Several years ago, after much prodding by my Aunt Max, my cousin Jo (Max's daughter) and I raised the headstone of great Aunt Hilda, who passed away in the early 20th century. With help from my sons and my sister, we dug, pried, pushed, and pulled by rope to pop Hilda's stone out of the ground. We then put some gravel and dirt in the hole and re set the stone, now level with the grass, more or less. We did a fine job and Max was pleased. On that day we also poured a bit of concrete for a couple other stones and did some general clean up. Max brought enough food to feed an army, and we had a fine time. You see, in many small town cemeteries, the upkeep is pretty much do it yourself, so we did it ourselves.
Two years ago, my sons and I made a trip to the same cemetery to set my mom's stone. We carefully dug out the earth where it would be set, built a form, set the stone and poured some concrete around it. I troweled the concrete smooth, and having finished my work, I stood up and for the first time saw my parent's graves side by side. The grief I felt was crushing, and I fell to my knees and wept. My sister came to my side and comforted me. Our final act for mom and dad, not done out of obligation but rather a sense of caregiving for those who cared for us.
When I was a young boy, my parents and I would travel by car from where we lived in northern California to Minnesota to visit family. Once we arrived in Minnesota and were settled in for our visit my dad would always go to the local cemetery to see his brother Palmer's grave. Dad took me with on these trips, and back then cemeteries gave me the 'willies'. All those dead people, people I never knew, but with familiar names. Palmer was killed in World War II, very close to the end of the war in Europe. After the war, Palmer was reburied in the little country cemetery, and like so many other young men given a granite headstone. Over the years, the stone became discolored and stained by an oil can that someone had placed on it, no doubt in the course of mowing the grass one spring. The stain from the oil can spread, and every year Dad would say that the stone should be cleaned, but he never got around to it. I don't know why he didn't but I suspect one reason could be the never ending grief he felt for losing a brother he was very close to. A brother that he would not grow old with, nor share the joys of raising children and living lives.
Last week Jo and I made the trip to northern Minnesota and did cemetery maintenance. With the help of my sister and brother in law, we raised the headstones of our great-great grandparents, our great grandfather, and cleaned the headstones for Palmer, his mother (my grandmother), and my other grandmother, the grandma my sister and I shared with Jo. With a pumice stone, clear water and some elbow grease, I was able to get Palmer's stone looking much better, and his mother's stone too. Jo used some simple green, water and a brush to clean up our grandma's stone.
Sometime during the day, Jo remarked, "our moms are proud today". I think so too.
As Jo was scrubbing our Grandma's stone, I had a flashback to when I was 10 years old. On the advice of one of their sons, my uncle "Buster", Grandma and Grandpa went to see the move True Grit. The original with John Wayne, Kim Darby and Glen Campbell, among others. Grandma and Grandpa took me along, and I will never forget sitting in between them, watching the Old Man (Wayne) charge across a mountain meadow on a horse, reins in his teeth, a Winchester lever action in one hand, pistol in the other, taking on Ned Pepper and his gang. To this day, I get a chill when I see that scene. But, I digress.
At the end of the movie we see young Mattie Ross at her family grave site with Rooster Cogburn, tending to the grave of her father who was killed at the beginning of the movie. Mattie tells Rooster that she 'finds comfort in knowing where she will spend eternity'; next to her parents and siblings, and invites Rooster to lay next to her when the time comes.
This is what I flashed back to as Grandma's stone was being scrubbed. It's a little country cemetery, where our family goes back 4 generations or so, surrounded by fields, with the little town in the distance. I don't get the willies anymore when I visit that cemetery but rather I feel connected to those who came before me, who were born, lived lives, raised families, worked hard and now are spending eternity close to home and the people who mattered most to them. Having departed this life and moved on to the next, all that remains are their headstones and the memories they instilled into their children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren. They cleared the road for us, made us possible. The least we can do is to pass those memories on, and do a little maintenance on their markers.
Max once told me, that it would be up to Jo and I to take care of the graves and markers. Two years ago, I told my sons that someday they will do this work. They understood.
Rooster did wind up laying next to Mattie for eternity.
I'd like to think that Max and Mom, the Grandmas and Palmer were looking down and feeling proud. And feeling good that we were not shedding tears of grief, but enjoying being with family, and as our uncle Buster said, 'preserving our common heritage'.
I did, however, miss Aunt Max's macaroni salad. Almost as much as I miss her.
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