(photo: Washington Post)

Memorial Day, or Decoration Day as it was originally called, is dedicated to remembering those who have given their last full measure. It began to honor those who died in the War Between the States, with both sides laying claim to its inception. After WWI, “The War to End All Wars,” Memorial Day was expanded to include all those who have died in the service of their Country.

Last Thursday, as they do every year, the 3rd U.S. Infantry conducted the “Flags In” ceremony placing small American flags on the graves of those buried in Arlington Cemetery, including my father’s, and will walk post for 24 hours a day through the weekend to ensure that each remains standing. It is the only day of the year that flags are permitted to be displayed on every grave.

The “National Moment of Remembrance” resolution (passed on Dec 2000) asks all Americans “To voluntarily and informally observe in their own way a Moment of remembrance and respect, pausing from whatever they are doing for a moment of silence or listening to ‘Taps’ ” at 3 p.m. local time on Memorial Day.

“In Flanders Fields”, published during WWI, is perhaps the most eloquent elegy to the fallen of all wars. It is the poem that inspired the making and wearing of the paper poppies that were first sold to benefit servicemen in need and later to support war orphaned children and widows in France.

In Flanders Fields
John McCrae, 1915.
In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

Monday, I will take a moment to gaze at my flag and say a silent “thank you” to the soldiers, sailors and Marines who volunteered to serve so that I have never had to.

I wasn’t sure what I wanted to write about today. I felt a bit adrift. So I decided to break out my new leaf vacuum and have at our carpet sized back yard.

Accomplishing something made me feel pretty good. So I set off to brave the wilds of the U.S. Postal Office, Saunders Station. Our postage has increased and left me with lots of Red Chinese Lantern stamps (The new year celebration) that now require a mismatched 1¢ stamp in order to meet the first class postage rates of 42¢. The line moved fairly quickly and I left with some new Frank Sinatra commemorative 42 centers. So far, so good. Especially for the post office.

As I hiked back to my car I began to notice the large number of Mercedes Benz sedans in the city.

Huh.

Off to Lowe’s (really pushing my luck) for some decorative marble chips for the Tuilleries in the back yard.

More high end cars. Lots of them. A guy went by in a Porsche. Lexuses (Lexipodi?), Escalades, Audis… Yesterday there was a Jaguar parked on my street. And somebody down the block on Monument had a Maserati Quattroporte not too long ago.

The thing is, when I look around me, I can’t identify the drivers of these luxury automobiles. Not a soul was what I would consider “well-dressed.”

In the words of Iñigo Montoya (”The Princess Bride”), “I do not think this word means what you think it means.”

It may be time to define what it means to be well-dressed in the 21st Century. Even across the Pond things are decidedly “iffy” if you ask me. At least judging by the nine pictures and one man’s opinion. Besides, these people have stylists and get free clothing. Or are dedicated Savile Row customers. How hard is that?

I can’t advocate that everyone walk around dressed up all the time. Well I can, but it wouldn’t get me very far. Not these days. And, if form does indeed follow function, what the heck are we up to?

No, the argument goes, in our more egalitarian day we are less inclined to flaunt our social status by wearing beautiful clothing.

Yeaaahhhhh…

We all send messages with our clothing choices. That’s a given. And people and their cars… don’t get me started.

But how do we define, for our purposes, “well-dressed?”

Let’s agree on a baseline: clean? neat? And if it is “neat” how so? Comfortable? Hoo boy, there’s a can of worms.

C’mon, this is a collective effort the end result of which will be published right here for all the world to witness on June 7th, the date of the First Annual Easy and Elegant Life International Smartly Dressed Scene.

Please complete the following statement:

We hold these truths to be self-evident. That all mankind is well and elegantly dressed when:

I’m not feeling very elegant today.

The dog is throwing up (shots at the vet, poor guy), the children are covered in a thin film of mucus, the cars are covered in a heavier film of pollen, it’s hot and cloudy.

Flip-flops have begun to make their reappearance on pale and pasty feet pinned to paler and pastier legs.

I had to make a trip to the grocery to correct an error that gave me about $100 in free groceries and a refund of $95 in addition to them.

To top it all off, I’ve had to compose the second in a series of letters that my mother wishes to send to protest the appalling treatment my grandmother received during her recent heart surgery and recovery. (The staff at two facilities are very lucky that she was too weakened to get a shot off; she was determined that she would not go softly into that good night. Ah, we Greeks… She has since recovered. I do not suggest follow-up visits from either facility; although I doubt that they care enough to make the effort.)

Tonight’s lecture by Christopher Gardner should be interesting. As should tomorrow’s lectures by Nando Parrado and Branford Marsalis (who will also perform.) But summoning up the energy required to get to tonight will require a great deal of effort.

Still, I’ve got it much better than most, I know. No complaints.

But there are always days during which we feel less up to snuff. And it is on these days especially that we learn to cultivate our inner elegance — to squint and make the world a more delightful place. We owe it to those around us. Stiff upper lip. Chin up. Don’t let down the side. That’s the old (insert surname here) spirit!

So, what’s the Rx? A cuppa mint and green tea. Figure out tonight’s casually elegant ensemble. A little of the written word, some pretty pictures, and maybe a lot of pandora.com. Music hath charms, etc.

Back on Monday with lessons learned.

In the meantime, when all else fails there is always a cocktail.
This one is named after the guns that pounded away during WWI and was added to the menu at Harry’s New York Bar, Paris after the war to end all wars.
The French 75.
Pour into a shaker of ice:
Juice of half a lemon
2 dashes of simple syrup
2/3 oz. of gin.
Shake like the building’s under bombardment.
Pour into a champagne flute.
Top with champagne.
Stir.
La Marsellaise