What Memorial Day means to me...

Grieve not, nor speak of me with tears, but laugh and talk of me as if I were beside you there. 

          ~Isla Paschal Richardson

     When I was a kid, Memorial Day was the time when we traveled up to Marilla, New York to decorate the graves of our family in the cemetery there. We would travel by car, my grandmother in the back seat with my sister and I, and pick up my other grandparents. Sometimes my mother would buy flowers and put them in pots-- usually geraniums. Sometimes she would pick peonies or lilacs from our yard, both of which bloomed at this time of year in western New York.  She'd pack them in wet paper towels and then wrap them in newspaper.

     When we got to the cemetery, we'd drive up the hill and it usually took a few attempts to locate our family's "row".  My mother and grandmother would place the flowers just so. If there were any cut flowers, my sister and I got to go fetch water, which was attained at an old pump well.  The flowers were placed in these special cemetery metal vases that had spikes on the bottom that were pushed into the ground to hold it there. The graves that we visited back then were just my paternal grandfather, Merton Howes, and my older sister Marsha, who passed away as a toddler from encephalitis when I was a baby.  I remembered my Grandpa Mert, I held no memories of Marsha. But I heard the stories every year of how they got sick and died, stories of when they had been alive... And I heard other stories of other ancestors. Each trip out to Marilla also meant a tour around the cemetery to look for other relatives-- many, many who rest here. There were stories told of them, and I learned about my family and some of its history in this way.  There were always little flags that had been placed on the graves of soldiers too, and I learned of the sacrifice and suffering of those who served our country in the military. Sometimes that led to stories of those in our own family who had served, and a few who had given their lives in service to our country.

     On the way home from the cemetery, my father usually had to stop at the Williston Cheese factory. I loved that old place. The Cheese Factory was just a little shack of a place on a farm, with one room that held (unrefrigerated, mind you...) big blocks and rounds of different cheeses. Dad would order a pound of this and that, and an elderly farm woman with a very thick German accent would carve off a piece of cheese from the bigger block (and usually nailed the weight exactly, or very close!), weigh it on an old scale, and then wrap it in waxed paper that was on a huge roll at the end of the table. Then, she'd reach up to grab string, which was threaded from a very large spool at the end of the table, up to the ceiling, across and down right over where she chopped and sliced up cheese. She'd tie each package of cheese up with this string and bite the ends with her teeth. I remember flies stuck to fly paper hanging from the ceiling in there and wonder now if the Board of Health would allow such a place to do business. Back then, nobody seemed to notice the flies or the lack of refrigeration. The cheese was wonderful...

     The day was a fun one in my young life that I remember fondly. I think of it now, and realize how many more of my family now rest in that cemetery-- my father, all my grandparents. I find myself thinking more and more about them as I try to pass along the stories and history to my own children and eventually to my grandchildren. Not all of it is glorious, either. But it is what makes us who we are.

My cousins, my sister and I, my mother and assorted other spouses and offspring all gathered at the Marilla Cemetery to remember and toast our family! The guy mowing the lawn that Saturday morning must have thought we were a little crazy... (the kids under 21 got orange juice with a cherry, just like we got when we were kids and our parents gathered)

     One weekend about 6 years ago, the summer after my father died, our family gathered as a group in the Marilla Evergreen Cemetery. We had traveled there to bring my mother so she could see the headstone that had been placed on my father's grave-- she needed to see it herself to know it was done correctly and that it was okay. All the cousins and second cousins and some of their kids gathered there-- it was a real feat to get so many family together. We gathered at my father's grave, and as a special tribute to him, we toasted him with the "family recipe" drink called a Manhattan. This is potent stuff for a Saturday morning, but as my dad used to say, "It's noon somewhere!" so we all raised our glasses to him and to my mother, and to the parents of all the cousins,  in a tribute to the love we learned from them. Then we went on a cemetery tour, where my cousin Charlie and I, the family genealogists, were able to present some of our family history to the youngest members of the group. My mother added her own information and commentary about some of the people she remembered. And then, we went out and had some family fun together-- no cheese factory, but I seem to remember some Buffalo wings and Beef on Weck was involved...

Here we are... in all our family glory, right before we headed out to have some more fun. I love them all more than I can express!

     That's what Memorial Day is all about for me-- remembering and acknowledging my ancestors, keeping our history and traditions alive, and having fun with my family. And of course, it is about remembering and thanking those who have served and continue to serve our country so that I can spend the day free to do what I wish.