Even at three in the morning, today, there were plenty of cars and trucks on the road with boats and campers trailing behind. Most neighborhood pools are filled and ready for a refreshing splash sometime during this weekend which will be notable for record-setting heat. Picnic baskets are coming out of hibernation and BBQ kings and queens are limbering up their flipping muscles. Some folks maybe getting ready for special sales at favorite stores. For many of us, Memorial Day weekend signals the beginning of summer...regardless of the calendar and, with that, an overload of fun...not that there's anything wrong with that but this weekend means more than just a party.

In fact, growing up in a small Wisconsin town, Memorial Day was not really considered a "celebratory" situation. Of course, being Wisconsin, to call the end of May the "Start of Summer" was to tempt fate and risk waking up to snowflakes on June 1. Memorial Day was actually rather somber and serious. Just about everyone made the trek to the cemetery where the Scouts would present the colors, the junior high choir would sing, the high school band would play, a minister would pray and some nervous kid would recite In Flanders Fields. It was out of that poem:

"The torch...be yours to hold it high
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
in Flanders Fields."

that the idea of wearing red poppies was developed. The local VFW auxiliary sold them in our town and everyone bought one.

A few years ago, Natalie Moultrie and I emceed a parade on Memorial Day which paid special honor to those who served during the Korean War. It was a relatively small procession...not as grand as the American Royal Parade or as happily packed as the St. Patrick's Day festivity. But, what it lacked in pomp it more than made up for in circumstance. It was a meaningful way to decorate what used to be called Decoration Day back in the years immediately following the Civil War. (And, no, I wasn't reporting the weather on FirstNews at that time...I was just an intern.)

Several of my Mom's brothers and sisters served during World War Two, including Uncle Pic. He carried the pain of his service the rest of his life but never complained. Of her 11 children, all of whom she adored, my grandma used to say that Pic had the softest heart. Pic and his wonderful wife, Ila, lived down near Springfield, Missouri. When my Mom would visit us from Wisconsin, we tried to stop and see Pic and another great brother, Bud, on our way down to Branson. Our last visit was a couple years ago.

Uncle Pic made a big impression on our ten year old son, Harrison. Harrison is addicted to the History Channel and, especially, the WW II era. So, for him, Pic was a living connection to that time. They didn't talk a lot but Harrison just sat and stared...and listened. Over the more than three-quarters of a century that divided them, they connected. One question Harrison had was why everyone called his great uncle, "Pic." His given name was Winten but as a boy, he loved pickles...so he became, and stayed, Pic. It was a funny story told by a gentle man. Uncle Pic passed away not long after our visit.

This year, as part of a worksheet in 4th grade, Harrison had to fill in a box labeled "Something I've lost." He wrote: "My Uncle Pic who loved pickles and was in the war. I have his picture on our refrigerator so I remember." That is a pretty good way to define Memorial Day.