It was always a challenge to explain the difference between Memorial Day and Veterans’ Day to my Citizenship students. I used to say something like:

“Memorial Day, which falls on the last Monday in May, honors the men and women who died while serving in the military.”

“Veterans’ Day, observed every November 11, recognizes all who have served in the Armed Forces, living or dead.”

Naming federal holidays is a question on the test.

I remember that my mother-in-law, whose first language was not English, referred to Memorial day as “Decoration Day.” I liked that. She went to the Catholic cemetery in her neighborhood and put plastic flowers on the graves of every family member.

I often asked the class members to talk about their own cultural holidays. Day of the Dead was always in interesting one. I sort of like the idea of having a picnic at the gravesites of beloved family members. I often see something similar to that happening at my neighborhood cemetery where I frequently go for walks.

People have different ways of remembering.

This month, I saw that a beautiful, engraved granite bench had been installed where there was not a grave. Perhaps ashes had been interred. A seventeen-year-old boy. A permanent-looking photograph is prominent on the bench’s back rest.

There’s nearly been someone visiting when I’ve been there. Usually a kid. Leaving something.

I was curious so I checked it out. Butts of joints. Beer and whiskey containers. Some looked full. Notes of sorrow stuck all around. Of course, the ubiquitous whirly-gigs and mylar balloons.

Sorrow takes different expressions.

Today when I went there, there were beautiful, giant flags everywhere

and signs announcing that there would be no ceremony tomorrow.

And, very oddly, that previously mentioned bench and all its memorabilia have vanished. What’s that about?

Joannie always visits Daddy and puts new flowers and makes sure there is a flag.

He is our hero. I suppose, correctly, he should be honored on Veterans’ Day and not Memorial Day. We honor him everyday and share many memories of him.

This week, it was about how he could repair — or try to repair — everything. We never had a plumber or electrician at the house, which we recalled this month because we have both had expenses along those lines.

We agreed that one of the things we always admire in a man is that he be handy. I suppose that is sexist and dated. But it’s the truth. When I first got divorced, bizarrely, somone asked me, most inappropriately, where I would look for a new partner. I said, “Home Depot!”

But I digress.