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Memorial Day
May. 26th, 2014 02:16 pmWhenever Memorial Day swings around...I think of my Grandmother, or Granny. Grandmother sounds so formal, and Granny was well just Granny, and we never stood on formalities. "It's just us folks," she used to say.
In my early twenties, after I graduated from college and prior to my decision to go to law school, I spent just about every Holiday with my Granny. My parents had scaddadled to Australia, the Land of OZ, leaving me behind with Granny. Granny lived about 45 minutes away in Liberty, Missouri, while I lived in the suburbs of Kansas City, on the Kansas side.
Each Memorial Day weekend, we had a ritual of sorts. She'd select various flowers from her rose garden and peonie bushes, place them in the fridge in four or five vases in preparation for Memorial Day. We'd go to the video store - select four movies, sometimes five. Watch them over the weekend, while we made potato salad, ate out in restaurants, or fried chicken picked up from KFC (keep in mind this was before I was diagnosed as ceiliac). Then around 10 am on Monday Morning, Memorial Day - we'd wander around the graves, placing flowers on various tomb-stones.
We visited three grave-sites. Two were quite old, somewhat overgrown with wildflowers, yet well tended, and with ornate but crumbling tomb stones. Few people were at these. No cars really. And often we were the only ones scrambling down the lanes with our flowers in plastic vases. She'd set one on each grave. My great grandparents who died in the 1930s. Or cousins and distant relatives who died in the 1800s or just at the turn of the last century. Sometimes she'd relate a story or two about them. Or how they died. She had a morbid fascination with how people died, I'd thought. This one died of consumption. That one of a snakebite. The other two of ...lord only knows what. There were a few graves that dated back to before the Civil War - which her great grandfather had been in. Coming up from New Orleans as a drummer boy.
After we finished with the old graveyards, we traveled about 20-30 miles outside Liberty, along the highway to the new one - where her husband and my grandfather (Pop)'s urn was located. Granny and Pop, much like my Aunt Audry, refused to be buried in a coffin, they wanted to be cremated with an urn. My parents feel much the same way, as do I. The idea of being buried in coffin seems silly and gruesome to all of us. Pop had died of complications from cancer - three brain tumors which had been reduced through chemotherapy then subsequently removed. He was never the same afterwards. And eventually pneumonia set in and killed him. My Granny is now buried in the urn beside his. While my Aunt Audry's ashes were scattered amongst the red rocks and dunes of Arizona and Nevada, the desert she loved.
After our little journey, we'd stop by Pippins and pick up a French Silk Chocolate Pie. Then go home and eat it, along with brunch. And watch the remainder of our movies together. Or read. Sometimes bead Indian (Native American) jewelry.
My father sees Memorial Day the way most people do...as an opportunity to remember the troops that fought in various wars. Including himself. Last night he went to America Sings, and stood up for the Army. He'd served in the Army in the 1950s, but didn't go to Korea. His brother, my uncle, served in Vietnam, in Army Intelligence. My uncle will write poetry about his childhood, but he won't write about his time in the service. The only story he's told me is when he got shot in butt while riding in a helicopter.
But for me...Memorial Day will always be the memory of decorating the grave sites with my Granny. Today, our cousin Anita decorates the graves. She flies out from Oregan each year to do it.
In my early twenties, after I graduated from college and prior to my decision to go to law school, I spent just about every Holiday with my Granny. My parents had scaddadled to Australia, the Land of OZ, leaving me behind with Granny. Granny lived about 45 minutes away in Liberty, Missouri, while I lived in the suburbs of Kansas City, on the Kansas side.
Each Memorial Day weekend, we had a ritual of sorts. She'd select various flowers from her rose garden and peonie bushes, place them in the fridge in four or five vases in preparation for Memorial Day. We'd go to the video store - select four movies, sometimes five. Watch them over the weekend, while we made potato salad, ate out in restaurants, or fried chicken picked up from KFC (keep in mind this was before I was diagnosed as ceiliac). Then around 10 am on Monday Morning, Memorial Day - we'd wander around the graves, placing flowers on various tomb-stones.
We visited three grave-sites. Two were quite old, somewhat overgrown with wildflowers, yet well tended, and with ornate but crumbling tomb stones. Few people were at these. No cars really. And often we were the only ones scrambling down the lanes with our flowers in plastic vases. She'd set one on each grave. My great grandparents who died in the 1930s. Or cousins and distant relatives who died in the 1800s or just at the turn of the last century. Sometimes she'd relate a story or two about them. Or how they died. She had a morbid fascination with how people died, I'd thought. This one died of consumption. That one of a snakebite. The other two of ...lord only knows what. There were a few graves that dated back to before the Civil War - which her great grandfather had been in. Coming up from New Orleans as a drummer boy.
After we finished with the old graveyards, we traveled about 20-30 miles outside Liberty, along the highway to the new one - where her husband and my grandfather (Pop)'s urn was located. Granny and Pop, much like my Aunt Audry, refused to be buried in a coffin, they wanted to be cremated with an urn. My parents feel much the same way, as do I. The idea of being buried in coffin seems silly and gruesome to all of us. Pop had died of complications from cancer - three brain tumors which had been reduced through chemotherapy then subsequently removed. He was never the same afterwards. And eventually pneumonia set in and killed him. My Granny is now buried in the urn beside his. While my Aunt Audry's ashes were scattered amongst the red rocks and dunes of Arizona and Nevada, the desert she loved.
After our little journey, we'd stop by Pippins and pick up a French Silk Chocolate Pie. Then go home and eat it, along with brunch. And watch the remainder of our movies together. Or read. Sometimes bead Indian (Native American) jewelry.
My father sees Memorial Day the way most people do...as an opportunity to remember the troops that fought in various wars. Including himself. Last night he went to America Sings, and stood up for the Army. He'd served in the Army in the 1950s, but didn't go to Korea. His brother, my uncle, served in Vietnam, in Army Intelligence. My uncle will write poetry about his childhood, but he won't write about his time in the service. The only story he's told me is when he got shot in butt while riding in a helicopter.
But for me...Memorial Day will always be the memory of decorating the grave sites with my Granny. Today, our cousin Anita decorates the graves. She flies out from Oregan each year to do it.