On Monday September 30, my family gathered from California, Texas, Idaho, New Jersey, and even Bermuda, at Arlington National Cemetery for the inurnment of three of my family members; my grandparents and their youngest son, my uncle. It was a bittersweet but proud moment for us to see our family members to join the honored dead. My uncle served almost 25 years in the Navy and was entitled to full honors, including the Navy Band, but my aunt had to agree to accept partial honors so that my grandparents could be honored the same day, and to accommodate the deployment schedule of her youngest son, also serving in the Navy.
We gathered in the Administration Building at 8 a.m. with their remains, ceremonial flags, and medals and honors. In my uncle's career he had advanced from lowliest enlisted squid to Commander (an officer) during his service, much of it as a nuclear engineer on ships in every ocean and the Persian Gulf.
After approving of the final headstone marker and signing over the remains to the administrator, we were escorted out to our cars for the short trip to the columbarium's transfer point. But first, at the top of the stairs a large group of Air Force servicemen and people in dark suits had gathered, presumably for a fallen comrade. They stood at attention and parted as my family came through. That choked me up as much as anything that day.
We drove a rented van behind the administrator's car, and over a hill rise. We saw a formation of 8 sailors in dress whites behind a carriage with a coffin and four horses. We all stopped, and the sailors moved in formation to the administrator's car and ceremoniously removed my uncle's remains and placed them in the coffin with the flag. My aunt and cousins walked arm in arm behind the formation about an eighth of a mile to an east-facing field without graves, surrounded by the perimeter wall with niches for the remains. The Washington Monument and Capitol Building in full view, airplanes going overhead into National Airport every few minutes.
A pop up tent was raised above six folding chairs and a low table. We followed the honor guard down to the tent and the immediate family took seats, while the rest of us stood wearing our family tartan ties and other funeral wear. It was a perfect 75 degree day with crystal blue skies, white headstones behind us and dark green grass. Fifty yards to our left was a formation of 10 more honor guard with rifles. To the right a sole bugler. The honor guard was impeccably dressed, nearly identical in size, performing their flag folding with precise movements and seemingly without looking at anything but the guardsman across from him. We stood as 9 riflemen fired three volleys over us and taps played.
My aunt had asked if her son could present her with the folded flag. This was usually the job for the leader of the honor guard. The administrator assured us that it should not be done; the recitation had to be said precisely and he didn't know it. My cousin in his dress blues (blacks) practiced it in the administrative building, and stood next to the decorated guard and received whispered instructions during the flag folding on (presumably) how to take the flag (right over left), how long to salute, how to step and turn, and what to say. My cousin received the flag, turned and bent down toward his mother and I heard him say "On behalf of the President, the United States Navy, and a grateful nation, please accept this flag as a symbol of our appreciation for your loved one's honorable and faithful service." He then saluted her slowly, and the detail marched away.
We took my uncle's remains to the wall near where a wreath had been placed on a stand. My uncle's four children each said a few words. One cousin read a letter my grandmother had sent to my uncle when he received his Eagle Scout award, telling him how proud they were of him. I dabbed tears then--and now, just thinking about it. My aunt placed his remains on the niche wall on the top row. My aunt joked that he always preferred the top bunk. The riflemen from the gun salute gave us a silk bag containing the blank bullet shells they had picked up as a keepsake. We placed his medals inside and said our goodbyes. A groundskeeper appeared and closed the marble piece over the niche and affixed his name tag. I wondered what my aunt felt looking at the place her remains would also be placed, probably decades from now. It was the closure we all needed since his death in February.
We returned to the Administration Building to await another ceremony for my grandparents at 11 a.m. The same drill, this time Army. My grandfather served as radioman for an artillery unit in Europe under Patton in World War II. He received a bronze star and various good conduct medals, one time penetrating enemy lines to radio back the location of a German gun on a rail car that would emerge from a tunnel to fire at allies, then retreat into the tunnel again. My grandmother was a schoolgirl in Pennsylvania who did her friend a favor and wrote to one more letter to an American soldier abroad (she already wrote to two dozen). She mentioned that she was born on Christmas Day. Coincidentally he was born on Christmas Day too--and he lived in a Pennsylvania coal town near hers. He was the only soldier who ever wrote back. They married right after the war and moved to California where they had three kids, including my father (the eldest) and the uncle we had just honored (the youngest).
Over the rise we saw six Army honor guards in formation this time; the blue pants with red stripes, the black jackets, gold buttons, and every medal you can imagine including purple hearts. The guardsmen were so young, yet so clearly experienced at war, and taking so seriously their job of honoring those who also served. Three volleys of seven rifles fired over our heads and taps played again. A folded 5' x 9.5' cotton flag was presented to my father on behalf of a grateful nation, and my brother and I carried our grandparents ashes to the niche wall next to my uncle's, where they will remain as long as our nation exists, and probably long after. My father's eulogy was like an obituary, mostly factual about Grandpa's service to his country, and the extraordinary circumstances that they faced as members of the greatest generation. We had his funeral 25 years ago, and Grandma's four years ago, but this was closure. The final resting place of my father's kid brother and his two parents. His father's name was his name. It is also my name. Most of us gathered there would not exist without them. It was the first time their eight grandchildren (I am the oldest) were all together in the same place at the same time. It was a special occasion, the greatest honor our family has had in all recorded generations.
We left Arlington grateful for the honors and respect our nation pays its servicemen. There is nothing gaudy or tacky at Arlington. At the tomb of the Unknowns a member of the honor guard marches with precision past the graves of soldiers "known only to God" 24 hours a day, 365 days a year, long after the public has gone home. This is no idle or impractical gesture; it comforts me as it should comfort all Americans that they are there, always, protecting and honoring. It is our nation's highest ideals on display, and it inspires a love of country like nothing else can.
It was the last day before the government shut down--the last day of September, and though our family planned to visit museums, memorials and receive a tour of the Capitol courtesy of Senator Barbara Boxer's staff on Tuesday October 1, we weren't sure if the government would shut down the next day. It turns out the next day we would be in headline news.
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