Memorial Day: coalescence and connection

My car serves as a roaming flower dispenser again this year. As we do most Memorial Day weekends, my husband and I have filled an over-sized bucket with brightly colored flowers, manuevered the unwieldy pail into the back seat, tossed in assorted pruning tools and water jugs, and have began our trek to area cemeteries. I used to consider this the journey of a day simply because it took a good six hours to pack up the car and travel around the metro area to make each of nine graveside visits. Now, however, I realize this is the journey of lifetimes; each stop reflects a life -- and the stories of a lifetime -- all of which have coalesced to shape the man I love.

Our first destination is the grave site of Frank's parents. There, as is our tradition, I gather together a pleasing array of flowers -- combining shades of yellow, rose and lavender -- while Frank trims invasive grasses and cleans the plaques on the site. Together we wash the granite and set the tethered brass vases upright to receive their cheery nosegays. Some day we will bring bleeding hearts; they were his mother's favorite. I'm not sure if Frank's father had a preference for flowers of any kind. Although he loved to garden, my father-in-law was fond of vegetables. On one occasion, after bragging up a prize bell pepper, Bud marched his brother to the backyard only to find his veggie-loving granddaughter in the garden with a salt shaker. Only the pepper's stem and seeds remained.

Thirty minutes later that memory has faded. Now at a different cemetery, Frank and I work together to recognize two family members who died as infants plus two who died during war time. The difference between this stop and our first is that neither Frank nor I ever met any of the lads we now honor. One, a half-brother to my spouse, had been born some 12 years before Frank's own birth. At the time of the boy's death, Frank's father and his first wife had been unable to afford a proper headstone. Frank's mother (wife #2 and a woman who dearly loved children) rectified this situation soon after joining the family. I think she would be pleased to know that her son still acknowledges the life one taken so young.

Frank never knew his veteran uncle and cousin either, but he knows of them and that is enough. Both died during wartime service with the National Guard. One, Uncle Wish (short for Aloysius) was killed in a plane accident at Pike's Peak, dying just days before his own scheduled wedding. He  might have avoided this ill-fated Guard assignment, but he had won the deciding coin toss with his nephew Skippy, the other contender for this particular adventure. Just a few years younger than his beloved uncle, Skippy's own luck ran out a short time later in a fatal auto accident while returning from a Guard training practice. But each year they live on as their intertwined life stories are retold.

We travel to yet another cemetery today. There we unexpectedly meet Maxine, a hitherto unknown third-cousin of Frank's. After introducing themselves, Maxine and Frank share personal remembrances of uncles long gone and swap stories told by parents. Then his new-found cousin guides us to the final resting place of Frank's maternal great-grandparents. The headstones of these ancestors are just yards away from the relative we'd come to honor, yet we'd never discovered the connection!

As the day draws to a close, Frank feels good ... satisfied after our Memorial Day trek.  He has rekindled his connection to those who have gone before and has found someone new with whom he shares common ground. We will visit the grave sites of my grandparents and great-grandparents on Monday, but for now I'm happy to have once again spent time getting to know my husband from the context of his family history. And I can't help but wonder how much this very history has shaped him.

How about you?  Can you recall stories of ancestors? How much influence has family history had on your life?   

Comments

[Brenda]

Thanks for your comments, Larry! I have to admit that we don't visit cemeteries from my side of the family every year because of the distance involved. But I think it is important to set aside "ponder time" to acknowledge the influence of departed family members on my life.

As you know -- and wonderfully illustrate on your blog, http://whenwordsmatter.typepad.com/ -- it's also important to continue telling the family stories. I was fortunate that on Monday an aunt traveled with my sister, spouse and I to several family grave sites to share with us her stories and recollections. I can't explain quite how that act enriched my life, yet it did so immeasurably.

[Larry Lehmer]

Nice column, Brenda, and a good reminder of what Memorial Day is all about. I was reminded again when we visited my parents in Council Bluffs over the weekend. My dad mentioned that since my mother is now in a skilled care center that he probably wouldn't be making his annual trek to North Bend, Nebraska, to decorate family graves. I barely remembered this ritual, though I should be doing the same.

[amba]

Hello, Brenda. Good to meet you.