Blue Star redux
Route 3 in Maine is designated a “Blue Star Memorial Highway.” The designation comes from a national movement, post-WWII, to honor America’s armed forces by placing this name on certain state and national roads. In 1945, the National Council of State Garden Clubs approved the Blue Star Memorial Highway Marker program, formalizing the program. During the war, family members of many soldiers put a small service flag on display in a window of the family home; a blue star on the flag indicated that a family member was serving overseas.
The plaques that alert motorists to those routes’ special significance also bear a blue star and read like this:
BLUE STAR
MEMORIAL HIGHWAY
A TRIBUTE TO THE ARMED FORCES
THAT HAVE DEFENDED THE
UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
The first time I drove Rt. 3, heading out of Bar Harbor back toward Boston, I happened to notice such a plaque, and I was puzzled. What did it mean? What was the background of this memorial? When I got back home I looked into the program’s history and understood.
But something else was bothering me. For a year I wondered why this sign caught my eye, why the phrase stuck with me.
It took another drive down Route 3 to unveil my eyes and show me the reason. Understand the physical layout of the road; as you approach the town of Bar Harbor, you’re aware that open water is on your left, but the view is largely screened by trees—that is, until you come around a bend and the trees taper off, and you’re greeted by a sight that takes away your breath. As my wife and I drove the road, this time heading towards town, I looked left when I knew the sign was coming up and saw something completely different. I glanced at the sign, but only fleetingly; my eyes were drawn towards the expanse of water known as Frenchman Bay. Spreading out before us were the waters of the Atlantic Ocean, dotted with green islands and wreathed, early on this summer morning, with mist.
The revelation hit hard; the first time by, I had been so wrapped up in the details of the sign that I had completely missed the majesty behind it. It reminded me of a story my mother had told me some years earlier. She had been driving with her mother, by that time in her mid-eighties and growing more fragile by the day. My grandmother had pointed enthusiastically to something by the roadside and fairly shouted “isn’t that beautiful!” My mother, following the crook of her finger, saw only a ramshackle barn falling to pieces, and replied, “what, that piece of junk?” My grandmother, with joy in her eyes, said, “no! Look past the barn.” And my mother saw a spreading oak tree in the orange blaze of autumn’s glory, and was humbled.
That was how I felt.
The plaques that alert motorists to those routes’ special significance also bear a blue star and read like this:
BLUE STAR
MEMORIAL HIGHWAY
A TRIBUTE TO THE ARMED FORCES
THAT HAVE DEFENDED THE
UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
The first time I drove Rt. 3, heading out of Bar Harbor back toward Boston, I happened to notice such a plaque, and I was puzzled. What did it mean? What was the background of this memorial? When I got back home I looked into the program’s history and understood.
But something else was bothering me. For a year I wondered why this sign caught my eye, why the phrase stuck with me.
It took another drive down Route 3 to unveil my eyes and show me the reason. Understand the physical layout of the road; as you approach the town of Bar Harbor, you’re aware that open water is on your left, but the view is largely screened by trees—that is, until you come around a bend and the trees taper off, and you’re greeted by a sight that takes away your breath. As my wife and I drove the road, this time heading towards town, I looked left when I knew the sign was coming up and saw something completely different. I glanced at the sign, but only fleetingly; my eyes were drawn towards the expanse of water known as Frenchman Bay. Spreading out before us were the waters of the Atlantic Ocean, dotted with green islands and wreathed, early on this summer morning, with mist.
The revelation hit hard; the first time by, I had been so wrapped up in the details of the sign that I had completely missed the majesty behind it. It reminded me of a story my mother had told me some years earlier. She had been driving with her mother, by that time in her mid-eighties and growing more fragile by the day. My grandmother had pointed enthusiastically to something by the roadside and fairly shouted “isn’t that beautiful!” My mother, following the crook of her finger, saw only a ramshackle barn falling to pieces, and replied, “what, that piece of junk?” My grandmother, with joy in her eyes, said, “no! Look past the barn.” And my mother saw a spreading oak tree in the orange blaze of autumn’s glory, and was humbled.
That was how I felt.
posted by Mark Reimer | 7:02 AM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home