The last Monday in May, Memorial Day is a national holiday to honor military men and women who lost their lives in the service of this nation. Visiting cemeteries with flags and flowers, the custom has also expanded to remember nonmilitary family and loved ones. It has been a long time coming but this year I went to visit my parents. The cemetery is both old and large, well kept with staff on every corner with maps and locations. I remembered the spot without help, bracketed east of the mausoleum and northwest of the carillon bell tower.
Our family plot (6 spaces) is nearly filled. My maternal grandparents are there and a cousin who died as an infant. One space next to the curb lies fallow. Mom and Dad are together under a single, white granite stone with two bronze nameplates. He would be 111 and she 107 but FDR & Eleanor were their role models and labor unions their champions. I don’t think they would have been happy in this century. Cemeteries are not on my go-to list, maybe a little denial going on there but I didn’t think it necessary; I wasn’t going to forget. But this time it was good, it felt right. Burial is a timeless ritual, what we do with our dead. Cremation is common practice now, certainly less expensive and scattering ashes puts your last formal engagement in the hands of loved ones rather than the cemetery Sexton and a grave digger.
We were but two of many, moving to tradition, dealing with mortality. Anthropologist Margaret Mead concluded that in every known culture, rituals at the end of life have been about mourning one’s own impending demise as much as grieving the loss of others. For as long as someone remembers your face or your name, they say your legacy endures. So I pulled tufts of grass and smooth away dust from the granite. I was returning a small, living token to their legacy in an impulsive, physical way. Thankfully, their mortal remains are deep in the ground. All we get to experience directly is fresh mowed grass and rows of markers with names and dates. One’s legacy depends largely on what others remember and not so much on how we want to be remembered. Once we leave the house it’s too late to rewrite the story. DNA is the language of legacy after all and it doesn’t file a flight plan. You must do that as you go, in the moment, on the fly.
What could be more human than honoring dead warriors, a good thing I suppose but also remember those who tend the home fires and wage peace. I served my country during a lull between killing seasons, in the decade between Korea and Viet Nam. Patriotism and protecting my homeland were the farthest thing from my mind but we couldn’t ignore the unspoken caveat; “to sacrifice my life if need be.” We all understood that possibility. I was lucky, born in a good year to miss out on war’s heavy hand. So when people thank me for my service I dismiss it with a, “No need!” I would concede, “Yes I soldiered for a while.” but they weren’t there and don’t have a clue. Their remarks addressed their politics, not my service. Those 3 years were an educational, therapeutic road trip, a port in the storm for a wayward boy without a compass. I wish I were more patriotic but fire calls for burning hot and I’m sorry; the best I can do is lukewarm.
I had to kneel down to pull grass, to smooth away dust and in that moment the leaves rustled on their branches and I felt a breeze on my face. From the kneeling position I must admit I felt connection with my people buried there. It occurred to me that someday I would be on the other side and my descendants might come see me. If my wishes are carried out it will not be in a place like this, not planted in rows. Carl Sagan reminded us that we are made of stardust and that one day, some day, we will be stardust again. I would expedite the process with ashes scattered in a meadow where spiders spin triangle webs in the tall grass and cranes forage for snails in the bog. I will go back again to pull grass and touch the stone in respect for my parent’s story. I trust they are still waiting for Jesus to come fetch them. They took great comfort in their Faith and though mine died on the vine, I can’t fault them for theirs.
Our family plot (6 spaces) is nearly filled. My maternal grandparents are there and a cousin who died as an infant. One space next to the curb lies fallow. Mom and Dad are together under a single, white granite stone with two bronze nameplates. He would be 111 and she 107 but FDR & Eleanor were their role models and labor unions their champions. I don’t think they would have been happy in this century. Cemeteries are not on my go-to list, maybe a little denial going on there but I didn’t think it necessary; I wasn’t going to forget. But this time it was good, it felt right. Burial is a timeless ritual, what we do with our dead. Cremation is common practice now, certainly less expensive and scattering ashes puts your last formal engagement in the hands of loved ones rather than the cemetery Sexton and a grave digger.
We were but two of many, moving to tradition, dealing with mortality. Anthropologist Margaret Mead concluded that in every known culture, rituals at the end of life have been about mourning one’s own impending demise as much as grieving the loss of others. For as long as someone remembers your face or your name, they say your legacy endures. So I pulled tufts of grass and smooth away dust from the granite. I was returning a small, living token to their legacy in an impulsive, physical way. Thankfully, their mortal remains are deep in the ground. All we get to experience directly is fresh mowed grass and rows of markers with names and dates. One’s legacy depends largely on what others remember and not so much on how we want to be remembered. Once we leave the house it’s too late to rewrite the story. DNA is the language of legacy after all and it doesn’t file a flight plan. You must do that as you go, in the moment, on the fly.
What could be more human than honoring dead warriors, a good thing I suppose but also remember those who tend the home fires and wage peace. I served my country during a lull between killing seasons, in the decade between Korea and Viet Nam. Patriotism and protecting my homeland were the farthest thing from my mind but we couldn’t ignore the unspoken caveat; “to sacrifice my life if need be.” We all understood that possibility. I was lucky, born in a good year to miss out on war’s heavy hand. So when people thank me for my service I dismiss it with a, “No need!” I would concede, “Yes I soldiered for a while.” but they weren’t there and don’t have a clue. Their remarks addressed their politics, not my service. Those 3 years were an educational, therapeutic road trip, a port in the storm for a wayward boy without a compass. I wish I were more patriotic but fire calls for burning hot and I’m sorry; the best I can do is lukewarm.
I had to kneel down to pull grass, to smooth away dust and in that moment the leaves rustled on their branches and I felt a breeze on my face. From the kneeling position I must admit I felt connection with my people buried there. It occurred to me that someday I would be on the other side and my descendants might come see me. If my wishes are carried out it will not be in a place like this, not planted in rows. Carl Sagan reminded us that we are made of stardust and that one day, some day, we will be stardust again. I would expedite the process with ashes scattered in a meadow where spiders spin triangle webs in the tall grass and cranes forage for snails in the bog. I will go back again to pull grass and touch the stone in respect for my parent’s story. I trust they are still waiting for Jesus to come fetch them. They took great comfort in their Faith and though mine died on the vine, I can’t fault them for theirs.
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