Many times our hectic lives cause a failure to ask the questions of family that are important when painting the picture of who we are and how did we get here. For the most part (and most of us) we all know who we are – name, address, parents, siblings, etc. – and we snicker a little knowing how we literally got here.  One should however pry a bit deeper with someone that knows. Some will not volunteer family histories but when asked, a whole new family education and heritage emerges. Then we pause (or should) and reflect on the similarities of this life versus those that preceded us.

This weekend I had a special opportunity to share time with my Father…back home. It’s always a cherished time when I’m able to see him and have the one-on-one time. This trip, this time, was infused with serious weather (another blog forthcoming) but we managed our usual how-is-everybody conversations, television watching, golf talk, arguments over who is paying for lunch, and so on. The Memorial Day holiday posed a unique experience with Dad. Every year since I can remember my parents have tended the gravesites of relatives in various cemeteries on Memorial Day weekend. The last time I remember being a part of this tradition was when I thought girls were from another planet.  On this weekend, for the first time in oh-so-many years, Dad and I together made the “cemetery run”. And he shared with me a few things to make me pause and remember family.

Our first stop was to visit Mom. We buried her 10 years ago and we all still miss her dearly (and I’m sure I speak for family and friends on that account). Not much was said during our visit – it may have been partially a father-son emotion thing, but we all have our own memories of her and most likely find it hard to verbalize those while lumps fill our throats. We pulled a few weeds, Dad placed the flowers on her grave, I took a few pictures…twice (a camera setting issue I’m still working out), we said our goodbyes, wiped away a few tears, Dad whispered something softly and touched Mom’s headstone, and we loaded up headed for the next cemetery. I was beginning to think this was going to be a much tougher day (for me at least) than expected.

Dad took off cross-country and we drove into this sleepy, small town that was definitely in the twilight of its existence. This town offered up examples of that: a telephone pole braced the side of a barn, houses were in disrepair, old farm implements rusting away, a noticeable lack of bikes and trikes in front yards, brushy growth growing through abandon homes, and lawns in desperate need of a riding lawn mower. Driving slowly through this town, Dad stopped, pointed out the window and said that was his first boyhood home (the house was gone but the lot remained). Holy cow Dad – let me know beforehand next time and I will have my camera ready. I knew about this place from stories growing up but do not remember ever driving by it before. It was always just a highway marker we talked about while driving to grandparents. Unfortunately there was nothing remaining of the homestead to photograph.

Our next stop, 10 minutes on down the road, was the cemetery for the maternal side of our family. Visiting the gravesites of my grandparents and relatives proved to be much easier – perhaps time has healed some of those mournful wounds. Dad again tended to the graves with flowers. We spoke of relatives buried nearby. I asked the “who were these people” questions on some and Dad obliged with a family history best he could remember. My Mom’s sister died in infancy as the first-born and I knew about that story. We found other markers bearing my Mom’s maiden name and Dad gave detail on those family members. We discovered several other family markers that puzzled both of us, but one in particular I think I have the history on that Dad didn’t know (I tell you later Dad once I find my family tree file). We talked about aunts, uncles, cousins, great grandparents, great aunts and uncles, family friends – and wondered who else might have residency in this cemetery that could be relation. It might be a long list – this cemetery was founded in 1893 and Mom’s family had a dated history in that town. We spent about 30 minutes walking about and then got in the car. Dad decided to drive around town. This town is where Mom and Dad started their married life. Dad pointed out their first house (which I did not know about – I know that was pre-me). Several other landmarks I remember from childhood did not get the drive-by (Grandpa’s filling station, what I thought was Mom & Dad’s first house…but it was apparently their second, the farm, Little Grandma’s house, the bank, the grocery, the old movie theater, Dad’s first career place of employment at the local newspaper) but that was fine with me. I’m thankful he stopped at the local Presbyterian Church. Mom and Dad were married there. I could tell it still has a special place in Dad’s heart.

With that brief trip down our third memory lane, we took to the highway again headed to Dad’s hometown. Dad grew up about 15 miles from Mom. During that drive, Dad spoke of teenager happenings that brought a smile to his face and a chuckle to our conversation. We arrived at Dad’s hometown cemetery and I realized it had been a very long time since I stepped foot here. My last memory was as a young child attending Memorial Day services. The local VFW or American Legion (I don’t know which) would perform a 21-gun salute to fallen veterans buried in the cemetery (and they still do it to this day). All the kids would scramble for the spent rifle shells and I remember carrying those in my pocket until I either tired of or lost them…but there was always next year to replenish the shell collection. My grandfather died during my Dad’s youth. I learned he was a Mason (hmmm…and my brothers and me briefly were in DeMolay – another blog story?). Dad also told me his father ran a depot for the military during WWII and one of his jobs was to dispatch fatality telegrams to families in the States. His son (Dad’s half brother) is also buried in this cemetery. He was a 1st Lieutenant in an Air Force Fighter Squadron and was killed in action during WWII. Junior’s death was telegraphed to the States and his Father personally received the sad news while on duty. My grandmother lived a long, challenging life. To this day I remember her gapped front teeth (like Dad and me), her laugh, teasing sense of humor, a Nat King Cole record she favored, and times spent over the 4th of July throwing firecrackers around her yard. It was a good thing Dad was with me – I completely forgot where she was buried. Dad led the way to her grave site under one of the few large shade trees that surround this cemetery – that’s fitting. Once again Dad tended the three graves and I asked who else was buried here that is family. “No one else” Dad said, “just good friends”. We spent the next several minutes looking for his childhood friends and others he knew and remembered. We came upon an elderly gentlemen standing in the cemetery that Dad recognized. He had suffered a stroke and was now somewhat limited physically and mentally. Dad introduced himself and the man seemed to remember him. Come to find out, it was this man’s father who owned the Jeep that ran over my dad during a childhood accident. We left the cemetery and spent the next half hour or so driving around town. Dad shared some of his boyhood memories and experiences: Grandma’s house (although it looks nothing like it did back when), the Methodist Church he grew up in (now a museum), the second floor roller skating rink, the gymnasium, the old school site, the Café Grandma worked at to support her nine children, and the local swimming hole about a mile west of town. While in town Dad pointed out one landmark that really captured my interest. We stopped at his very first apartment – as a young teenage man he took a summer job as a farm hand and the farmer put him up in a shanty for the summer (I think Dad said he did this more than one summer). The farmer’s son was his roommate and they had “a place” behind the main house, complete with a bunk and barrel shower. It still stands today.

My daughter had a similar adventure with her Grandpa last summer. Unsure whether she experienced the cemeteries, we can none-the-less compare notes and present those to Dad/Grandpa to make sure we are not embellishing his memories too greatly. I hope this sparks an interest with my kids, brothers, nieces, and nephew. Dad needs to be asked the questions about his family, Mom’s family, and growing up experiences. We then need to write it all down. Family is worth the time.

March 23, 2008 proved to be yet another grand day spent with my father. Thanks for the Memorial, Dad…in more ways than one.

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