Flowers?  What flowers?  How did flowers get into this dream?   Oh no . . . flowers!   This is it . . . it's Decoration Day.  I've been dreading this day for weeks!  ”Four-score and seven years ago, our fathers brought forth upon this continent” . . . forget it, I can't do it, I’ll never be able to remember it all, it’s too long.  I’ll blank out . . . and then I’ll die of embarrassment!  I want to go back to sleep, but I’ll never be able to escape.  Mom won't let me slip back into my dream and besides if I can make it through today somehow, summer vacation is dead ahead.
 

       Pulling off his covers and stealing his pillow I yell down, "HE IS NOW MOM".

       Ernie can really sleep, he must get it from Dad, who's a world champion sleeper.  Even sitting on the edge of the bed, he's really still asleep.  But the lucky bum, he doesn't have anything to worry about.  All he has to do is sing some patriotic song with a great big class, while my little class has to recite the whole Gettysburg Address . . . from memory!  Classes get smaller the higher you go at Beeman Academy, because kids drop out to work with their folks on the farm.  It’s a lot harder to fake it, if you forget your lines in a small class.

        " . . . a new nation, conceived in liberty and dedicated to the principle that” . . . with a lot of luck I might just be able to do it.   After all, I've been working on it over and over for weeks now.

         "GENE? ERNEST?"

         "COMING MOM . . . WE'RE ALMOST READY MOM". 

       I hurry into the fancier than usual clothes that Mother has laid out.  Ernie is moving too now and breakfast and wood smoke smells are rising up the stairs. It’s time to get rolling!  The sooner I get started, the sooner it will be over with.

       I hit every third stair step on the way down, and flying low do my best to set a record, through Dad's den, out the doors and down the hill path to the outhouse.  Sitting on the old board seat, I keep one eye out for the ever-present outhouse hornet, while the other roams over the south meadow and the familiar near woods.  Crows calling from near and far dominate the softer morning sounds, and give me an audio perspective of the huge size of my wild playground.  I always leave the door open when the weather permits.  There's no real privacy problem and I much prefer the view outside, to the old weathered magazines inside.  I love reading and I have great reading material, but I don't want to trust my good stuff to the toilet's climate.  Dad has stressed taking special care of books, and my brother and I even have our own library.  The conductor on the afternoon train to Middlebury, often throws out bundles of comics, newspapers and magazines, into a big field by the house.  There is always a race and an argument over who will get what and the portion that I'm able to claim is added to my personal collection.

       It’s going to be a beautiful day; the kind of a day our “Merrymen” could really revel in.   It sure would be great if we could get a few more members for our little archery club; right now it’s just Paul, Ernie and me. As I double-time it back towards the big old sixteen-room house, I pass Ernie stumbling down the path.
 

       I get that great Ernie chuckle and a big grin, so I guess he really is waking up.

       Back in the kitchen my nose tells me it’s time to eat.
 

       She goes out through the den and the entry shed and from the front door I hear her familiar long distance call.  “EERNNEEEESST!”  It always amazes me how deep in the woods we can be and still hear her when she does that! 

       By the time Ernie appears and cleans up, his pancakes and bacon are on the table waiting and Mom is cleaning off the griddle tops of the old wood stove.  She saves the waxed paper bread wrappers just for this purpose, and the waxy smoke rising off the hot stovetop, mixes harshly with the breakfast odors.  She scrubs until the whole top is shiny black and clean enough to cook what Dad calls his “Vermont stovetop thick fries” on.  She presses the end of a bread wrapper to the stovetop, just long enough to soften the wax on the patch-like seal that holds the ends of the wrapper together.  Peeling off the seal she walks to the table and quickly sticks it on Ernie's shirtfront like a badge, where the hot wax cools and adheres.  Even though it’s just a silly bread wrapper sticker, he beams as proudly as if he had just received the Medal of Honor from the president himself. 
 

       Dad has her trained well.   He thinks we should always look like those kids in the Sears catalog.

       Mom has finally pushed us out the door pulling the bread sticker off Ernie and we're on our way for the last day of school and the big Decoration Day celebration.  There are no books to carry today, and if it weren't for my lunchbox, I might think it was already the first day of summer vacation.  We pass overgrown foundations on the “flat”, the last evidence that this was once the town of Beldens.   I bet I could find a neat snake in there pretty quick.  The shiny clean morning challenges me to participate in endless adventures offered by the woods and fields and I could easily talk my brother into playing any role, but that old Gettysburg address won't even let me dwell on the possibilities.

       Ernie is kicking stones as we go down the dirt road past the pump.  This afternoon when it’s all over, we'll be carrying two heavy buckets of very cold water back up this hill from that pump.  It’s hard metallic tasting water, with tiny particles that flash in the sunlight as they swirl.  We have to get water every day summer and winter, because there is no running water in Beldens.  As we pass the road down to the power plant where Dad works, I realize that it shouldn't be long before Little Beaver and the “bug-pickers” come to camp for a few days, at the old gypsy site. Visitors are rare in Beldens, especially children our own age.   He won't have a lot of time to play with us, because he'll be working with his family collecting hellgrammites from the Otter to sell to fisherman, but I bet he'll join the “Merrymen”.
 

       Ernie kicks the obligatory stone off the underpass bridge into the brook.  “Stuff like Verna Wilder?” 

       That little creep can really run when he knows he's in danger, but I only chase him for a little way before settling back into my meditative stride.  I hadn't thought about it but he's right, she'll be there too, just one more reason why I can't mess up.

         “We have come to dedicate a portion of that field . . . ” 

       Topping the rise in the road we can finally see Gramps house.  It still seems strange knowing that Aunt Margie is dead.  She understood about so many things.  Grandpa Warner has been watching for us, and he comes out the door with coffee mug in hand, waving.  As we reach his drive with the shiny Studebaker in it, he's heading for the garage. 
 

        Every kid is supposed to bring flowers on this day and extra ones if possible, so we cut enough lilacs from the big bushes near the road, to make two huge fragrant bundles.
 

       Doughnuts in one hand, flowers and lunch boxes in the other, we're back out on the road headed for the corner, when the bus tops the hill.  We take off at full speed trailing showers of blossoms, while the bus pulls up by the mailboxes and waits for us. 

       Out of breath we climb up into the yellow school bus, and instead of good clean air my panting lungs are suddenly filled with the heavy perfume of a busload of flowers.  I work my way through the jungle of blooms finding a seat with friends and the old bus lurches off on the long ride to New Haven.  There are so many flowers that I can't even see Ernie anymore.  The floor of the bus is strewn with a rainbow of petals and leaves, as kids torment each other with the bouquets.  Boys wave them under the noses of rosy cheeked country girls, who giggle and scream in mock alarm. It will be a wonder if there are any blossoms left on the stems by the time we get there. From time to time the bus stops with protesting brakes and even more blooms force their way aboard, with other children attached.  Normally I love the smell of lilacs, but the sickly sweet air in the bus is so concentrated that it’s making me drunk and I feel like I must get out soon or become sick.  Just in time we arrive and when I'm able to work my way off the bus, I gulp fresh air like a drowning man.  Ernie stumbles out behind me and he looks kind of green too.  Vermont air is a masterful blend of clover, ripening hay, miscellaneous wild flowers, mystery ingredients, very rich oxygen and varying amounts of cow manure.  It has no equal that I know of and it’s never tasted better to me than it does right now. 

       We join the students bringing flowers and file through the basement where the shop classes are held.  This is the very same place where Mr. Norton took me to be paddled once.  The flower bundles are piled on long tables, where teachers and volunteer mothers are already busy reassembling them into balanced bouquets, one for every student. I'm really glad to be rid of the darn things. 

       The next to the last bell of the year rings and a bunch of happy kids pour out the doors and across to the lunchroom.  A lot of kids take the hot lunches, but Ernie and I aren't too adventurous when it comes to food and ever since the famous “Cheese Fondue” incident, we take no chances.  Often we are able to make great trades with Moms homemade cookies and other goodies, for choice items from the lunch menu.  I have actually sold Moms treats and used the money to shop the big penny candy counter at the New Haven general store, during noon hour.  I see Ernie making some great deals, but I'm not in top form and it’s all Abraham Lincoln's fault. 

        “We cannot dedicate, we cannot consecrate . . . ”

       I finish my peanut butter & jelly sandwich and two oatmeal cookies, then putting my lunch box on the shelf I head for the bathroom just before the bell rings.  By being early in line to pick up my flowers, I don't have to stay in the basement as long and that suits me just fine, because it now smells just as potent as the bus did.  Mr. Sherman the janitor is there, smiling at everyone as he cleans up the mess in the shop.  Back outside I take my time getting up to the front of the school, because I'm early anyhow.  I'm hoping to see Verna so I can give her my note.  When I finally spot her she's just entering the shop area, so I don't even make eye contact with her, but I do take notice of the bright red ribbons in her blue-black hair.  This may help me locate her later on. I see Ernie in line and it’s moving slowly now.  He's gonna get another big snoot full of lilacs! 

       When I reach the front of the school things are really beginning to take shape.  A band from a larger school nearby is already there and teachers are trying to hurry their classes into the proper spot.  Soon some two hundred students with their teachers, representing first grade through the last year of high school, are in place by class behind a small marching band.  People from the few homes around the school have come out to see their New Haven Decoration Day parade.  It hasn't been that long since the end of the war and patriotism is still running high.  I imagine that even in a town as small as New Haven some of these families lost loved ones in the fighting.  The kids are restless and it seems to take forever before the bandleaders whistle blows.  The band steps out with drums rattling and like a falling row of dominoes, it takes a second for the movement to reach our place in line. 

       Walking at a pleasant pace . . . flowers in hand, with flags flying at the front, we move along the street under the big elms.  At the first right hand corner the whistle blows twice and on the second blast the little band bursts to life with an appropriately patriotic tune.  Another turn to the left and we are on the road to the cemetery, passing a small park with an old bandstand.  I don't think I've ever seen anyone in that park and it always seems wild and just slightly overgrown.  Across the street at the General Store, a handful of people are standing out on the wide board porch, in front of the tin signs.  They wave to us as we march out of the small hamlet of New Haven, heading into the bright Vermont countryside for the mile march to the old graveyard.  There is no traffic on the narrow paved road and classic Vermont farm country stretches away on the right, with distant silos and barns dotting the hazy landscape. The light breeze, warm sun and puffy clouds soon transport me to some lazy place half in and half out of reality.  My mind plays along the distant horizon and the sounds of the band seem somehow filtered and far away.  Startled dairy cows run away, some with bells ringing, as our noisy passing disturbs the quiet afternoon.

       I drift in and out of my reverie and we make steady progress down the grade, until suddenly the whistle blows and the band stops playing.  The whistle blast brings me back and I see that we are still a little way from the entrance, but getting close. The bass drum counts solo cadence as we near the big arched iron gate, leading into the trees of old Evergreen cemetery.  When we make the left turn to enter even the bass drum is stilled and the silence of eternal rest rushes in.   Some sort of magic in the moment, causes the group of children to indeed remain hushed except for their footsteps, and they move deeper into the center of the heavily shaded graveyard.

       A hand signal halts our quiet group and another disperses the formation.   Responding to the silent signal, children start moving through the deep green shadows, over and around the resting-places of their ancestors. Many of the stones here date from the 1700’s, people who lived when Ethan Allen, Seth Warner and Widow Story were making history.   We have never been told who places the little American flags on the graves of the veterans, but they glow like beacons among the weathered stones.  There is frantic competition among the more timid students, to find a flagged grave close to the road and quickly claim it with a bouquet.  This is probably a frightening experience for some of the younger children and I see some markers with more than one bundle of flowers.  Someone either gave up on finding an undecorated stone, or decided against venturing further and just doubled a previous tribute. 

       Those of us more adventurous move farther from the road and bending low begin to run like Indians despite the warnings.  It takes the flexible body of a fit youngster, to navigate safely through sometimes nearly hidden headstones and markers while on the run.  An occasional thud and grunt, means that someone near you has seriously overestimated his skill.  One of the reasons for hurrying, is that all of the boys who are brave enough are planning a second, secret pilgrimage, before rejoining the formation 

       After a search that takes longer than I had hoped, I find a grave to honor in a far corner.  Moving as quickly and quietly as I can safely manage, I try to remain invisible to any searching teacher and head for the famous window tomb.  Everybody knows about the window tomb!  It is the subject of many school yard debates, with boys talking about what you are supposed to be able to see, what they have actually seen and a lot about what they think they've seen.  As I approach I can see kids arriving and leaving and a whispering knot gathered around the famous shrine.  Boys are taking turns climbing up and kneeling on hands and knees, while peering intently into the small crystal window embedded in the thick ornate slab.  Ernie is already there and I move up beside him.

          “See anything” I whisper? 

          “Naw . . . suns not in the right place” he whispers back.  “You gonna look”? 

       I nod and move into place in line.  I have to look, it’s a Decoration Day tradition. The group is thinning out fast, as everybody is heading back to the road.  When my turn comes, with head held close, I try to see into the thick glass rectangle.  It appears as if someone has tried to clean it, maybe with a bit of spit and a handkerchief, but as always there's really nothing to see.  It is sort of like trying to see through a scarred and cloudy marble into a dark closet.  After having made several visits to this strange place, I am beginning to wonder if the stories are true at all. But why else would the little window be there?  Next year I might bring a mirror and see if I can direct a shaft of sunlight down inside.  I'm afraid of being really late if I linger any longer, so I use top speed for as long as I dare getting back to the group. 

       I slip into place hoping I don't appear too winded, just as a solo trumpeter steps out to take his place facing the monuments.  As the flag is displayed, he raises his horn and plays taps for the silent rows.  This is pretty stirring stuff, for a young boy who has spent as much time learning about history as I have.  My mind is still filled with images of fighter pilots, Green Mountain Boys and civil war heroes, long after we move quietly back out of the old graveyard.

       Kids restrained too long, explode in the familiar surroundings of the Town Hall basement!  The excitement of the march coupled with the fact that there is only about one more hour of school, makes us all loud and animated.  Teachers try frantically to gain control and hurry us to our seats.

       For a small Vermont town, there is a sizable crowd packed into the old Town Meeting Hall and I'm not able to find Verna before reaching my seat.  The program is introduced and proceeds quickly to the point where my class is to take the stage.  I realize for the first time, that the Gettysburg Address hasn't even crossed my mind since lunch.  Feeling a bit uneasy, I find myself on stage facing the big audience. 

       More or less all together we begin.  “Fourscore and seven years ago . . . ”

       My eyes sweep over the rows of seated people.  Let's see, there's Mom . . . and Ernie's group . . . where's Verna’s class . . . there she is.  She looks right at me, but when our eyes meet she covers her mouth with her hand and blushing turns toward a giggling girl friend.  I guess she's told her friend about me.  She is beautiful, such a big girl to be a year younger than me.  She would be perfect to play Maid Marion and present our archery tournament award!  Why do we have to live so far from everybody?  It will never be possible to play with her.
 

       That was it!  It’s over!  I don't even remember doing it!  I daydreamed through the whole thing!  Did I do ok?  It doesn't matter . . . Mom was right, I have survived it and I don't care how I did.