Time gets away from me, and I had not even realized that Memorial Day was upon us again. We always plant flowers at the graves of my parents and my brother. The first nursery we visited had attractive plants but none of sturdy, traditional ones that could withstand the heat, planted in broad sunlight, with no trees nearby. We journeyed to another nursery and bought a beautiful miniature rosebush, a geranium, and other plants that would fit nicely within the small space in front of each of the gravestones.
Luckily, the little black flies, for which New England is notorious, were blown away by the wind today. Jim had toted along his garden tools, some compost, some bark mulch, and a heavy jug of water, and he swiftly went about the task of planting. Suddenly, a passing cloud helped to water the plants. The sprinkles were as if heaven itself were lending a few tears to the occasion.
When the task was done, we were pleased that it was fairly effortless to get such a nice result. Jim decided to drive to South Deerfield, past “the farm.” One can scarcely call it that now, without a fruit tree, a chicken, or any other animal in sight. From one end of the town to the other, we saw few animals, just some heifers, and what is now a horse farm with quite a few horses.
As we rode past the houses, I recalled stories about the former residents, or their children, whom I knew in school, 4-H, or Grange. All the buildings brought back names and distinct memories of people from the past.
It seems like a surreal, Rip Van Winkle experience, to visit the town where I grew up. Nothing is the same. There are so many new homes and businesses. The cemetery contains the souls of many “older” people who were neighbors or friends. It is heartening that the stone, right next to that of my parents, is a monument to their good friends, and has a Fireman’s Flag flying over the grave.
Another monument belongs to our former neighbor, on the hill, a “Harvard man” who found my father fascinating enough to visit him repeatedly when he was dying of cancer, and who was surprised that my Dad had not graduated from college, due to his intelligence and conversational skills. Neighbors, all. Friends, all. Now, resting together in this small town that engendered a spirit of cooperative existence for them, in life.
Yes, it is a bittersweet experience each year, as I ponder my father and my brother “taken” so early, and my mother, who was quite a character, and lived to be 92. We never know what the future holds for us personally, but on Memorial Day, we stop our normal activities as we recall the people we loved in life, and still love, in death. In honoring them, we make peace with the inevitability of our own fate, and are comforted by knowing that they have already transcended this earthly existence and are “safe in the harbor,” their faith, an anchor.
Patricia Cummings
