Today I figured out how to change the background on my computer, dropped some information off at my apartment complex leasing office and visited the cemetery. I spend more time at the cemetery because I know more people there now, and eventually it will be my permanent home also.
Springtime is especially nice. I see people there that I seldom see around town. Planting flowers for their loved one in preparation for Memorial Day. It is a social event, much like going to the post office, full of gossip and a year’s worth of catching up. There is always a race to see who can be the first to get the geraniums in, and the honor of being determined the most beautifully decorated gravesite is hotly contested. We never win because I don't have the stamina to water, feed and dead-head my geraniums all summer long. Our site is usually reduced to scraggly brown stems by mid-August. By then it’s too late to revive them, and besides, Christmas wreaths are just around the corner. I vote for spigots and a nice long hose at the end of each aisle.
People are testy about their cemetery plots. I thought I was doing someone a favor last fall by bruising some rotting leaves from a stone. Turns out the leaves were placed there purposely by the four-year-old grandson who thought “Umpa” would like them. I discovered this in a conversation the the child’s mother who bitterly complained that “nothing was sacred.” Of course I sympathized with her, adding that it was disgusting that some people just can’t leave things alone.
When we were kids we used to spook each other with trips to the cemetery after dark. It was probably not the best entertainment, but we were harmless. No one would have dreamt of desecrating a grave, because of a clearly defined respect taught to us by our parents, and the unspoken fear of disturbing an angry resident. The mystique of a cemetery was powerful, and we considered ourselves brave and daring by just being there. The most destructive occurrence was when the “newbie” fell into a grave that was freshly prepared for a tenant scheduled to arrive the following day. It was dark, he was running, and…well….his girly screams could be heard over a larger par of the Village. The destruction amounted to uneven divots of grass he had dislodged while trying to claw his way out of the pit.
There is something graceful and dignified about the cemetery on Memorial Day. We are a small town still holding tradition dear to our hearts, and thankfully, our celebration of Memorial Day is still reflective of its true meaning. The grocery store shelves are cold of hot dog rolls and charcoal briquettes, and the potato stands are calling in refrigerator — but the parade is the real celebration of Memorial Day. It begins at 9 a.m. sharp (rain or shine) and ends at the cemetery, filled with flags and flowers. The blanket of respectful tranquility that descends upon friends and neighbors never cease to amaze me. The only sounds to be heard are those of flags fluttering, almost silently, as if to honor the dead in their own way. Some people bow their heads, some wipe their eyes and some pray for those lost. Children are told to remove their baseball caps. While the ceremonial flag is being raised, the most impressive sight to see is the unsteady, elderly, gentleman proudly snapping to attention as best he can, and saluting his flag, his country and his fallen comrades-in-arms.
Tradition seems to be fading in today’s fast-paced world. For anyone who yearns to have their faith in traditions and patriotisms revived, I would suggest attending a Memorial Day parade in any small town in rural America. Honor, respect and faithful remembrance are alive and well, and let those values be the legacy we leave with our children.
