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.