Holidays, any kind of holidays, arouse memories of days long gone, when we celebrated the event. Memorial Day is one of those days that prompt recollections of years gone by. This holiday had some very good memories and a few not so good. I had to survive a nightmare each Memorial Day before I could get to the good part.

My great grandfather was a Civil War veteran. During my school years only six or eight veterans of that war were still alive and living in Danbury. Each Memorial Day they were expected to ride in open cars, in the annual parade. My grandfather was very hard of hearing and it was necessary for someone whose voice he could hear to ride with him. I tried each year to come up with an excuse to march instead with the Campfire Girls. It made no impression at all on adult plans. When the veterans arrived to call for “gramp,” I had no choice – I had to sit next to him so I could answer his questions and keep him supplied with Lifesavers candy because he wasn’t allowed to have his favorite cigar.

This hardy old vet, in his 90s, had been a blacksmith and was a big, powerful man, even in old age.

And he had a powerful voice. I knew for certain that I would pay a price for this two-hour ride, when my schoolmates would meet me in the hall the next day.

One year the agony was prolonged when, after the parade, all of the veterans and a companion were herded onto the stage of the Palace Theatre for a special ceremony. I lived through it all, of course, but it was a long time before this once-a-year duty was forgotten.

Another Memorial Day after-parade event was a huge family picnic at my aunt and uncle’s house on Golden Hill Street. Their back yard dropped off sharply and we children played on the slope and were “Kings of the Hill.” Today, I-84 runs close to the property, below the cliff.

I am not certain which organization went around early Memorial Day morning to collect last minute branches of flowering shrubs and flowers to decorate a float. One year in my eagerness to help pick branches off our big syringa bush, I managed to get my “Sunday best” dress covered with marks where the stems of the branches left a trail of dirt. This did not eliminate my eligibility to accompany “gramp” in the parade later on, and after a hasty change of clothes, that’s where I soon found myself.

Several times our relatives who lived in New York City came by train to spend the holiday weekend. Usually it was the first visit since the previous year at Thanksgiving, and there were many greetings of surprise at “how the children have grown,” and the preparation of special foods which had been going on for several days resulted in a feast that included many favorite things. One uncle, who never cooked anything else in his life, came with a big basket containing two pecan pies which he had made himself. To this day I don’t know how Uncle George took it upon himself to make this culinary treat.

In more recent years, we usually just stayed at home, either in Connecticut or Vermont, and picnicked all day. With quite a few people on hand there was always a big meal after the Memorial Day parade, and enough players for pinochle, horseshoes, badminton, and other games. These gatherings produced lots of good memories, and we miss them.

The quote on Americanism at the end of last week’s column was by Robert Frost.

Most everyone will remember this quote: “Breathes there the man so dead, who never to himself has said, this is my own, my nature land.”