Decoration Day

May 28, 2011

            I spent many a Memorial Day weekend visiting the cemetery.  My Grandma called it  “Decoration Day”.  We never bought flowers instead; we went into our own yards and cut whatever was blooming, roses, irises, hydrangea, and greenery.  We filled old coffee cans, mason jars or galvanized buckets with blooms.  My Grandma and I would load the car and go to the cemetery.  We were pricked by thorns and rewarded with the flower scent filling the car. 

            My Pop, Papa and Grandma Coote were there.  Now I add to the list my Grandma.  She and I usually went alone for years before I had children.  Then occasionally my kids would go, under protest.  I gained a respect and a lifelong habit of decorating in the cemetery.

            I do some of my best thinking there.  I’ve had family tell me that the dead people I mourn are not there so why do I go?  Sitting on the bench placed there when my Grandma died, under the ancient oak tree, in the breeze where it is cool even on the hottest Sacramento summer day, I am at peace.  I look to the west and see the graves and to the east, the field often changing my position on the bench as I ponder my worldly problems.

            But back to my visits with my Grandma.  My maternal Grandma Coote was buried in 1968 followed by my Pop in 1976, my Papa in 1986 and the hardest loss for me, my Grandma in 2008.  It still feels raw and emotional.  I had her 22 years longer than any other Grandparent.  Today, May 28th, she would have been 97 years young. She and I went regularly to the cemetery after my Pop died, holidays, birthdays, anniversaries, whenever she wanted to go.

            I go now when I am lost and lonely.  Alone.  I pray, I talk, and I always leave in a better frame of mind than when I first sit on the bench.  I’m not sure if it is the cathartic flow of tears or the heartfelt conversation and prayers but it works.

            I have a job to do there. I clean up when I go.  You could say I have a cemetery routine.  I bring flowers, a broom, a bucket, a couple of towels and a washcloth.  I sweep first and not just my Grandparents markers but also my cousin’s grandparents and my aunt’s.  Then I take the washcloth and wipe things off.  Sometimes I take clippers and a shovel to clean up the edges.  This Decoration Day I walked from the car carrying a broom, a bucket filled with roses and hydrangeas from my yard and some towels.  I was quite a sight.  And this day, I had company.

            I immediately noticed when driving through the iron gate that there were people there.  Many people, in cars, trucks with trailers and uniformed soldiers in white,  walking up and down the rows. I usually only have turkeys as companions, the feathered kind.  A rafter of turkeys live there protected from dogs and man.  I have had to chase them away from “my spot” with a towel so I could sit without them sneaking up on me.  They are creepy looking. Prehistoric.  Somehow they seem at home in the cemetery.

            After cleaning and placing the flowers, I took my seat on the bench.  I watched the people placing white crosses with American flags on the graves of all the veterans, remembering them for Monday’s Memorial Day Services.  It was a beautiful serene sight, in Technicolor, with white uniforms, white crosses, white clouds in the blue sky, green grass and the flags unfurling in the breeze.

 

            I sat there taking in all the movement in a place usually so still.  I saw a truck and trailer pull up.  There were two men riding on the trailer and two in the cab of the truck.  A man got out of the cab, grabbed a cross and a flag and started walking towards me.  I thought they must have checked on their map and forgot someone.  As he approached me, he held out the flag and cross.

            I took it from him and tried to say thank you without choking up but it was not possible.  I told him through tears that it meant a lot to me since my Papa was a veteran but never recognized on Decoration Day.  I told him, he would have been honored.  But it was I who was so touched in the moment, sobbing as he walked away.

            A total stranger, an act of kindness and recognition 25 years overdue.  I sat under the ancient oak, tears falling and memories flooding in.  Maybe that’s why I go. For the memories of the grandparents who adored and treasured me all of my life.  The love and the loss fill me until my tears spill out on the granite and brass.  Another Decoration Day is done.