Remembering on Memorial Day

I was 19 and driving on South Fourth Street in Pocatello where Whittier Elementary used to be. The vacant building was still there and I turned my eyes from the road to take it in. Then - SLAM! I rear-ended the car in front of me. It was an elderly couple on their way to the cemetery to put flowers on their son's grave.

Thoughts were zipping through my head. At the forefront should have been these people, their late son and the trouble I’d just caused, but my mind was elsewhere. My mom was going to kill me. My insurance was going to go up, and the yelling I was going to endure would be the worst of my life. This was my fault, and I was going to get a ticket. I was going to lose my car. My independence. My freedom.

When the police arrived, the senior couple explained how a car had run the stop sign between the Elmer's parking lot and what is now Coho. They stopped abruptly to avoid it but I hadn’t been able to react as quickly. They gave a description of the vehicle, and officers tracked it down during the course of questioning us. That driver was cited for causing the accident. I was not cited. 

The officer who questioned me was so kind. His kindness stung. I wasn't entirely truthful with him. I didn’t deserve his soothing tone or sympathetic ear.  I likely could have avoided the accident if I hadn’t been looking away and been lost in the memory of a terrible time in Kindergarten.

Photo taken about 3 years after Kindergarten. (Photo by Cindy McMichael and used with permission.)

I was remembering how I climbed the monkey bars to get away from an older boy. As my legs dangled, he grabbed the cuffs of my pant legs and pulled. My elastic-banded pants fell to my ankles. I started kicking and flailing. I was embarrassed and mortified and wanted to let go and pull up my pants, but then I'd be on the ground with him. This was during recess, so we were not alone and I didn’t feel like I was truly in danger, but I was extremely humiliated with so many other kids around staring at me in my underwear. I had difficulty kicking, but I held on for dear life while my little five year old legs whirred like a helicopter so no one could get near me. Especially the mean boy. 

When I hit the old couple's car, the crash sling-shotted my focus back to the present. My gut was filled with embarrassment and shame from that memory, and then with the crash, a different embarrassment and shame emerged. The swirl of those emotions from past and present swelled and stayed with me for days. 

Shortly after the crash, my mom marched me to the store and picked out a thank-you card. She called the police station and tracked down the name of the officer who interviewed me. We sent him a "thank you" for his kindness and understanding “on Memorial Day”. I never told her I had been distracted. 

About a decade later when I coached junior varsity volleyball at Poky High, the officer’s daughter was on the team. I see him around town often. He's still in the ranks here in Pocatello and has had a notable and noble career in various capacities in law enforcement. 

My Memorial Day’s often begin with remembering him and this incident and his compassion I didn’t deserve. I wonder about the son of the elderly couple and how he died. Considering their ages at the time, he might have been killed in Vietnam, but that’s conjecture on my part. I should have asked them about their son. From there, my reflections spread to the countless others in our military and law enforcement who have died in the line of duty.

Of course I'm grateful for them and so many others, but for me on Memorial Day, that gratitude is counterbalanced with a heaping side of guilt over the accident I caused on a Memorial Day years ago and never fessing up about it.  And while both guilt and gratitude are formidable guides in my life's path, it's always a challenge for me to lead with more gratitude and less guilt on this day.  At 19 I was worried about losing my freedom and independence due to a fender bender when this day is about how my freedom and independence are even able to exist—through the service and sacrifice of so many American men and women. I’m not only grateful for them, but also that I’ve grown up enough to grasp exactly what I should be remembering on Memorial Day.