There are certain days of the year I almost always remember. Not celebrate or commiserate, just remember.
But I recall one of those days many years ago, when I forgot about those special times.
The extended Boggan family had been on a great vacation, down on Perdido Key. After four days of togetherness, all 13 people staying in our two-bedroom, two-bath Florida condo were still speaking to one another. We had an overflow crowd, though. Some were on brother Alvin’s boat and others at an on-loan-from-a-friend of-ours vacation home. We were all mostly getting along.
We did have our usual unsophisticated Boggan family days, though. With several grandsons in residence, there was an outbreak of scabies in a diaper-clad 18-month old; one of the three year old grands got lost in the Point Restaurant, and was found singing with the band, 'Bubbette and her Bubbas'; another of the two-year old boys caught his head in our condo balcony railing; a toddler had a major throw-up in the swimming pool—which had to be closed down and cleaned. There were three jellyfish stings and one crab bite.
Ahh, but we were on holiday. We sunbathed, boated, fished.
Too soon, time had run out. Packed up and ready to go, we ended our vacation with a lunchtime hamburger cookout for 30 people. I'm ashamed to say though, that busy, packing and cooking, we didn't remember the special meaning of that last Monday in May, Memorial Day.
Husband Willard was the exception.
As we finished cleaning up from our family and hamburger fry and loading suitcases in the car, he reminded me, "My brother Bob, was shot down over Yokohama Harbor on May 24, 1945. The end of the war is celebrated on the last Monday in May. This is Memorial Day."
Somehow or the other, in the fun and confusion, we had neglected to pay homage to our wounded and fallen heroes. Before Willard and I left for home, he and I had our special remembrance on the condo balcony.
I felt bad and since then have tried to do better.
I think that sometimes we forget that the freedoms that we now enjoy were purchased with the blood of our fallen patriots, "Who more than self, their country loved."
There have been other conflicts but World War II was the worst in human history.
On Memorial Day we should always remember the thousands who have died for honor and freedom and that what we have today has come at the price of shed blood. We owe them our lasting gratitude.
Those of us who were children during those years were not of the greatest generation, but because of the world situation and because of being raised by them, discipline and honesty were a way of life at home and at school.
I'm sure that this is an age thing, and I'll probably have wet noodles thrown at me for bringing this up, but in the past few years I have believed that sometimes too many Americans may pay homage to the wrong persons. I'm thinking about athletes, actors and musicians.
Somewhere along the way, I read or heard a version of these words, "It's the soldier, not the reporter, who has given us Freedom of the Press."
***
Today, May 22, 2024, I spent time going through some of my newspaper writings from the past, beginning back in l984.
Through the years, The Northside Sun some several times has very graciously printed my articles about World War II for me, and in my heart, for Bobby Boggan.
The below are a few reprints.
May 24, 1945
The pilots who flew the B-29s to Japan and back had as rigorous--if not the most dangerous--duty of any combat crew in World War II.
For the 11 men in each super-fortress, the 15-hour flights were an eternity of tension, broken by moments of mortal danger.
Willard's younger brother Bobby had already written home, "I don't think I'll make it back."
On the night of May 24 he was on his seventh mission, a low-level bombing of Kamikaze factories.
The weather was poor, the target area almost entirely obscured by low clouds, probing searchlights, blinding smoke and heavy flak.
Night fighters dove in from every quarter, frequently hidden from the B-29 gunners by the glare of searchlights. The raiders lost 17 planes.
The Bombadier, Navigator Pilot, and his Co-Pilot, Robert Thomas Boggan from Jackson went down with one of the planes.
The rest of the crew bailed out and were taken prisoners of war.
Bobby Boggan was 22 years old. Six months later his daughter, Bobbie Ann was born. He never saw her.
Must I be carried to the skies, on flow’ry beds of ease, while others sought to win the prize?
May 2024
We appreciate our heroes. There always have been, and there always will be, those who should earn our gratitude and heartfelt thanks for their bravery, self-sacrifice, and their lives. As I have done for many years, on either May 24, the date Second Lieutenant Robert Thomas Boggan's B-29 bomber was shot down, or the last Monday in May, which is Memorial Day, I will go to Lakewood Cemetery to honor the brother-in-law I never met.
An expression I've often heard comes to mind, "As long as there's someone alive to tell their story, a person does not die."
Let us not forget.
