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The Memorial Day parade during and after the war was a memorable experience  for me.   As one of the boy scouts, I along with the rest of the town marched to the now  Bill   Morrow  Beach  to  listen to a short program,  usually conducted  by   the town  leaders. There was always  a  prayer to remember those who died in all wars.  But during the war there was special meaning. How cruel, I remember thinking, trying to figure the logic   of   war.     Why  do  we  have  to  loose  our   hometown  men  in  a  war  on the other side of the world?    We lost many from our town. The armed service flags  placed  in  the windows of almost every home were a constant reminder that we were living  in a  special  time.     Families who lost their children in the war placed gold stars in their windows. I was too young to understand the real terror that life could have become, had things take a slightly different course. The tar that washed up on the beach was a nuisance when we would get it on our feet.    I was told it had washed in  from battles at sea on the Atlantic Ocean.     I pictured, in my child's mind, a far away ocean. Little did I know it was less than five miles from my home. Something  deep  inside  of  me   would  cry when we would launch the small, crudely made, three foot by four foot boat, draped with flowers on Memorial Day.  The bricks to add weight  and  small   holes  in  the  bottom   would allow the tiny boat slowly to sink while a bugler played Taps.  This is my memory of  Memorial Day. I still think of it every year. It  is  a    bittersweet    memory--happy   hometown memories and sadness for those  sacrificing their lives to insure that I could have this memory.                                       ----Bill Winslow 1999---- Back