When I was a kid, until I got married, Memorial Day was always a project for my father and me.  We planted flowers at his grandparents’ graves and both of my grandfathers’ graves.  My dad was a guy who never did anything halfway.  We took a gallon of water (because two of the cemeteries didn’t provide water), buckets and clothes to wash the graves, peat moss and potting soil to fertilize the soil, as well as Miracle Gro to help the plants along.  There were three cemeteries and about seventy miles of driving involved.  I loved spending time with my dad and didn’t question why my sister didn’t participate.  I think he knew I would go along with whatever he wanted and I never seemed to have other plans to prohibit me from participating.

I’m sure I would have continued to (as dad called it) “do the graves,” even after I was married, but got diagnosed with arthritis two weeks later.  When my dad died in 1994, Rich and I started “doing the graves” because my mother wasn’t physically up for the challenge, and she’s now gone as well.

So today we’re “doing the graves” and I’m thinking about all of the times I’ve done them with both my father and Rich.  I don’t know about other people, but for me, I “do the graves” to honor not only the memory of my parents and grandparents, but also to make sure the tradition did not die with my father.  For me, “Memorial Day,” is a day I remember my dad and always spending that day with him.

I hope every one that reads this has a great Memorial Day and that your memories of those that have passed are every bit as wonderful as mine.

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