A DAY OF REMEMBERANCE

I wrote this on Memorial Day but was unable to connect to the internet until now.

A DAY OF REMEBERANCE

Memorial Day was originated, mid 1800’s, as a day to signify the end of the Civil War and a day to honor the Union soldier who had lost their lives. They called it Decoration Day. The modern name “Memorial Day” didn’t occur until the late 1800’s and it wasn’t until after WW2, in 1967, that it became the official name mandated by Federal law.

I have the honor and privilege to be spending Memorial Day in Santa Fe, the capital city of New Mexico.

The Lodge of Santa Fe, my home away from home for a week, sits at the top of a small hill overlooking the town below.

Upon my arrival yesterday, the first thing I noticed was the glorious, awe-inspiring National Cemetery that is directly down the hill and across the highway from the Lodge.

Last night, I spent the better part of an hour gazing upon that cemetery, the majority of which consists of acre upon acre, thousands upon thousands of white markers, all signifying the soldiers who proudly served and defended their state and country.

The sun was bright, the sky crystal blue and cloud free as I stepped outside this morning, camera in hand, intent on taking pictures of the flag adorned cemetery below. Before I could get the camera in focus, I stopped to notice the hundreds of vehicles slowly streaming down the highway and streets toward the cemetery. I hadn’t intended to join them but an invisible force seemed to control my body and before I realized it, I started walking the mile down the hill, across two highways, finally entering the entrance to the cemetery.

With their Memorial Day ceremony still twenty minutes from starting, the band, loud and proud, played a series of patriotic songs as hundreds of people continued pouring into the cemetery. I stood back, watching, observing, feeling like an intruder happening upon someone else’s special moment; not really belonging but unable to tear myself away.

I started snapping picture after picture of monuments, flags and people. Not one to normally wear sunglasses, I was glad to have them with me, as my tears began to flow, hiding my eyes, which always grant those looking, access to the feelings of my heart.

I walked on, snapping pictures and trying to block out the noise of the dead that often fills my head when I’m in their company.

I came upon an old Indian woman, who had a woven blanket which she laid on the ground directly above her deceased husband. She stood, looking around at the crowd, waiting for the moment when she could be alone to lay on the blanket, close to her husband, just as she’d done for the last fifteen years since he died.

My sunglasses are useless, no longer able to hide the increased flow of tears cascading down my face. I moved on.

An old man points his cane at several headstones, showing and telling his son the history of his family. The son nods with understanding, intent upon remembering each detail to pass on with perfection, to his son and all the generations that follow.

I hear the bag-pipes and hurry down the lawn until I see a man in full Scottish dress playing them. He walks in a small circle around his ancestors, blowing, piping and playing songs from their country of origin. He wipes his own tears and begins playing “Amazing Grace.” I no longer need my sunglasses as my ragged breathing and snuffling nose have already given me away.

As four low-flying Air Force jets fly overhead, signaling the beginning of the ceremony, I looked to the other faces in the crowd, noting that I wasn’t the only one moved by the grand significance of the moment.

The ceremony was touching as well as inspiring and ended with a twenty-four gun salute before the jets made their final low sweep back over the crowd.

As I slowly made my way back up the hill to the Lodge, I reflected on my amazing experience of the day. It wasn’t just the flags, flowers or the pomp & circumstance of the ceremony that ultimately touched my heart. It was the smallest of children to the oldest of the elders that told the story of love, honor, pride, devotion, loss and family heritage; each coming to pay their respect as well as to learn a little about themselves and where they came from.

I’ve learned, from my job as District Manager of our local cemeteries, that the people coming there don't do so to necessarily communicate with and remember their deceased; a task that can be done anywhere within the minds and hearts of the living. They come instead to remember or perhaps learn where they came from; to solidify the fact that they belong.
I recently had one young woman come into my office with a list of her long deceased relatives. She wanted to know where she could find them. I looked up the names, printed out all the information that I had and showed her on the map where to find them. It was at that point, because of her overwhelming excitement, that she shared her story with me (as so many who come to my office often do.) She smiled through her tears as she told me of being raised by her grandparents, on her father’s side; her mother died in childbirth. Neither her father, nor his parents, could ever bear to tell her about her mother, or her mother’s relatives. “It was too hard for them to talk about my Mom” she said. When she left home to make her way in the world, a year ago, she decided she wanted to find the “other part of me.” Unfortunately, like her mother, the maternal side of her family had all died but the young girl decided it didn’t matter and that’s why she’d ended up in my office.

I shared my Kleenex and sent her on her way out into the cemetery. I was surprised, about an hour later, when my office door opened and she rushed inside, came around my desk and gave me a hug. (These are the days I treasure.) She thanked me for my help and for listening. She said that she read and touched each headstone and now felt as though the other part of her was indeed real. It didn’t matter to her that she hadn’t known them, what mattered was that she felt a sense of belonging.

In earlier times, our lineages where recorded within the covers of family Bibles. The Bibles were then passed down from generation to generation; tangible evidence of where we came from and to whose family we belonged. Unfortunately, this practice is a dying art. We have the internet to look up our lineage but words on a screen are unconvincing for some. I have many people who come each year (some from other countries) to my office looking for the tangible evidence of their relatives that they can touch, feel and see with their own eyes.

To some, cemeteries and headstones are morbid, depressing and unnecessary, but I find them a loving blessing, a treasure trove of history. I believe when you die you aren’t just leaving behind those who were a part of your life; you are in fact, leaving behind a roadmap, for those not yet born, to follow.

"DAMN GOOD" MINCEMEAT

In my memories I recall the kitchen in our old farm house a flutter with activity, happy and productive. I close my eyes and conjure forth a combination of savory smells cooking on the stove; meat, fruit, cider, apples. Lorraine, short, wide, chopped brown hair, thongs, mumu, simply beautiful with her wide smile, eyes alive with life and tinkling laughter, traipses back and forth from the sink dropping ground apples into the huge black speckled pot. Mom, tall, glamorous, long-legged, slacks, tennis shoes, flowered blouse, curly red hair, smiles but concentrates with intensity on her job of stirring the contents of the pot; the ingredients prone to burning easily if allowed. With a silent communication that only two close friends can share, the women look at each other, smiles turning to giggles, as each rush to gather their private caches of liquid in bottles, large and small. Lorraine pours the liquid, as Mom stirs; both leaning close to smell the effects of each addition. One hour passes; the stirring continues into the second hour. As the seconds tick by, each woman with spoon in hand, test the thickening concoction. The decision, “It’s good.” Stir the mixture, test, giggle, stir, stir, test, giggle, test, test, test, tear-rolling, pant-peeing, flat-out laughter. Finally cooked down to perfection, the stove turned off, the pot removed from the burner, laughter reduced to sporadic fits of giggles, I hear “That’s the best damn batch we’ve ever made!”

I wish I could say I, like my Mom and Lorraine, make mincemeat every year, but I let years slip away without making the effort. When I do gather my ingredients and begin the process of cooking up “a batch,” my thoughts always gravitate to my memories of these two women. A fact, that doesn’t easily escape my mind, is that I have no friends willing or family close enough to share this experience with. It’s unfortunate because I’ve found it isn’t just the making of the mincemeat, but an attempt to make my own kitchen alive with happiness and memories. Still, I smile as I stir, stir, stir, taste, stir, taste, taste, taste and eventually my giggles turn into flat-out, pants-peeing laughter. My heart is joyous, my head a bit “tipsy and giddy” from all the tasting, but as I fill my containers with the finished product, I think of how my parents, siblings and neighbors might have memories of that “best damn” homemade mincemeat I’ve given them – straight from my kitchen filled with my own unique form of happiness and love.

DAMN GOOD MINCEMENT

2 lbs. lean beef
½ lb suet
2 lbs apples (a juicy kind)
2 lb raisons
1 lb currants
3 cups sugar
3 teaspoon salt
3 teaspoon cinnamon
2 teaspoon cloves
3 teaspoon nutmeg
½ cup lemon juice

Add apple cider, meat broth and any kind of liquor you can find in your cupboards. Cook 1 to 2 hours until liquid is reduced down. Stir frequently because it likes to stick to the bottom of the pot and burn. I spray the pan with Pam the night before and then again before adding ingredients.

**I generally multiply this recipe by 10 or 12. I use a gallon of wine, a fifth of whiskey and a gallon of brandy for the liquor – as it’s the liquor that gives it the wonderful flavor that it has. Just beware that you might get a little “tipsy” as you test it throughout the two hours of cooking!!

TODAY IS FOR LIVING

At 5:00 a.m., on her way to work, Taylor marvels at the cool, autumn feel in the air although it’s only August. Arriving at her office, she stops her car and gazes at the soft pink sunrise caressing the starkness of the rugged Blue Mountains to the east. The sight makes her heart feel light and free. Not a bad way to start any day, she muses.

She climbs from her car and notices dead silence hangs in the air, waiting for her to create the next scene. Poised in front of her office building, key in hand, she freezes mid-motion not quite willing or ready to enter the reality of the world on the other side of the door. Instead she turns, walks to the concrete bench facing the cemetery in her charge and sits.

She sat outside at home the night before, as the temperature dipped with the sun, listening to the precious sounds that only come with warm days. The crickets played their legged instruments; the sprinklers added their own synchronized beat and the laughter of the neighborhood children tied it all together in a sweet song. It occurred to Taylor that this was the first opportunity she’d actually taken this summer to listen to the sounds around her. She was both saddened and enlightened by the revelation; realizing more time and energy had been spent worrying about the minutes slipping by, than enjoying the moments she’d actually been given and discarded.

On the bench, Taylor remembers how in childhood she managed to live life as it came, having at least one precious daily adventure to store away in her memory bank of treasured moments.

Five in the morning was the agreed upon time for ten year old Taylor to have a clandestine rendezvous with her new puppy-love, Lynn. Both of them had to sneak out of their homes in the early morning hours making their adventure her first, significant life-event.

Taylor, in last night’s clothing, jumped out of bed and tip-toed into the kitchen to peer at the illuminated clock on the stove; it read 4:30 in mellow green. A smile crossed her face as she realizes she awoke in time. She slid her grey thongs, lying by the back door, on her feet, quietly turning the door knob, escaping the confines of the old farm house. She released the chest full of air she hadn’t realized she’d been holding and stood quietly, ear to door, to see if her departure had somehow alerted her sleeping parents. No one stirred, except her dog Stubby who stood beside her, tail wagging in anticipation of Taylor’s loving caresses. Taylor grinned as she stroked the dog, smugly appreciating her success in the first leg of her journey.

Together, she and Stubby jumped from the porch to the grass, not wanting to risk walking down the sidewalk made of squeaky, weathered old boards that never failed to announce one’s comings and goings.

Taylor tore across the yard with Stubby joyfully at her heels. They stopped briefly at the weathered garage with peeling red paint. Sliding back the door a sliver, Taylor extracted a large blue fishing pole and a five gallon bucket from a darkened corner.

After walking halfway down the rough, rocky lane, Taylor caught a glimpse of Lynn as he turned from the highway onto the lane. Her heart went wild with excitement. He rode the Schwinn bicycle he was given for his birthday one month before. “My own sweet prince mounted on a shiny new bike,” she thought, almost like the King Arthur she’d recently read about in The Sword and the Stone. As he drew near, Lynn’s wide smile mirrored her own.

For the next hour, the moments stretch like characters in a film, moving in slow motion. They held hands as they circled the pond in search of their bumpy, slimy, green victims. Bull frog eyes cross and bulge in delicious anticipation as red material attached to a hook, on the fishing pole, dangled over their slightly emerged heads. Grand green trophies, pulled from the pond, one after the other, mound up inside the five gallon bucket. Lynn and Taylor erupted in gales of laughter as they gave chase to a few brave frogs, not willing to be contained in the bucket; frantic in their pursuit to reach the safety of the pond.

All too quickly, the sun rise signals the end of their adventure. Slowly they turned toward each other, leaned in and gently touched lips for a farewell kiss; Taylor’s first. She kept her eyes open to savor the face of the first person who liked her. Taylor, the person whose mother told her hippo’s can’t dance, when she’d innocently asked for ballet lessons; Taylor, whose step-grandmother informed her that she shouldn’t worry because homely girls, like herself, generally grew up to be pretty; Taylor, who in all of her ten years, had never heard the words “I love you” even from her parents.

Lynn opened his eyes and simultaneously they smile at their boldness.

“I love you,” he said. Pride and hope soar deep within Taylor’s heart; making the thought of flying like a dove, a possibility.

“Thank you for loving me,” she whispered as she hugged him fiercely. She turned quickly away, running toward the lane and home; tears of joy splattering on her thin cotton blouse.

“Hey!” he yells, “next weekend, same time?”

She turned and nodded. “Exactly the same!” she replied, the moment forever etched on her heart.

The sprinklers in the cemetery pop, hiss, sputter into action, drawing Taylor back to the present. “What memories have I made lately?” she wonders. Opportunities to surround herself with people, laughter, love and experiences all pushed aside by endless tasks and calendar pages full of commitments. The “have to” and “must do” minutes of her life overpowering and imprisoning the rare occasions she’d been able to drink in the essence of the people and things around her; disheartened, like the frogs of her youth, desperate yet unable to get back to the pond.

A newly revised script for the day plays out in her head, guided by memories of frogs, first love and hope. Taylor remembered hauling that five gallon bucket back down the lane to the pond later that morning long ago; compassion dictating the need to grant life instead of death. Memories of jumping, clapping, herding and guiding those “chirping,” “ribbitting” frogs back toward their pond-home now makes her laugh and it feels grand.

Taylor’s ground crew stands by the locked door to the office behind her, confused and bewildered; not knowing what to make of their boss, her back to them on the concrete bench, in belly-rolling laughter.

“Change of plans today, guys” she says to the air in front of her. She turns to the crew, “Grab your lunches and call your families. We’re going to the mountains to have a picnic, pick huckleberries and play in the river. The dead don’t need our help today. Today is just for living!”

THE WRONG TOOLS

Growing up on a small farm, I often spent time as my father’s shadow. He was my first love, my protector, my hero. By my little girl standards, he could do no wrong. He shined and mesmerized like the little spots of dew that clung to the tree leaves at sunrise each spring morning. I followed him through every farm ritual of the day, no matter how menial, until he left for work at the mill each afternoon. I was his tractor driver, his kindling carrier, his pig slopper and at times would even became his human hunting dog, fleetly flopping down when he yelled, “Hit the ground!” as he blasted each pheasant I roused into flight. Those moments were near perfection, the breathtaking beauty of a truly exquisite gem being placed in my hand. I was efficient, important and flawless. His happiness and delight in my efforts made me worthy.

As I aged and became more skillful I climbed the ranks from shadow tag-along to helper. A good portion of our father-daughter moments were still gems but now at various times became infused with lumps of coal; black, dirty and distasteful.

As a poor farmer, my father had little to no money for decent farm equipment. He had to make do with the old, the discarded, the recycled. Luckily he was a mechanic by trade and with the help of tinkering, baling
wire and a lot of cussing he was able to keep his equipment operational. I, too, frequently cursed those damnable mechanical dinosaurs because they would consistently lead me to fall from grace in my father’s loving eyes. Where the machinery was concerned, I went from helper to go-to girl. I was my father’s personal courier service, not carrying important papers from one place to another, but tools.

My father, bent over with grease to his elbows, barked out a one or two word tool demand and it was my job to run, fetch it for him and run back with lightening feet.

I heard “crescent wrench” uttered from my father’s lips and tore across the graveled road to the garage, never once stopping to think that I had no clue as to what a crescent wrench actually looked like. I then stood before the tools as seconds ticked by, my external world moving in slow motion, my brain traveling at warp speed.

I pleadingly looked at the tools willing my frantic mind to guide me to the correct one. I grabbed a tool and tore back across the road and placed the tool in my father’s out-stretched hand. He looked at the tool, closed his eyes and then looked at me. His jaw rapidly popping in and out, he said through clenched teeth, “I said a crescent wrench, not a pipe wrench….It looks…like a crescent”.

“What in the Sam-Hill does a crescent look like?” I wanted desperately to scream out, but before my thought could come to fruition, my father would turn back toward the piece of equipment and whistle some tune. I knew from experience that this was my cue to try again because when my father whistled it was only because he was really angry, restraining the urge to yell. Eventually, sometimes sooner than later, I connected with the right tool and would be back in my father’s good graces but not before the experience took its toll on my spirit.

As my childhood flew by, I strived to make the moments with my father gems instead of coal. I learned the names and shapes of those blasted tools and delivered them into the hand of my father with near perfection. I also learned the whistled version of many songs.

I’m older now with children and grandchildren of my own. I often look back on my childhood and at the lessons I learned from those experiences I shared with my father. He continues to be my hero but in a more realistic way. I bless him for the tools he handed me that made me fast, efficient, and versatile, strong enough to handle any trials that force their way into my life. But I also curse him for handing me the wrong tools that ingrained in me the notion that only when I am good and near perfection will I be deemed worthy and loved. Because with all the strength that I hold inside me, it’s that one single weakness which can still drive me to the depths of despair.

Fortunately, for every human, strong or fragile, life is a classroom. The best we can hope for is to teach and be taught by those we love which tool to use for the job at hand. And if by chance we grab the wrong tool, let's hope to Sam-Hill we can all remember how to whistle.