Given that Memorial Day is set aside to remember those who gave their all in defending our country, I have a deep and abiding respect for it. But I broaden my definition, as do most, to extend to remembrance of loved ones who have gone before us.
I\’d like to visit my parents\’ graves, but given that they decided to be buried in Washington County Maine, I don\’t often get to do that. So I most often, on Memorial Day, visit my grandparents\’ graves in Buckland Massachusetts. Buckland is rather a rural community. I suspect there\’s actually a town center, but where my grandparents are buried is just off of a little village common where one can find a little white New England church and a small community center.
I bring along my gardening trowel. There\’s one large headstone that merely says \”Griswold\” in large Roman letters, but there are also smaller grave markers perhaps 9\” x 16\” or so with more detailed information. These markers appear to be sinking, but in reality the earth naturally gets deeper as the vegetation grows, and eventually these markers will be swallowed, as it were, by the passage of time. I do my best to clear them up a bit with my trowel while I\’m there, which is why I bring it along now. It\’s easier on my hands.
After my duties, I kicked off my Birkenstocks and walked about barefoot in the cool grass, reflecting some, but mostly just moseying about (or nosing around – you call it) looking for interesting graves. There are a number of other Griswolds buried there, including my great-grandfather Eugene.
After just a few minutes of \”reflection\”, another car drove up to the gate. I\’d parked out on the street and walked the 100 feet or so. Two ladies older than I exited the car with a couple of trowels, a jug of water, and a couple of geraniums. The, too, were out to visit their grandparents\’, and parents\’, graves, and plant some geraniums for them. I hurried to get my sandals back on, lest I be thought disrespectful of the dead.
Those that know me well have noticed that I\’ve \”come out of my shell\” a bit over the past decade, and I\’ll actually talk to people now. I greeted these ladies, and was going to offer my assistance, but they seemed to have two flowerpots well under control. I lamely commented on the weather or something, and stated my purpose for being there, pointing to my grandfather\’s large headstone.
\”Griswold?\”, one of them said. \”Well, Gene Griswold built our house\”, referring, unknowingly, to my great-grandfather. I explained how that\’d be Gene\’s son I was there visiting. That started off a half-hour chat, them telling me that Gene was actually the crew leader, not the single-handed builder of their house (actually their father\’s house, as they were children at the time). They complimented my great-grandfather\’s abilities, and how since there was no electricity, everything had to be piece-cut by hand! Now that\’s got to be an undertaking, building a whole house with a hammer and a handsaw…
I told them the one story I have of my great-grandfather – that I remember meeting him when I was \”this high\” (which wasn\’t very high at all – Gene died when I was three). My grandfather lived in what I always considered a mansion in the next community over, and across the street was a tiny little house that my great-grandfather occupied when he wasn\’t in Florida. I remember one day my father taking me to visit his grandfather. I haven\’t been in that house in over fifty years, but I remember the kitchen entrance, and turning right into the sitting room, where my great-grandfather sat, I guess watching TV, and I remember shaking his hand. That\’s it – my one story of Great Grandpa…
They didn\’t recall my grandfather, but were likely a couple decades or so behind him in school, as they were talking about the late 30\’s or early 40\’s for the time of construction. But I accompanied them as they planted the geraniums, one between their parents\’ headstones, and one between their grandparents\’ headstones, and listened as they talked about their forebears.
They had also known my grandfather\’s cousins Jane and Roberta (or Bobbie, as we all knew her), and how the girls had grown up in the Mary Lyons house. They concurred when I mentioned that they\’d lived, up until eight or ten years ago, in the Major Joseph Griswold house in Buckland, perhaps a quarter mile away, until ill health forced them into assisted living. Jane, we surmised, was still alive, but they recalled (as I believe I do) that Bobbie passed away a few years ago.
We continued to chat as I walked them back to their car, thanked them for the nice conversation, and said I hoped to see them again next year.
