Memorial Day - "Courtesy of Your Loved Ones"

We picked several rose buds off the rose bushes not too bothered by this incessant rain, then gathered the family in the car between showers and set out to visit the those-gone-on-before, the dearly departed, the places of eternal slumber, the dead relatives. This is a yearly ritual for us, I've insisted on it for reasons unclear even to me, although I think it has something to do with my own awareness of mortality. Ray Stewart used to call me every Memorial day. He'd be in his usual state of intoxication, and he'd state "Well, it's Memorial Day, have you remembered anything yet?" Now Ray's been gone for several years now, and yes Ray, I still remember you.


We had to go to different cemeteries to visit the loved ones we had listed this year, and at the first one, where my wife's grandparents are, a nice-but-kinda-creepy cemetery worker invited us back later for hot dogs and hamburgers, "courtesy of your loved ones." I'm trying not to dwell on that one too much. My son wants to go back for the food, and he may still drag me back before this day is done.


The next one was a cemetery just down the road from the first (interesting how they seem to group together, isn't it? Well, okay, maybe not ...) My dad, his wife, and his parents are all buried there. My grandfather's grave has my name on it, or rather I have my grandfather's name on me, well you get what I mean ... so it's always fun to pause and reflect at a grave stone with your name written on it. Dad looks fine, although his flat stone bearing his name could use a little edging, and the brass lettering could use some polishing, but I doubt if any of that bothers him too much now. We put a few rose buds on his marker, and a couple on his mother's, the lady I always called "Nana" when I was growing up. I never knew my paternal grandfather as he died before I was born, so his marker got no rose bud. Funny thing, though, all of their markers had a fresh vase of flowers placed in those individual little holders. I have no idea from whence they came.

The final grave we visited was Sgt. Major Robert E. Winslow's. My gawd how I miss my Uncle Bob. I was never more sane than when I was around him. Without him I sometimes revert back to my old self, staggering around the storage shed of life, banging into one foolish idea after another, just hoping to someday see the goddamned light before it gets dark forever. We stuck three American flags in the ground around his marker, and placed the special white rose Jonathan had picked for him on top. As my wife looked on, I stood stiffly at attention and gave the Marine a military salute. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed Jonathan doing the same thing. He's a good boy, my Jonathan.

Uncle Bob would be proud.

(Happy Memorial Day to all of you. This is not only a day of BBQ's and potato salad, it's a day to, as Ray Stewart said, "Remember something." Remember especially those who have sacrificed their lives for the defense of the rest of us. And remember above all, that life is so preciously short, everything we do makes a difference in someone else's life. Be strong, be kind, be honest, and hold on to that which you love, with everything in your power.)