Honoring Lost Souls Along Plainview's Parade Route

We stood on the tarmac of Plainview’s fire headquarters. He must have felt right at home there.

I was just a kid, 9 or 10, feeling anything but comfortable, standing next to him in my baseball cap. You could hear distant drums. Muffled first, then louder. Then the columns of veterans appeared over the rise of Route 135, marching toward us on Old Country Road.

It was sometime in the mid-‘60s, back when the was a very different affair. Last Monday it brimmed with hometown pride; colorful, even festive. People waved at their kids and hugged their neighbors. We cheered the veterans – all of them – as they passed by.

It wasn’t always like that. In the ‘60s, going to the parade meant choosing sides. Vietnam was gnawing at the gut of the nation. People were angry, and the parade route was a solemn place. Lots of people just stayed away.

Kids were dying: Plainview kids, a little older than me. PFC Eric Saltz was still at that May morning long ago. He'd arrive in Vietnam in July 1969. A month later he was dead from artillery fire, "Killed in Action," in Quang Ngai Province, a long way from Long Island.

They were young men like Staff Sgt. John Jay Janoska, U.S. Army, of Plainview. He died Jan. 12, 1970, near Vinh Kim. Specialist James Joseph Bolson didn't come back either, never got to march in our parade. He was KIA Dec. 3, 1968, near Phuoc Binh. I can't even find a picture of him.

Across the country, protest marches got violent. Soldiers came home and got spit on. Protestors were beaten with nightsticks. Riots broke out and cities were set ablaze. My father was the guy you called when your block in the Bronx was burning.

His name was F.D.N.Y. and he took me to my first parade.

That morning he leaned down and told me something I’ll never forget:

“When the flag comes by, you take off that hat and put your hand over your heart,” he told me.

He could see I didn't understand: "You do it for all the guys who died," he said.

And the way he said it was not merely a “request” or simple “suggestion." It was an order, issued by a highly decorated commanding officer of

It came from a man who fibbed about his age to join The Marines at 17. He was preparing to invade Japan when the war ended. He never saw combat, but instead returned home to do battle with man’s primal enemy. When he and the others joined that fight, their enemy always surrendered. Every fire they fought fell victim to the skill and courage of the F.D.N.Y.

Every single one.

This man, both firefighter and father, issued this commandment to his son, a boy whose secret dream was to grow up and be just like him. Put your hand over your heart when the flag passes by. Somebody has to.

Still, I felt so awkward, as if people would look at me strangely, like who was this punk kid bold enough to make a public, grown-up statement. It would be so much easier to hide or run away. But that first flag fluttered by and he snapped his right hand to his breast. If he could do it, I figured I could, too.

And so I did.

It’s a half-century later and fate has led me back to Plainview, a newsman covering that same parade. I don’t stand on the anymore on Memorial Day. It would just make me miss him more. I'd be trying to find that place where we stood together so long ago, and thinking I'd give anything to stand at his side just one more time.

But I have stories to write and photos to take. I stand in front of the with my camera, surrounded by And the community beams with pride as sirens sound in the distance. The drums grow louder.

The honor guard of older veterans approaches in crisp uniforms. They marched in step at the head of the parade, briskly, as if young again.

They carried the colors forward, but in truth, they held the past in their arms: Bearing the flag for their comrades who never made it home – all the kids from all the wars who never got to march in our parade.

Plainview kids with names like Janoska, Saltz and Bolson.

Instinct kicked in and I raised my camera. I fired off the shots. I got one that worked: The veterans and their flags had marched on by now. And then it hit me.

I had just disregarded my Chief's standing order. I missed my chance to make a statement with my hand over my heart. And if I forget my father's lesson, who will remember those lost sons of Plainview when I'm gone?

I’m sorry, Dad.

I still want to be like you one day. I'll keep trying.