The morning was cool and crisp. There had been a storm the night before, and clouds still hung low along the slopes east of town. Wet red clay earth slopped under my tires as I maneuvered up the driveway and on to the road. It was the Friday before Memorial Day.
You have probably seen a photo, most likely taken in our nation’s capitol, a field filled with hundreds (or thousands) of white marble stones, an American flag fluttering before each one. These photos always bring a tear to my eye, with the two times I have been there in person were almost overwhelming. Back in March, while warming up in Arlington’s museum after my tour, I read that the flags are placed by volunteers. I remembered from a flash of green grass, white stones and flowering trees as I drove through years ago that Santa Fe was home to a national cemetery. Aware I would be in the area over Memorial Day weekend, I had added ‘Flags Out’ to my dharma schedule.
Mine was the fifth car to arrive. We huddled in our vehicles, three trucks, a rental sedan, and me in my SUV, clutching warm coffee, our breath misting in the thin mountain air. Slowly the lot filled, until new arrivals had to park along the cemetery lanes. As the sun emerged above the cloud layer we did too, and drifted to the parade grounds, towards the rangers and their flatbed ATVs filled with bundled flags. Folks formed natural clusters: vets in their leathers, each jacket telling a story; a local women’s group in cheerful colors, their male counterparts in white polos; a cluster of tan and blue cub scouts; local ranchers in dress plaid and jeans. There was even a group of local teens sporting inventive hair, make-up and piercings. Most of the faces belied Conquistador or First Nations heritage, and the voices lilted with Spanish, Pueblo and Navajo influence. I was quickly welcomed in, the camaraderie of shared sacrifice, instantly part of the tender club of veterans and those who honor them.
There were close to a hundred of us by the time we got started. After a few opening words, a reminder we were on hallowed ground, and instructions for placement (front, center, one foot forward) we were off. We fanned out from our starting point, self organizing amongst the rows. Flags in arm (four batches, twenty-five each, much heavier than you would think) I began on the nearest unoccupied row. The soil was wet from the night before and the flags were easy to plant. I would read the name on the marker, say a blessing, plant the flag, step to the next… name, blessing, flag… over and over… one row complete, the another… It was surprisingly quiet work given our number: taps of wood flag stems, fluttering cloth as the wind picked up, chattering birds in the nearby trees. Equally quiet were the Park Rangers and Marines who appeared alongside with more flags whenever my stash ran low.
The sun rose above the clouds shortly after we began, and soon it was bright and blazing. As I work I am approached by a white-haired woman looking for her brother’s grave. By chance I see it one row over (and the date, Korean era), and hand her a flag. Her breath catches as she turns away. Soon after I engulfed by a group of children, chattering gleefully as they leapfrog from grave to grave. They are not yet school-age; some graves get two flags (front and back) and some graves none. Their mom and I follow behind quietly making necessary adjustments, as their grandpa, his cap proudly attesting his Vietnam service, smiles at them through misty eyes. The cemetery is filling out now, not just us with the flags but also families placing bouquets at loved-ones graves. I am towards the top of the main hill when an brown SUV passes then stops ahead of me. Two women, Latinas in their mid 20’s, emerge with an arrangement of flowers, balloons, and a bow-adorned cross. It is a Marine’s widow and her sister, the home-made cross carrying messages to daddy from his two young sons. Back at the Zendo they will tell me, in a self righteous tone, that the plots are the true cost of war. I know better. For me, the true cost is not borne by those in the ground. Rather, the true cost is borne by those left behind, men and women physically or psychologically damaged by their service, grieving platoon mates, children growing up without mommies and daddies, parents growing old without their children, society who will never know the gifts these men and women might have shared. It is my eyes that are now misty as I continue on.
As I crest the hill, the solemn mood is broken by a pair of jolly men in a pick-up bearing much-needed water and (less needed) donuts, children streaming behind them between stops like a comet’s tail. Refreshed, I continue on to the back sections of the property. This section has markers instead of stones, so the flags appear a forest in the fresh spring grass. Here I help with a columbarium, the flags more challenging to plant with its gravel border instead of grass. Half way down we run out of flags, and my buddy heads out on a quest for more. I stop and look around, and find myself in a sea of red, white and blue. By the time we finish our row, we are the last ones on the hill. Together we placed 46,000 flags in ninety minutes.
If you ever have the opportunity to participate, I encourage you to do it. Not only is it a great experience, but it means a lot to the families and friends of the fallen. Flags Out is normally the Friday before, and Flags In (much more sparsely attended, but the gave us popsicles) the Tuesday after. You can locate the National Cemetery closest to you here: http://www.va.gov/directory/guide/division.asp?dnum=4&isflsh=0 and they can provide info on how to volunteer. Some also have a Bows Out/Bows In over the winter holidays.