Memories

25 years ago my parents came over to visit after the birth of our first daughter and among the many attractions we had arranged to entertain them was a trip to the Normandy beaches. It was the first time I had visited them too so it was a fresh experience for all of us.

The first thing you noticed was just how pockmarked the land was, from the massive pre-raid artillery and bombing. Huge, deep craters deform the dunes overlooking the beach and no attempt had been made over the decades to raze it all and construct modern hotels or exquisite beachfront properties. Also, you realized that the massive concrete blockhouses that dot the beaches--all of the beaches on the Atlantic coast, in fact and which now often reek of urine and are littered with empties, syringes, cigarette butts, used Trojans... will still be standing in 200 years. They require no special upkeep and would be far too costly to demolish. They lack the charm of the castles of the Loire valley, but so be it.

There is, or was at the time, a very tiny museum in Arromanches or Colleville (I can' t quite remember which) that IIRC was run by a local family and which housed a ragtag bunch of memorabilia dredged up from the tidal muck and fields: one of those diversionary miniature exploding paratrooper dolls that you might remember from The Longest Day, some neutralized weapons and ordnance, salvaged landing craft, vehicles, amphibious tanks, uniforms and patches of the different companies, etc. Also, a scale model, most likely made by a local retiree in his garage, of the floating port that the Allies constructed in the days following the landing, and parts of which were still visible on the horizon. All a little dusty, low budget, low key, low tech and authentic. It was one of my favorite museums.

In contrast, the American cemetery was meticulously kept and splendid. Walking the grounds, the calm and beauty of the place belied the absolute hell that those there residing had experienced. While I wandered among the white crosses with respect but a certain inevitable detachment, my parents had peeled off by themselves. I found my father an hour later back at the entrance, weeping uncontrollably, which was extremely awkward for me since my father was not the type to cry in public. They had searched for, and found the graves of several of their childhood friends who had died on that day.

I only bring this up because that same daughter, now a grown woman, insisted last night that we watch the news over dinner and we were treated to the sight of that crass, Nicorette smacking, facile creep and his half-wit, garden gnome Socialist host, beeming like it was his birthday. Followed by some very important reporting about the lavish, star-studded pos-commemorative dinner at the Elysee.

The few remaining D-Day survivors were there in wheelchairs or tottering along uncertainly and it was clear to me that soon, very soon, this all will be as far removed from the common consciousness as WWI was for me as a kid growing up. A handful of old, old men marched through the streets of our modest suburban town on Memorial Day to the monument where they laid their wreaths and we would all get crepe paper poppies to pin on our shirts, and they spoke of Flanders Field.

This was strange to me. The Flanders was a hotel in Cape May where we stayed one summer when I was 5. It was swank; you had to wear a jacket for dinner. On my birthday, the waiters brought out a cake and everyone in the restaurant sang and clapped and I got my first baseball glove. They had a saltwater pool that was replenished by the tides each day and my sister was afraid to swim in it because she was sure there were sharks. But there was no field. Unless it was out back.