John J. A. Murphy: Memories (20th century)

"We left feeling more connected …"

Come MemorialDay, the iris have gotten closer to gone. The Peonies and roses have just started. We have plenty of blossoms to share a few with our dearly departeds. The Muse and I observe MemorialDay by toodling out to the local cemetery to play hide-and-seek with our forebears. We visit graves in a circular sequence, without regard to seniority. We always start with my great-great-grandparents, people I knew when I was small, both born in the 1870s. I remember sitting on my great-great-grandmother's broad lap in the rocking chair. The Muse later recovered it, and it now sits in our library room, still squeaking as it always has. My great-great-grandfather Luther's father, was a Civil War veteran who died of a war-weakened heart after crossing the Oregon Trail three times. His grave was lost to the ages near a dusty Eastern Oregon rimrock cowtown.

We always lose our way at first, misremembering exact locations. I remember their graves are near the stone for the man who suspended me from high school the week before I was scheduled to graduate. Some pettiness persists across the ages. We wander, circling, lost for a spell before suddenly discovering what we knew was right there all along. The stories spill, and neither The Muse nor our visiting friend Mark complains if they've heard the stories before.

In my family, we pay homage by remembering not just the high points, but also the low points. Many of my forebears were borderline notorious, and I would have to be remiss if I didn't remember them as they were. None of my family ever gained sainthood after death, nor did any, to my knowledge, enter any purgatory-like existence. They remained as they were in life, if perhaps a tad more scandalous. Some hidden truth emerged during the internment and changed the legend, but nobody is shocked when another secret comes to light. Each of us might just as well accept that we have always lived in glass houses.

We visit Little Grandma, one of my mother's great-great-grandmothers, who was born in 1848 and died in 1940. She crossed the Oregon Trail three times and outlived two husbands, bearing a passel of kids and step-mothering another hoard. My mom remembered her visiting for dinner, with Little G always on her best manners, carefully licking the butter knife clean before replacing it on the common plate. She saw more tragedy in her life than any odd dozen others and still lived into her nineties. She was the oldest of my relatives buried here. I can see her stone from the road beside the cemetery, and I always wish her well when passing by.

My folks moved into the condo section of the place, sharing a niche in a newer outside mausoleum. It seemed perfectly fitting that they would share a niche forever, even though they were perfectly capable of driving each other crazy in life. My dad would remove his hearing aids so he could read in peace, while my mom always needed to maintain a running commentary of whatever she was watching on TV. Still, they successfully adapted to each other's predilections and probably tolerate their permanent crowded condition well. They shared a covenant that rendered them inseparable. Even after my dad passed, she refused to set him to rest, keeping his ashes on her credenza until she caught up and could be added to the urn. (No reason to spend a fortune on a separate one.) In death, as in life, they were dedicated cheapskates.

We visit my mother's mom, who died on Christmas Eve 1948, shortly before my older sister, who was named after her, was born on the following Epiphany. Her death was a defining tragedy, the end of my mother's childhood and the beginning of her caretaking. Grandma Ruby rests in an indoor mausoleum building that feels its age. It seems unique among all my family's final resting places. I imagine the tragedy of the experience encouraging a profligate purchase fueled by grief and guilt. I'm sure it was much more expensive than any of her relatives could afford. It still seems like 1948 in there with niches stacked up six high beneath lofty Greco-Roman ceilings. I always feel uncomfortable in there.

Next, we search for my brother-in-law Ron, who's buried alongside his mom. We visit him every year, but we lose him in between. Every time, we confidently enter the wrong section at the wrong point and wander around playing hide and seek with him for the better part of half an hour. The Muse even finds the grave location online and grabs a handy map from the nearby office, all to no avail. We wander until we stumble upon Ron again. Some graves are just sneaky like that and demand to be stumbled upon.

We finish our rounds back near where we started, visiting my mother's uncles and aunts, most of whom were hellions in their youth. One was reported to have traded in bathtub gin during prohibition. Another was a prison guard who had a mail-order wife. Another lost his only child and grieved away the rest of his long life with his wife, finishing alone for his final decade. My mom was his caretaker, delivering food and company he never expected. She managed his affairs and those of several other aunts, uncles, and grands, and inherited his voluminous safe when he passed.

By the end of the rounds, we'd revived the stories that usually only get retold on Memorial Day. We drive away cleansed by the experience after helping out a couple who, like us, were wandering around playing hide-and-seek with their dead relatives. We spotted the stone they described, and they were all over grateful for our help. Those of us still above ground deserve all the assistance we can give each other. As we passed toward the car, The Muse shouted out! She'd stumbled upon the grave of the family that had built our house back in 1907. The father and two sons had constructed it themselves and done a fabulous job. The Villa's a better memorial than their fine stones seemed. We left feeling more connected.

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