Yes, Memorial Day, as we know it today, was originally “Decoration Day”, evolving in the years following the Civil War to commemorate those that died on both sides of the conflict, and later, all military that died in battle. Thus began the tradition of putting flowers and flags on graves in the spring, and it spread from military dead to family members and friends. It was unofficial until 1971, when the Day became officially recognized as a national holiday.
When we were younger, it was a tradition that my father, my brother, and I would travel down to Raynham, where my great uncles Herbert and Warren lived. Mother would have packed a picnic lunch, and we’d “make the rounds” of the cemeteries. Uncle Herb would have flats of flowers that he’d grown in his greenhouse ready for “Decoration Day”, which he always called it. None of this “Memorial Day” for him. Uncle Warren never came with us, as he never went out of the house. Except to go to work at the horse farm next door. He’d worked there for years, and confided one day that he absolutely hated horses! Anyway, that was our first stop. Flowers in hand, off we’d go to visit the graves of family. We’d first stop at the graves of my great grandparents, which included a great aunt by that time, and Herb would show us his plot and his brother Warren’s, “where they would be someday”, as he’d tell us proudly. I always thought it just a bit creepy, but it gave him a sense of peace.
Next, we’d proceed to my grandfather’s grave. His was by itself, in a large cemetery in Jamaica Plain, for whatever reason. Charles Walters was sort of a mystery to all of us. He arrived from somewhere down south, and married my grandmother, who was quite a bit older than he. He died of tuberculosis at age 31, when my father was 3. So, basically a question mark. The only thing we have from him is his violin, so we know there’s a musical connection there, but otherwise, not much to go on. The final stop was at the grave of my grandmother, who was buried where her third and final husband would later be. He was still alive when we were young, well into his 90’s at that point. We’d stop at his house in Canton, Massachusetts, to say hello. His house was on the street where my father lived growing up, and farther down, we’d stop to visit a lovely lady Uncle Herb’s age, May. She’d grown up with Herb, and we always suspected that he’d had a crush on her in their youth.
My first actual playing was in high school, where I went to a regional school in Southwestern New Hampshire. The band would play in the southern towns first – Fitzwilliam and Troy, and then end up in Swanzey, the largest of the regional system. The parade in Troy was memorable because the parade would loop through the long town square and meander down to the river that ran through below it. There, we’d have a ceremony where a Gold Star Mother would toss an elaborate silver wreath into the water in memory of those lost at sea. The wreath would float gently past and under the bridge until it disappeared from view. It was very moving, until one year, we noticed that there was a man on the other side of the bridge in waders, with a fishing pole at the ready to snatch the wreath out of the water so it could be reused the next year. Apparently, the wreath was older than the lost sailors it was meant to commemorate. A touching combination of ceremony and Yankee frugality.
In the small village, where I grew up, there was a Civil War memorial. A period cannon, along with the requisite stack of cannonballs sat on a raised right next to the triangle in front of the Congregational Church. To be completely honest, I don’t ever remember anything happening on Memorial Day of any significance. Later in the summer, Old Home Day was the larger event, with young folks in costumes, bicycles and baby carriages, usually the town’s fire engine and snow plow would make an appearance. Then a big pot luck supper. We’d moved there when I was in the fourth grade from a suburb of Boston, and my mother was wasn’t altogether sure of the local cuisine. But we partook, and all of us lived to talk about it.
The next town over, Nelson, is where my father’s roots run deeply. The old family homestead is there, where members of the Hardy family have lived since the late 1700’s, and many branches are buried in the local cemetery. In fact, my father is buried in this cemetery, so we’ll go over and put some flowers there this weekend, along with a flag. Nelson has a bit more happening. A parade with the town band was lining up to march to the cemetery one year as we were passing through, and we had to take a back road to escape. The town band also plays for July 4th, when they are mounted on a couple of boats tied together and proceed around Granite Lake, just before the fireworks.
Her Ladyship’s family has some protocols for the family graves in the nearby city of Keene. My late father-in-law was usually in command of the plantings. His preferences were for red geraniums, with rows of marigolds in front. In later years, we took over, but maintaining the planting diagrams exactly. Herself and her father planted the flowers one year in my absence – I had a parade or some such. My wife is not what you’d call an “outdoorsy” person, and in fairness, she was dressed up in school principal attire. In laying out the plantings, her father told her she “dug like a dog”. I don’t think he meant it as a compliment. A few years back, some friends took it upon themselves to put in a small enclosed garden in front of the gravestone, with some pretty flowering things and a couple of perennials. Shortly after, the cemetery czars decreed that all of that stuff got in the way of their crew’s mowing, which in truth they did somewhat sporadically anyway throughout the summer. A SWAT team of goats could be doing a neater job. So, in recent years, we just put small containers with flags in front of the headstones so they can be easily moved or removed. I went out today to look from some containers today and found some, but the geraniums were a lilac color. That would totally violate the family’s Code of Color.
One of my favorite Memorial Day stories came from a colleague, who was a band director up in the North Country. He related to us at dinner one year at a conference, that his high school band was situated near the front of the parade, having stepped off and marching crisply through town. As the band came up to the Fire Station, the fire whistle blew, as it turned out later, in salute. Not knowing that, and assuming the doors would fly open and fire trucks would roll out and crush the band, he directed the drum majors down a side street and onto an alternative route, literally into the less desirable parts of town. The rest of the parade followed the band on its detour, which extended the parade route to parts of town he confided he’d never seen before, and, sadly, took the parade participants away from the waving crowds and the reviewing stand, which was set up just past of the fire station. Just the sort of material about which legends are made.
Memorial Day provides for me a multitude of fond, sometimes amusing memories. From Uncle Herb and his flowers to the parades, to my father showing us where he grew up, to all of the different bands getting ready to march, the veterans bustling about in their official regalia. It’s all been special. Wonderful. I’m thinking . . . . . yes, indeed.
I'm Thinking...No! 