We just got back from a Memorial Day parade in Salisbury, CT, near which we had rented a house, as simple and touching a celebration as you can imagine. It was like one of those old Morning in America commercials, without the Reagan. Though there may have been a few Reaganites in our midst.

The parade started at ten am at the library, led by the local school marching band, followed by several carloads of military veterans. Locals are encouraged to follow them on the short march to the graveyard, and many of the kids had little flags to wave. In the graveyard the vets gathered in their dress uniforms and colors (one old Green Beret looked like he might have been the prototype for Special Forces soldiers everywhere), exchanging happy looks and banter. Hey, look! We’re still alive! Then a Boy Scout read The Gettysburg Address, the vets fired their rifles into the air before taps was played.

One of the local preachers read the 23rd Psalm and went out of his way to mention not just the (mostly) men and women who had fought and died but the innocents who died in the wars as well. One vet got up to make a speech but said he couldn’t and just wanted to pay tribute to those who served. The names of veterans from CT (none from Salisbury, it seemed) killed in Iraq and Afghanistan were also read and I was struck by the number of Latino names rising to replace the ranks of the Irish, English and Italians that had come before.

Everyone left after the last taps was played and then they were giving out free ice cream down the street. Our dog, who had been so terrified by the blanks fired earlier, got a lot of attention. I got the impression it was the kind of town where you could argue with your neighbor about this war, or any war, and still say hello to each other on the street. I felt free of the rancor and despair I sometimes feel on our most patriotic holidays and I wonder if I was getting a glimpse of a small town America I thought was lost. It made me feel optimistic for the days to come. Or maybe it was just the weather.