Memorials

For reasons I've forgotten, my grandfather was buried in a cemetery far out of town. Each Memorial Day, my grandmother made the trip to put flowers on his grave and would often take me for company.

It was a long trip for a child, 30 or 40 miles west of Boston and Nana was usually silent. She would take extra care with her makeup and change clothes several times before we left and always insisted that I dress up. We drove through the Massachusetts countryside, west of the city, on the backroads, never using the turnpike. By that time of year the grass was green, the trees were in bloom, and there was the smell of flowers in the air. The radio in the old Lincoln played softly, some classical station that she found soothing, but still she drove tensely, as if she were late and trying to make up time. When I pointed out that the cemetery people weren't likely to be going anywhere or notice if we were late, she snapped at me and warned me to watch my mouth or she'd wash it out with soap. Knowing this to be no idle threat, I stayed quiet for the rest of the drive, concentrating on the scenery and the passing cars, making up games in my head to occupy myself.

The cemetery itself was spread over several acres, all well tended and maintained. High iron gates and contant security kept out the teenagers and vandals and grave desecraters and a handful of bent and old men in khaki uniforms patrolled the land, watering, weeding, spending their time among the uncomplaining dead. They were all gentle spoken and kind, as if accustomed to the grief and heartache of the mourners and the newly dead. They dug graves respectfully and carefully and stood a far distance off to allow families privacy and a time to say goodbye. Nana knew them all by name as she had been making this annual pilgrimage for years. They tipped their caps as she manoeuvered the Lincoln threw the narrow, winding pathways to the gravesite. Watch where you walk, she reminded me twice although I knew to do that and she knew I knew. She made her way up a slight incline, carrying a pot of flowers, garden gloves and a small handheld rake and knelt at the grave. She didn't cry or speak, just brushed away the old flowers and dirt, replaced them, manicured around the stone and then sat there for several minutes, head down and eyes closed. Are you praying, Nana? I asked hesitantly and she shook her head, No, hon, she answered patiently, Just thinking and remembering.

The way home always included lunch at Longfellow's Wayside Inn, where in later years I was to be married in the small chapel on a bright April day, but that was for much later. Nana just liked the old fashioned furniture and the colonial feel to the place and we always stopped to look at the grist mill before leaving. We drove home leisurely and another year's obligation had been fulfilled.