Decoration Day

When I was growing up in the Midwest, we called Memorial Day, “Decoration Day”. It was the day we decorated the graves of loved ones with flowers.

A few days before Memorial Day, Mom would cut large bunches of white and dark pink peonies from the numerous bushes that surrounded our large farm yard, and sometimes deep orange and yellow daylilies. She would gather up several empty glass jars saved from the kitchen, fill a large container with water and we would set off for the cemetery. 

Once there, we would collect the jars, flowers and water and walk to the family plot that was shaded by a large, old oak tree. Mom would dutifully clean off any debris that had fallen on the headstone at the top of the grave, and then, after placing a water-filled jar on either side, she would fill them with a full bouquet of brightly colored flowers.  One for my grandmother and one for my grandfather.
 
We would then move on to the next family grave to “decorate”. There was her brother Hubert, who died as an infant from diphtheria, and her brother Donnie who died at 18 from an allergic reaction to penicillin. There was my dad’s brother who had a small flag on his grave, placed there by the local American Legion to honor his military service. They all received a fresh bouquet of flowers.

As a little girl, I didn’t appreciate the trips to the cemetery, being a bit bored by the whole exercise, but looking back now, I realize my mother was giving me a lesson in family history. As she cleaned and decorated each grave she would tell me about that person, all of whom had died before I was born or old enough to remember them.

The years passed and more graves were added to the family plot. More headstones to decorate. Eventually, Mom and Dad were buried there too. Cecelia and Earnie, side by side.

I now live two thousand miles away and I can’t go to the cemetery to put fresh flowers on the graves this Memorial Day weekend. However, when I talk to my 3 year- old granddaughter, Emma Cecelia, named in honor of her great-grandmother, I’ll think of my mom. When I talk to my son, who is the spitting image of his "Grandpa" Earnie, with the same tall, lanky build and dry, wry humor, I will think of my dad.  Their living legacy, I believe, is the best “decoration” of all.