Memorial Day was an important holiday to my grandmother.  She and grandpa raised a large family during the roaring 20’s and the Great Depression, in a small rural farming community originally settled by their ancestors and a few other families.  Their relatives built the first post office, first school and the first cemetery, and ties were strong to the community, their families large and prolific. Many of the graves in the cemetery belonged to our family members.  As the town grew over the years, so did the graves of my ancestors.

My grandma would start making beautiful paper flowers weeks ahead in preparation for Memorial Day.  These were added to those already saved in the attic, along with flags for soldiers, to adorn the graves of our relatives. A great celebration was planned as members from far away traveled this one time each year to meet. It was an unofficial family reunion.

On the day before Memorial Day, all the flowers were loaded up and hauled to the cemetery and placed appropriately.  The next day, everyone visited the cemetery, and as an impressionable child, I was led around the grave sites and listened attentively to the personal stories of each person belonging to our lineage.  Some had been pioneers and suffered great hardships; some died of terrible, swift diseases, many were soldiers of war.  Some were buried with stillborn babes in their arms. A few had secrets that were whispered in passing, while others had accomplished great deeds during their lifetime and were spoken of reverently.  They came alive for me as time slipped away and we were all united together, both the living and the departed.

After the ceremonies and eulogies were over, we returned to grandma’s house for a feast of delicious food prepared in celebration and appreciation.  After the meal, as twilight was close to descending, some visitors returned home, some stayed over-night.  My grandparents and a few helpers returned to the cemetery and gathered the artificial flowers and brought them home, carefully repacking and storing them in the attic to be used again next year.

After my grandparents were finally laid to rest in that same cemetery, the Memorial Day tradition began to fade for some, and the times changed. Camping elsewhere on that weekend became popular along with the great appeal for family attractions and entertainment. The numbers who gathered at the cemetery lessened, and fewer came with flowers.  Many years later, when I moved back, closer to the little community founded by my ancestors, I found myself once again walking through the headstones, supporting my aging mother, while she told me the stories of each of our relatives, their secrets and achievements regaled and honored, their sacrifices shared, their tragedies touching my heart.

We placed flowers on their graves and felt at peace as they were, once again, gathered around us, united and bound together forever, their histories firmly planted in my mind, their presence solidified in my bones and the foundation strongly laid for my very purpose, position and requisite existence in this life.
© 2016 Linda Gatewood

Thoughts on a Mother’s legacy…

The other day, I was visiting with a good neighbor, and we were discussing the various memorabilia that we treasure in our lives. I have to admit that I save anything that has a good memory attached, a habit that has filled up my closets and storage. Some of that stuff, though, I have inherited.

For instance, I inherited a dress, stored away in a box, which was made and worn by my grandmother long ago.  My mother saved it because her mother, who made it, had saved it. As each person who had cared for it passed away to the next life, it was my turn. I wondered which of my children would care for it for all the years ahead.

They never knew their great-grandmother who sacrificed so much in her life in order to purchase the fabric and thread for a special dress. Even I don’t know what the occasion was that she sewed, so carefully, the lovely dress. I do know that she had to be very thrifty with 8 children to raise, a husband who farmed and raised sheep, earning little income for the family, especially during the great depression. To help supplement, she made lovely flowered corsages to sell, and sold eggs from her chickens.

Cash was scarce in their family, so creating a lovely dress for a special occasion, would be a great sacrifice and toil of love. She was a person who did little for herself, using all her energy to care for her family and her neighbors. She served as the Relief Society President in church for many, many years, delivered babies, and cared for the sick in ways we’ve all forgotten. She handed out meals to the poor and homeless, who knocked on her door at all hours. She never turned away a soul in need.

Luckily, I have her personal family history to glean my information about her. It was written by those who knew and loved her. I’ve often wondered how it would have read if she had written it herself. I doubt she would have mentioned a word about all her selfless deeds, or personal struggles. Those would have been secrets taken to her grave and shared only between her and her maker.

The dress has been properly, verbally passed on, along with all the sentimental value possible to attach to an object, and gratefully accepted to be revered by another generation – something tangible to keep the stories alive.

I ran across a poem once that is a reflection of our desire to preserve all we can, to cherish our memories, and to understand the reason why. Good memories come in many packages. I don’t know who wrote it, but will share with you.                                                                 ©2016 Linda Gatewood

The packrat syndrome I’ve always had,

I hate to throw things away.

The comfortable things that you have around,

should be saved for another day.

How much more true of the people you knew,

the friends of yesteryear.

Don’t let them stray or throw them away,

just because they’re no longer near.

Collecting starts when you’re very young.

but it changes when you’re old.

The scrapbook has to be extra big,

your lifetime friends to hold.

For its people who count, not those things

when you were big or small.

By the grace of God, you see the whole world

through the friends that you recall.