Never Forget!

Guest Post by Joe Cantafio

When I was a young boy I remember two very important, and two very different parades in Oak Park, Illinois; the quaint little western-Chicago suburb where I grew up.

I can remember at about the age of four, walking with my Dad to the parade that marched down Ridgeland Avenue, only three-blocks from our home on South Taylor Avenue. The date was May 30th. It is still a very sweet and vivid memory of my Dad, Color Guards, Boy Scouts, Girls Scouts, politicians, little league baseball teams, marching bands, fire trucks and engines, police cars, war Veterans and uniformed Troops. I remember this particular parade because it wasn’t the wild celebration that our 4th of July parade always was.

As a youngster I didn’t understand the difference between the two parades, but I did notice that The Memorial Day Parade, was holier; quieter compared to the other. There were no clowns, or marchers throwing candy to the crowd, in fact, there was a certain reverence at this particular parade especially when the Troops marched by. As I sat at the privileged seat my father cleared for me on the curb, I watched the people in the crowds’ eyes tear up when the WWII Veterans marched by, not realizing that their tears and respectful applause were for those men and women who saved the world about 14-years earlier.

I stopped going to parades when I thought I became too "cool" at the age of 11 or 12. I would use those American Holidays to sleep in. I was all about "me" in those days. It wasn’t until the end of my freshman year in high school that it all sunk in. It was then that the meaning of Memorial Day, a day originally set aside to honor Civil War Veterans, began to sink in. That was the year my cousin Charles Genitti, USMC was killed in Vietnam.

I can remember thinking I was going to sleep-in on Memorial Day 1970, but for some reason I got up earlier than expected, showered, and walked out of the house by myself at about 9:30 AM as if I was pulled by a magnet to the parade on Ridgeland Ave. It was as if time stood still, waiting for me to return. The same patriots lined the street dress in their American colors, a bit older now, but still there, supporting their country. I stood back, behind the crowd as more of an observer this time and watched the children as their parents now let them up-front to the curb. That made me smile.

I watched the fire trucks and engines come down the street first, as the children’s faces all lit up with excitement; putting their hands over their ears as the firefighters and police officers sounded their sirens as they came screaming up the street. The marching bands seemed a bit out of tune, probably like they always were, I just never noticed it when I was a kid.

Read more