremony remembering the city’s war dead — and there were a lot of them. The unforgettable Clarence Hotaling MC’d the event, like he had for more years than we could remember. Later, the family and relations would meet at our house for the vittles, including Aunt Dodo’s tater salad chocked full of hated onions that I was forced to choke down-mom didn’t want me to hurt her feelings.

My fondest memory of that time period occurred a week before Memorial Day when I was 10. I was a fourth-grader at Church Street Elementary. I’d lost track of time while playing with some friends at Moreland Park and in order to get home before my 7 p.m. curfew, I’d have to take the shortcut through Church Street cemetery. Normally, I made a beeline down the dirt road that wound through the rows of granite stones. But for some reason, that evening I took my time, stopping to breathe in the aroma of lilacs in full bloom and marveling at the rainbow of colors that had transformed a usually dark and foreboding place into something beautiful to behold.

While the variety of flowers on display was breathtaking, especially eye-catching were the flags. Little flags. I’d never seen so many in one place. Where’d they come from? They weren’t there a week ago.

As I neared the exit gate, I noticed an old man kneeling near the last row of stones. He was holding several flags in his hand, and he seemed to be weeping. Quietly, I made my way over. The man resembled my grandfather-white haired, face lined with wrinkles and hands spotted with those little brown marks. I asked him what was wrong. After wiping tears from his face and clearing his throat, he began to speak.

He told me that he was a World War I veteran and that each year before Memorial Day, he and his friends placed flags near the graves of men and women who had served in the armed forces. I told him that I learned about the approaching holiday in class and that my classmates and I were collecting donations for a local veterans’ food pantry in honor of those who had given their lives fighting for their country.

The old man slowly rose and patted me on my head, telling me that was a wonderful thing to do. I asked him why he was crying. I then learned that the gravesite before which he was kneeling was that of his father who was killed in the Spanish-American War; the father he had never gotten to know. I couldn’t imagine never knowing my dad. Next, he asked me if I knew the importance of the American flag. I told him that the red, white and blue was the symbol of our country and that we pledged allegiance to it every morning in school. The elderly gentleman smiled and handed me one of the small flags he was holding, asking me if I’d help placing the remainder. I nodded yes.

While we finished up, the man reminded me of how special this country is and that the flag’s colors represented three things- the Sacrifices made by men like his father in order to preserve our way of life (the red), the Liberties like freedom of speech and press that we hold dear (white) and Laws which guarantee that All of us can benefit from those liberties (blue).

As I helped him place the last flag, the old-timer thanked me and asked me to always honor that flag and to never take my father for granted. Lest I forget, the fact that Flag Day is followed by Father’s Day would serve as a reminder. As I left the cemetery, I looked back. In the fading light, I could see the old man slowly walking down that dirt road. I couldn’t help but think how sad it was that he never got to know his dad. But I also realized how fortunate I was to have my father. In addition to everything else, I knew that for me, the flag would have another meaning. It would always remind me of how truly special a father really is.

Before I turned for home, I stole a last glance at the cemetery. Beneath a beautiful setting sun, fluttering in the breeze were the flags. What great colors, I thought. Red, white and blue.

If you’re wondering whether I got it from the folks for arriving home an hour late, I didn’t. After sharing my experience in the cemetery and showing them my little flag, they understood. I even got to enjoy a late snack — a piece of banana cream pie topped with homemade whipped cream (can’t ever remember refusing dessert); and before heading upstairs for some shuteye, a big hug from my dad.

Ray Lenarcic is a 1965 State University of New York at Fredonia graduate and is a resident of Herkimer.