Memorial Day

Memorial Day has always been one of my most favorite holidays. I think it might be my favorite. It seems wrong to choose Memorial Day over Thanksgiving or Christmas...but it's just the truth. I love how it sneaks right up on you because you are so busy with all the May things. I only ever know that it's coming up because a bunch of brightly colored mums show up in my parents' garage at the beginning of the week. I know we procrastinated if the mums are little and ugly. You have to be on your toes so as not to get aced out by the (elderly) early birds. If you do have the uglies, you just hope that you don't see anybody you know while you possess those wilted things. The good news is that there's a chance for redemption. Grandma and Grandpa were undoubtedly more on top of it and have snagged the pretty ones. In this situation, we will rank all the family's dead in order of how much we like them, and put the biggest ones on the people we liked the most. Naturally, the least popular get the least impressive blooms and the distant ancestors get what's left over. Nobody says it, but some things don't need to be discussed.

never mind that these two are glowing-still figuring out this camera

   I love the weather on Memorial Day. It's almost always perfect. If it's hot, it's also breezy. If it's cool, it's also sunny. If it's raining, it's warm. We always complain about going to the cemetery, but stay for hours and love it. Memorial Day signifies the end of school and the beginning of summer. You wander around with your family, chatting with other families. Kids are racing around, there are a gazillion pinwheels jammed in the grass(!?!) and there are always a few odd ducks (dad) lying down to test out their future resting places. There's lively discussion about the best spot for burial and which type of headstone you are partial to. There are always a lot of votes for the benches. Why not be practical? People need a place to sit if they're going to visit.

  I also love Memorial Day because it's always the same. The flowers and the kids go in the back of Grandpa's truck-the only time of the year. Now they go in one of my dad's trucks (RIP Grandpa's little truck). We always ask Grandpa where he wants to start. We always start with "little Grandma". We always pick a good flower for her. My dad always sends us back to the car to get a different color. We are always surprised to see other flowers on the headstone when we arrive. We always wonder aloud who could have been responsible for those flowers. We always list every possible living relative, then throw up our hands and act a bit exasperated because there's just no telling who else could have/would have/would not have brought a flower for this grave.

   We drive between some and walk between others. We read the names and the dates and speculate about lives and families. My dad tells us stories about all the people he knew and the Sunday School teachers he tortured. Grandpa and Grandma know everybody. I think my grandma nursed at least half the residents of that cemetery through sadness, sickness and death. Resurrection day will be a very happy one for that lady. Year after year they tell us the stories of their neighbors and friends. They try to differentiate between family and those who were like family.

  Bless the heart of a second wife who married an uncle for his money and ended up buried in a family plot. We are very annoyed with her, and while we put a flower on her husband and his first wife, we look at her headstone with all the disdain we can muster (while still being appropriate in the cemetery). That might be a bit overly dramatic, but when the kids are asking if they should put a flower on her headstone, the answer is a resounding "no". My grandpa just shakes his head and says "that was a sheister deal" and Grandma says something about the money grab, then we move on.  It occurred to me for the first time this year that she was, in fact, dead when the deal went down. But that's neither here nor there.
    When we move to the other side of the cemetery, we visit the graves of each of Grandpa's brothers. Every year he tells us the same stories. Every time I hear them I catch another detail or hear something different in the telling. I have the clearest picture in my mind of my handsome seventeen year old grandpa walking through the fields with his older brother. They were going to check on the brother he adored. The brother he loved to be around. The one with the wife and the little boy. The one grandpa had always gotten along with so well. The one who hadn't come home.

   When they found him, he was unconscious. They must have been in shock. They must have felt so helpless. Grandpa watched as his older brother tried to lift the limp body. He should have been able to do it. He was older and stronger-but he couldn't. Grandpa, wiry but strong, hoisted his idol up over his shoulder and carried him over the creeks, under fences and through the fields. What choice did he have? It must have been a very long walk. It must felt even longer.

   His voice never breaks when he talks about it. It's been a lot of years since he had that experience. He was just a boy. I think, though, that it must have changed him, aged him. His face is always soft and sad when he talks about his little nephew exclaiming that "daddy is sleeping" when the body was laid out in the living room. I can't help but wonder about the impact this must have made on him. Did it make him hard? Or soft? Did he question his faith and purpose? Somehow, I think experiences like these are the reason that he keeps going to church week after week-even though Grandma doesn't go anymore. Her mind isn't what it used to be and she isn't comfortable leaving the house. He's got more than enough excuses, but I think he wants to be ready to meet all those brothers that he buried here.

I always leave the cemetery wanting to be better than I have been. It makes me realize that I'm a little part of something so much bigger than me. It reminds me that life is fleeting and that in spite of heart-wrenching trials and painful partings, life keeps going. People continue to come into this world and to leave it. Mortality is just a small step in our progress, but it's our time to have joy and to decide what stories will be told about us when we've moved on.

I love that as a parent I get to share these ties with my little ones. I want them to see that their choices are not just their own. People who came before them and those who will come after, are depending on them to hold our family chain together. 

Yes, I think it's safe to say that Memorial Day is my favorite.

Charlie loves the benches. He doesn't know this guy-but it's true that benches attract visitors!