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