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Mt. Zion Memorial Day-2006
There’s Something About Old Country Graveyards
Memorial Day—Homecoming—Decoration Day—or my personal favorite—All Day Singing and Dinner on the Ground. All the same? Not exactly, but close. The common thread—they bring people to cemeteries.
I know that Memorial Day at Mt. Zion is not exactly the same as the national Memorial Day, but I explored the similarities. In 1966, Lyndon Johnson declared Waterloo, NY as the place of origin for Memorial Day. That community first decorated graves of Civil War Veterans in 1865. As a Southerner, Lyndon should have known better. Southerners were doing it long before.
In the old days, we would sing (all day)—and, of course, we would have dinner on the ground. When I was a boy, I always wondered if folks hadn’t meant to say dinner on the grounds, because we mostly ate off of tables, under a tabernacle, on the grounds of the church or cemetery. Only a few threw down old quilts and actually ate on the ground—but my folks said that was more common in the really old days.
After dinner on the ground came the hard part. I marveled as men wearing ties mowed grass with real-push mowers. (not walk-behinds—but push). They righted stones, added sand to graves, repaired (even painted) fences, sweating through their Sunday best. My daddy sometimes wore a tie with his overalls—never a suit coat because he didn’t own one. Many men did and they wore those suit coats to keep people from seeing them sweat. It didn’t work. Telltale signs would soon appear under their arms and down their backs—even through those coats. Women tried to stay fresh-looking in stockings, dresses, hats and bonnets as they hauled food and drinks, pulled weeds and placed flowers on graves.
For me–twilight was the best part—things had cooled down—the singing was better, somehow, and even cold chicken tasted good washed down with my mama’s iced tea. Sometimes, there was homemade ice cream or watermelons.
Folks went home at dark leaving the cemetery looking better than at any other time of the year. They went home full—full of wonderful southern cooking, of course—full of the sounds of music—prayer—church—memories—full of the spirit of having done something good and worthwhile.
What was the best part? In public, people would say it was the prayer or the church services, a memorable sermon, but in private, dinner on the ground usually won that contest. For some, it was the music.
In later years, the ground did give way to tables and tabernacles and air-conditioned fellowship halls. Singing moved inside or was just omitted. Decorating graves? It’s still done, of course, but rarely on Decoration Day. Mowing and pulling weeds is contracted out. (Thank goodness)
In the old days, like today, weeds grew back, real flowers wilted and died, plastic ones faded and curled up in the Texas heat. But what stayed behind? What’s left when everybody goes home? Why do we do it?
Why? Most would give the obvious answer. To honor the loved ones who have passed before us (and to provide a final resting place for ourselves). But with our spoiled selves today, we complain about the heat. We long for our recliners and remotes—especially for central air. Take-out has become food we bring home to eat in front of our televisions, not food we cook to take someplace else.
So, if we are decorating only a little, if we’re not mowing or pulling weeds, if the heat is sometimes oppressive, if cooking is a chore rather than a delight…. why do we continue? Yes, I know that the business of managing, maintaining and financing of the final resting place for our loved ones and ourselves must be done. We gather once a year to report about last year and make important decisions about next year. I recognize and appreciate the importance of all that, those awesome responsibilities, and the volunteers who carry them out year after year. Those volunteers know why they do it. But what about the rest of us?
Several years ago, I heard a poem read at a funeral and fell in love with it. Most of you have probably heard Do Not Stand. It was thought to be Indian in origin, because so many Native Americans used it. Actually, it was written by Mary Frye of Baltimore in 1932—about her mother. She wrote it on the back of a paper grocery sack (for you kids—grocery sacks used to be brown paper bags). John Wayne read this at director Howard Hawkes funeral.
Do not stand by my grave and weep
I am not there, I do not sleep
I am the thousand winds that blow
I am the diamond glint on snow
I am the sunlight on ripened grain
I am the gentle autumn rain
As you awake with morning hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circling flight
I am the day transcending night
So do not stand by my grave and cry
I am not there—I did not die.
I found those verses so comforting. Still do. It’s comforting to think that our loved ones are not there. But if they are not there, why do we continue to come—to decorate—to maintain?
If you asked members of this group or any of hundreds gathered across the nation in mostly rural areas why we continue to do this—to have memorial days, decoration days—you would get lots of answers. Many would be unable to clearly articulate the reasons why. It’s just something they feel—maybe just an obligation to do the right thing. I think it’s more than that. I grew up in the Klondike community. In an old Klondike graveyard, my grandfather said it like this—There’s just something about an old country graveyard.
What is that something? Especially if, as Do Not Stand proclaims, they are not here. That poem is correct, because Mary Frye knew that her mother was not in that cold, often wet, sometimes cracked ground. She had gone to Heaven. Yet, my grandfather, without waxing poetic, said something that seems to contradict that—something profound. Maybe it was because Mary’s mother was buried in Baltimore and my grandfather was talking about an old cemetery in Klondike where he had buried his mother and several of his children. Memorial days are mostly rural traditions now. Maybe there is just something about rural cemeteries, but I think it applies to all of them.
I read my grandchildren a book titled Last Innocent Summer by Zenita Fowler. The novel revolves around the death of two little girls in Commerce almost seventy years ago. My grandchildren were enthralled—keeping the novel in their memories as we read it in parts over several months and several visits. When we finished, they wanted to find the graves of those two little girls—and we did—in an old country graveyard. When we visited, as much as children can, they calmed for a few minutes—they seemed to understand better—so much better that they wanted to read that novel again. As they stood at the children’s graves, I thought about what my Papa Lee had said. There’s something about an old country graveyard.
As part of research for writing my first novel, I read northeast Texas novels like William Humphrey’s The Ordways and Home from the Hill. Many pivotal scenes in those books take place in old country graveyards. There are several scenes in my books in country graveyards. Not morbid scenes—but very important ones.
When I am writing a novel and need inspiration—when I am trying to get my children or grandchildren to understand and appreciate their heritage—when I am experiencing sad or hard times—when I just want to reflect and meditate—I find that something about my grandfather spoke of, at an old country graveyard—standing at the graves of my parents, grandparents, and two brothers.
I, like you, now understand what my grandfather meant when he said there’s something about old country graveyards. Yes, it is comforting to think that they are not here, but I find it comforting to think that they are. I like to think that they visit only when we do—they leave when we leave—return when we come again. It’s our meeting place—our place to reconnect and remember. It’s not the only place where we hear their voices, feel their presence, but it’s the always place—because they are always there.
As we visit----
In the wind, we hear their whispers about the mistakes they made and how we can avoid them.
In the sun, we feel the warm touch of their embrace.
In the rain, we feel cleansed and calmed
In the snow, we see the brightness of their smiles.
In the sounds of nature, the chirp of a cricket, the buzz of a locust, the song of a bird, we hear the healing stories of our childhood.
In the birds that fly around old country graveyards, we see our loved ones freedom, and ourselves flying away.
The
re’s something about old country graveyards. And that is why we do it.
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