In Keeping With Tradition

My great-grandmother raised iris -- "flags" they were called then -- to sell to people to put on family graves on Memorial Day. She lived close to a large cemetery and she gathered her long-stemmed flowers in buckets in her front yard.

As a child I remember my family visiting the same cemeteries every year to put our own fresh-cut peonies, iris, lilacs, and whatever else was blooming in the yard in our homemade vases of milk jugs. We would take buckets and garden hand tools to trim away overgrown grass on the headstones of my baby sister and my grandfather, wash away the grass trimmings and dirt, and secure the milk jugs in the ground with wire hangers cut into long hooks -- my dad would hook the hook-ends over the edges of the jugs while one of us girls would make several trips to the nearest hose bib to bring water. We always went the Saturday before Memorial Day, early in the morning, to beat the crowds in the cemetery. We were far from the only ones to do this, and there were always many graves with fresh flowers, US flags for the veterans, and pinwheels or other decorations to honor loved ones.

Over the years we have adapted our traditions slightly. My aunt and uncle drive down from Idaho to join us for our newer tradition of breakfast at IHOP before we caravan to the cemeteries. Only one sister still lives here like I do and we drag our children out of bed early to meet for breakfast. The number of graves now includes all of my grandparents and several other family members whose graves my parents have traced. Instead of our own homegrown bouquets we buy pots of chrysanthemums. It's just as well. This year the weather has been too cool and wet for our own blooms. And my children now argue over who gets the grass clippers to trim the grass.

I love the chance to reminisce about our family members who have gone on as we wander through the headstones. My children like reading the names out, like an honor roll call. When we visit Salt Lake City Cemetery we watch for the graves of LDS Church presidents and unusually-shaped headstones. In Mt. Olivet cemetery we watch for the herd of deer that live there year-round. This year we didn't see the deer, but we met two elderly sisters, the only ones left, who were leaving pots of sunshine-yellow chrysanthemums for their departed. They shared the story of their aunt who died at the turn of the 20th century at age 16 from a ruptured appendix, and another relative buried there who had fought in the Spanish-American War. I hope we get to see them next year. In Elysian Gardens cemetery my dad told the story of my great-great grandmother, a spirited, feisty lady who whacked an eagle trying to carry off one of her lambs with a shovel and killed the eagle. She used its wing for a duster in her house. The Indians were quite impressed with this feat. There was another story about her pulling an Indian off his horse -- don't know the whole story -- but the local Indians viewed her with great respect. I hadn't heard either of those stories before.

I love my family. I love remembering that I am part of something greater. As a child I was the end link in a long family chain. Now that I have children I can see that I am actually somewhere in the middle of the chain that extends behind me and before me. It renews my faith in eternal families sealed together in holy temples. I can't wait to hear next year's graveside stories.