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“The Memorial Day Book Club” is a tender exploration of how literature can help communities mourn, remember, and connect. By anchoring grand themes of war and memory in a humble backyard setting, the story demonstrates that profound moments often arise in the quietest places—among friends, around a table, through shared words and music.

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"The Memorial Day Book Club"

By: Harry Arabian

Memorial Day fell on a Monday that year—May 26—and it happened to coincide with our weekly Book Club gathering. So, Marie and I decided to host it in our backyard, turning our usual circle of readers into a more festive affair. Hamburgers, hot dogs, and grilled veggies with cilantro yogurt sauce would accompany the prose. It was our way of honoring memory through stories—both in pages and in person.

Around 4 p.m., the book lovers began trickling in slowly, like the unfolding chapters of a mystery novel. First came Sandy and her husband Martin, carrying a covered dish and the easy laughter of long-time musicians. Then arrived Paul, with his faithful dog Whitey trotting beside him. Ralph, always the comic relief, tipped his cowboy hat with a grin, and Mindy and her husband Harry came soon after, arms full of dessert trays.

Marie greeted each guest with her warm smile and directed them to the back porch where folding chairs and a table had been decorated with tiny flags, paper poppies, and bookmarks adorned with literary quotes. It was our Memorial Book Club.

Once everyone had settled in, Paul stood up and said, “I’ll be the first presenter and reader today.” We nodded in agreement, and Whitey gave a soft, approving bark. Paul adjusted the Purple Heart medal pinned to his jacket—a memento from his grandfather Phoky—and held up his chosen book.

“My selection is A Rumor of War by Philip Caputo,” he said. “A raw, unforgettable memoir from a young Marine officer in Vietnam. Caputo brings us not just the history, but the heaviness of memory.”

I nodded. I knew Phoky well. He used to sit in his wheelchair outside the Free Public Library, always with a detective novel on his lap. I’d stop and ask him which chapter he was on, then head inside to find the next one from the Friends of the Library cart. He liked stories where truth unraveled through deduction—maybe because his own truths were too complex to untangle.

Paul then opened to The Things They Carried—the first chapter. His voice trembled slightly as he read about the weight each soldier bore: guns, letters from home, good luck charms. But heavier still were the invisible burdens—fear, guilt, grief, and love. As he read, a hush fell over the yard, broken only by the occasional rustle of wind through the trees.

About a half hour in, Sandy gently tapped Paul’s shoulder. “Mind if we add a little music?” she asked. “Martin brought something special.”

Martin stepped forward, saxophone in hand. He fidgeted with the reed, blew a few warming notes, and then launched into Fortunate Son. The sax’s wail cut through the warm afternoon like a protest, like a tribute. A few neighbors heard and wandered over, drawn by the sound. Soon, everyone was singing along, softly but with conviction.

In that moment, our backyard was more than a place for books—it was a memorial of stories, a garden of memory where grief and joy coexisted in harmony.