My mother used to call it "Decoration Day." Every 30th of May, decked out in our Sunday-best frocks and polished white shoes, we filled our arms with fresh flowers to decorate the graves of departed relatives.

Although we had learned in school that Memorial Day was a remembrance of those forfeiting their lives in our nation's service, the only relation who had made the ultimate sacrifice on either side of the family was a maternal great-uncle who was laid to rest in some Flanders field in 1917. We had no idea where that might be.

He was barely 17 when he perished during World War I — the only son of Sam Petroskey and Mary Saviskus, who left Lithuania around 1911 to settle in America. After years of toiling in the employ of others, my great-grandparents were able to purchase a few acres just outside of Grand Rapids, Mich., where the industrious family of five foraged, farmed and fished on their own land.

In the years that followed, nobody talked much about Joe. All that remained to document his existence was a formal portrait taken just before he enlisted in the Army and his prized pocket watch.

His snug shirt collar lies stiff against his neck in the photograph. The old-fashioned tie is knotted in a somewhat haphazard fashion. And, while most of his curly locks have been pomaded into submission, a few dark coils seem to defy his best efforts.

His innocence and uncomplicated nature are easy to discern. His deep brown eyes, which bear the confidence that comes from knowing exactly who one is, gaze resolutely into the camera lens.

Furthermore, despite his diminutive stature, he seems ready, willing and able to meet whatever challenge life holds in store. You can see why his mother hung on to the sepia-toned photo for the remainder of her days.

Sam and Mary must have scrimped for years to purchase the 18k gold watch they hoped would properly commemorate Joe's graduation from high school.

The stark white clock face marked the hours with large black Roman numerals. The gold case of the cherished chronograph, while small and thin, was intricately hand-carved in an ornate pattern far too flowery for a Michigan farm boy. Little wonder that he left the timepiece in his mother's care when he embarked for Europe.

Eventually, the heirloom was placed in my charge. I used to wear it on a heavy gold chain and took great pride in relating what I knew about the brave boy who gave his life in service to his adopted land.

Now the watch, last seen in a black leather pouch and tucked into a secret hiding place, has inexplicably vanished. I hold out hope that it has merely been mislaid. I hold out hope that Memorial Day has merely been mislaid as well.

I miss the American flags that once floated in front of every house on this day. I miss the miniature stars and stripes that adorned every veteran's grave at local cemeteries. I miss the parades that featured high school bands and crepe paper-festooned floats. I miss the artificial red poppies (proceeds benefiting servicemen in need) that we proudly pinned to our lapels. I miss singing patriotic hymns at church. I miss tearing up as the last note of taps evaporates into the ether.

Some believe we allowed Memorial Day to vanish when the National Holiday Act of 1971 morphed the solemn occasion into a three-day celebration of summer.

To that end, President Clinton proposed a National Moment of Remembrance in 2000. The directive asks Americans "to pause for one minute at 3:00 p.m. (local time) on Memorial Day, to remember and reflect on the sacrifices made by so many to provide freedom for all."

If you've never heard about this 60 seconds of silent reflection, you are not alone. However, what you probably have heard about, ad nauseam, is that hot dogs, lawn furniture and gas grills have been discounted — just in time to kick off your Memorial Day festivities.

Every two years, Sen. Daniel Inouye faithfully reintroduces a Senate bill calling for the restoration of the traditional May 30 observance. He has done so, without success, since 1989.

Consider Gen. John A. Logan's (Memorial Day founder) 1868 admonition: "Let us, then, at the time appointed, gather around their sacred remains and garland the passionless mounds above them with the choicest flowers of spring-time; let us raise above them the dear old flag they saved from dishonor; let us, in this solemn presence, renew our pledges to aid and assist those whom they have left among us, a sacred charge upon a nation's gratitude, the soldier's and sailor's widow and orphan."

It's the least we can do. And I'll keep an eye out for that gold watch.

— Beverly Kelley, Ph.D., who writes every other Monday for The Star, is an author ("Reelpolitik" and "Reelpolitik II") and professor in the Communication Department at California Lutheran University. Visit http://beverlykelley.typepad.com/my_weblog/. Her e-mail address is Kelley@clunet.edu.