I just returned home after a long day which included taking my 3 1/2 year old niece to see Dora the Explorer. After dropping her off at six with her parents and big sister, I visited the cemetery in the town where my brother lives. I took the Great River Road home. The dwindling sunlight flashed through birthing trees to my left and the inhabitants on the east bank of the Mississippi enjoyed an early spring unobstructed sunset. I started to think about why I of so few persist in decorating the graves at least annually but semi-annually if the weather and my memory to purchase flowers permits.
Since 1989, the number of graves I’ve decorated has climbed to five. My cousin and daughter’s namesake, Katie, and my grandmother’s were all until 2002. Then within two years, I added three more: my cousin, Korey, who chose to die; my step-dad, Steve; and my Uncle Tom. Over the years, I’ve developed a sort of system for grave decorations, a one dollar bouquet in something a bit more manly–this year, white carnations–each for Korey and Uncle Tom. I suppose because though I liked Uncle Tom, we were not all that close. And maybe because subconsciously I think Korey should not be rewarded for shooting himself in the head because we WERE close. For a long time, he was like an older brother and carried the title of my best friend. My grandma and Katie each get two one dollar bouquets in something girly–red roses for Grandma and pink tulips for Katie. The most extravagant goes to Steve—this year, a $5 “Dad” sign crafted of red, white and blue carnations. I’m not sure why the distinction between my grandma and Katie versus Steve other than perhaps Steve’s passing is so much fresher.
So I was thinking…why do I do this? It is not that I’m looking for an excuse not to or that I don’t want to but maybe more wondering why I do it and so many others don’t. In all the years I’ve been visiting the cemetery, I’ve never seen any flowers on my other uncle’s grave. He died when I was seven (I think) and I did not know him well at all. I could’ve started leaving flowers at his grave abutting Grandma’s but I suppose back then I didn’t have enough money and now, it is just habit. Most of the time my mom and I are the only ones who put anything on my grandma’s, Katie’s and Steve’s graves.
Do I do it for the benefit of the departed? Maybe. But if I didn’t do it, what could they do? It’s been rumored the one dollar flowers have been criticized as tacky and classless. But tacky or not, I continue to wait for the thaw–or beat it–and stuff the plastic engulfed wire stems in the dirt on the edge of the markers so as to avoid the lawn mower. I view grave decorating in the same light as gift-giving—it’s the thought that counts. A spindly, tacky dollar flower from Wal-mart is still better than being bare. Maybe I do it so they and anyone who happens by knows they’ve not been forgotten. That they still matter to someone?
Blue shadows climbed up the buildings on my left. I thought of my grandma and thought how much history there must be along that river. She loved her town and the history contained. All those that have gone built the wood-sided boarding houses and tethered boats to the shore, harvesting their ice, offering their commerce, and extending their names. They are the names still transforming the river town, renovating century-old gems, running businesses and fighting the dwindling economy.
As the bridge now at 50 miles per hour allowing travel across what once required fervor and perseverance came into view, the answer I’m not yet sure I can intelligently articulate arose. It is the connection between history and the present that keeps me decorating those graves. I don’t do it for the dead or for those who visit the cemetery or even just pass by. It is a ceremony I honor for me to remember my connection to the past, to those I love who occasionally visit my life in my dreams, and to now. It reminds me to keep living the best life I can, to keep pursuing dreams, to keep laughing, to keep dreaming, to keep fighting…to keep being…so they will not have died in vain.
(P.S. I think I’m going to like this blogging. It is a selfish indulgence—and I don’t have to use proper punctuation!!!)
