LEAVING HOME

Home is the nicest word there is. LAURA INGALLS WILDER

The day had been full. Relatives descended upon the home place situated on the plains of northwest Kansas, five and a half miles from the nearest town. The home place had been built by my great-grandfather Carl Luhman, and it was where one of his sons, Hugo, now lived in retirement along with my grandma Irene. Every Memorial Day weekend, Grandma and Grandpa hosted a family reunion at the home place. Relatives gathered while the kids eagerly engaged in water-gun fights of epic proportions. Only darkness could halt the activity.

At nine years old, I lay in one of the guest rooms upstairs waiting for sleep to come. I glanced at a portrait of Grandpa on the dresser, which was partially illuminated by a night-light sitting next to the frame. He was a handsome twenty-year-old with wavy black hair. He offered neither smile nor frown while wearing his army dress uniform, khaki tie neatly tucked into his khaki shirt. The picture itself was printed in a dreamy sepia hue, and it was as if a silver-screen war hero had descended from the altar of victory and become my grandpa. He was once Corporal Luhman, a gunner on a 155 Howitzer cannon, and he served on the Italian front in World War II for a full year and a half. He returned from the war and spent his life as a farmer, raising wheat and cattle. He was now my grandpa, the closest I would come to a father, and a man of endless vibrancy and joy whose wartime service provided no hint of burden that I could see.

I could hear frogs croaking through the open window. It began to rain gently as I fell asleep.

Memorial Day 1990 dawned fair and clear. Grandpa exchanged his farmer's overalls for black slacks, a black tie, a white short-sleeved button-down shirt, and an American Legion cap emblazoned with the organization's gold emblem. His service in World War II was both normal and extraordinary — normal in that he never embellished or avoided conversations about the war, which I as his grandson was endlessly curious about; extraordinary, because he was a living, breathing member of the Greatest Generation that had sailed to Europe and helped defeat the Axis powers. The more humbly he acknowledged his service, the more brightly his heroic halo seemed to shine.

Grandma had dutifully and joyfully fulfilled her role as part of the American Legion Auxiliary, women whose husbands had served and who themselves served the community. Today their service would come in the form of song and food.

The men of the local American Legion, Grandpa included, were part of a color guard that would visit each surrounding cemetery and provide a twenty-one-gun salute, firing blank rounds from bolt-action rifles. The ladies of the Auxiliary would accompany the color guard to these grave sites and sing patriotic hymns a cappella. Then, having sufficiently honored the dead, all would descend on the American Legion building in nearby Natoma for a hearty meal of beef and noodles, graciously and tirelessly served by the ladies.

We made our way to the Immanuel Lutheran Cemetery just a mile away. A steady wind stirred the smattering of weathered cedar trees. I stood quietly among the crowd of nearly fifty, glancing at the graves of my ancestors. Morning dew provided a bluish gray tint to the green carpet upon which we stood. The air was still cool but the sun signaled the heat that was to come as the hours wore on.

As we waited with quiet reverence, one of the Auxiliary women, nearly seventy and wearing blue slacks, a white blouse, and a red, white, and blue vest, spoke into a microphone connected to a portable speaker.

My grandma stood behind her with ten of her compatriots, all similarly adorned in patriotic business casual attire. They looked like a living American flag.

I strained to hear over the wind as the woman in front solemnly read off names from a list of twenty veterans buried at the Immanuel Lutheran Cemetery, veterans of every war our country had fought since the Civil War. After each name, a young girl pulled a red paper poppy out of a basket and dropped it onto the ground. Each time, the persistent Kansas breeze pushed the poppy a few inches off target and ultimately to a stopping place in the thick, damp buffalo grass.

When all the names had been read, the Auxiliary ladies sang two verses of "God Bless America." A two-man color guard presented the American flag. Then seven men, Grandpa Luhman among them, marched into view. They were all dressed as Grandpa was. Each carried a bolt-action rifle. Most were World War II veterans, but one had served in Korea and one in Vietnam. The commander of this detail was dressed the same as the others save for the addition of a holstered .45- caliber pistol. He soon broke the silence.

"Detail, attention! Present arms!"

The rifles were now held forward.

"Ready, aim, fire!"

The seven rifles erupted as I flinched, shocked at how loud even blanks could be. Seven empty brass casings were flung to the ground as the bolts were pulled back and a new round was placed in the chamber of each rifle.

"Ready, aim, fire!"

I covered my ears this time. The report from the rifles was still deafening.

"Ready, aim, fire!"

The final volley echoed and rolled across the plains into ultimate silence.

The silence was broken by a lone trumpeter, standing behind us at the far edge of the cemetery. The somber tones of taps bathed the audience in a wave of emotion.

Once taps had concluded, the color guard marched away, and the kids, myself included, ran to the place they had just stood to gather the spent shell casings from the blank rounds.

I admired the cylinders of brass, proof of Grandpa's service, symbols of a glorious past and a bright and shining future.

The ceremony was part of a national celebration, but it had personal significance. My great-grandpa Carl Luhman, who had served in World War I, was buried there. His name had just been read, and one of the poppies resting on the grass was dropped in his honor. My great-uncle Vic Luhman, Grandpa's only brother and a Korean War vet, would be buried here as would Grandpa himself.

That night, as Grandpa unwound from a day of honoring the war dead at the local cemeteries, I peppered him with questions.

"Why did you join, Grandpa?"

He considered the question before responding. "Well, I suppose I would have been drafted, but I just didn't want to wait for that. I knew that I needed to serve. Hitler was taking over Europe, the Japanese had attacked us, you know? It was just something we had to do, fight them people, so I volunteered. I had flat feet, though, so...