“The BEST day”

While driving Ken home he kept mentioning "decoration" at Tabernacle. I smiled politely while my mind was focused on what I was doing. For those who are not from the South let me explain. "Decoration" is a yearly event. For old Southern families it is a HUGE deal. It is a sort of family reunion, church service, dinner on the ground thing all rolled up into one exhausting day. I have fond and very vivid memories of attending with my grandparents when I was a little girl. The reason (excuse?) for the whole affair is to "decorate" the graves of your loved ones. By the end of the day the cemetery looks like a rainbow exploded and splashed all its colors on the markers. At this particular VERY old church people bring extra flowers so that even the graves of those with no family members attending are decorated. It is a way to honor those people who either through genetics or love helped mold us into who we are.
This church was my grandmother’s family church. There are times I truly wished that she had not been born out in the back of "nowhere". She did not attend services regularly after she married and moved away from the valley. When they moved back here during the late 40’s it made it a bit easier though. From their house to the church it was simply a matter of driving for an hour on "the devil’s backbone" (one very dangerous road) turning off the pavement onto a "pig trail" and following it to the end. I remember going to church with her a time or two just for regular services. She was good company though so I didn’t mind the long trip.
As I have mentioned before I don’t "do" cemetery visits as a rule. My loved ones are not there for me to visit. I feel them with me every day and that is more comforting than looking at a stone with their name engraved on it. But something in me became still and quiet as I really listened to him talk. He was doing this for my Aunt Pearl (my grandmother’s sister, the dear woman who had loved and raised him from a tiny infant) and because he loved this family.
Two days after we got him home from the hospital and settled in, he phoned me. "Hey Susie! Are we still going to be able to take the flowers?" I sighed, "Sure. I don’t know if I will be able to go on Sunday but we could go and put out the flowers."
He sounded so relieved, "That would be great! What about tomorrow?" So we made our plans. My husband just grinned and said, "Ya’ll have fun." He is such a traitor. I know that what goes around comes around and bites you.
I ran errands. Luckily for me I had finished the grocery shopping the night before so my day was freed up. I drove over and picked Ken up. At first he asked if I wanted him to drive. Did I mention he has "diabetes retinopathy"? The man is going blind. I assured him that we would take my Tahoe and that I would definitely be doing the driving. He was relieved as this way he could just "ride and talk". It wouldn’t be so exhausting for him.
Oh he talked and talked. He told me stories of my family. He is somewhere between my age and my parent’s age. He remembered vividly going with Aunt Pearl to meet the train when they brought my Uncle Herman’s body home in December of 1958. It was "bitter cold".  Herman  had been sent to a "sanatorium" in Georgia. My uncle had been working in the mines out in Colorado. A routine x-ray revealed a "spot" on his lung. At that time anyone suspected of T.B. was shuttled off and isolated. Those places were horrible. The true tragedy of it was that he didn’t have T.B. He had dust from the mines settling into his lungs. Once he was a resident at the "hospital" he actually contracted T.B. from the patients there. It was a horrible way to die. I can’t imagine being so sick and so far away from my family. He wrote letters home, mourning the fact that he "had no one" with him. My grandmother felt the loss of her brother until the day she died.
Ken told me of the quirks of certain family members. I had known these people personally and I had no idea of the intrigue and drama that was going on all around me. I can only thank my parents and grandparents for sheltering me. I only felt the love.
The trip was as long as I remembered, although I was pleasantly surprised to find the "pig trail" had been paved. There were actually  two churches in the valley. Bethabera was a mile or so from Tabernacle. We got out and gathered the flowers. I placed flowers on my great-great grandparent’s, Samuel and Paralee, graves. To the side was my great-great uncle’s grave and on the other side was my great-great-great grandparents, Daniel and Mary. My grandfather and Ken had been busy. There were markers at the feet of the men honoring their service in the Confederate Army. 
I looked around and realized that we were actually on a "mountain" looking out over the whole valley. The view was breathtaking. Ken pointed off in the distance. "Remember the road we drove in on? Well half-way between the highway and here, there used to be an old homestead. That is where your Aunt Lillie was born. If you went straight off in that direction over there you would have found an old school. That is where your Aunt Pearl and your grandmother and all the rest went to school. This valley was where they were raised. "
I ushered him back to the Tahoe and we set out for Tabernacle. The beautiful white church of my memories was gone. A new church stood in its place. The concrete tables were no longer lined up under the pine trees. A new awning with fancy tables was there instead. It made me a bit sad. The cemetery was surrounded by a chain link fence. There was grass. During my childhood the cemetery was all sand and red dirt with lots of "mounded" graves. It looked and felt very different. Then I found the graves I remembered. My great-grandparents, Ada and Henry. I remember her fondly. She is the tiny woman I have written about before. She was good to me. As we placed the brightly colored flowers on the graves Ken talked. I learned that the woman I knew was probably more "piss and vinegar" than "sweetness and light". As I said, I was sheltered. I find it ironicthat I am more like these people than I ever thought possible.
Ken told me how, in years passed, that the graves would be so covered with flowers that you could barely walk around them. Of course this was when all or most of the children were living. Now that they are all gone no one really makes the effort. Ken patted me on the shoulder and said, "Well now you know where they are." Yes I do.
Then he asked if I wanted to see "McConnell-McGee Cemetery". I thought, "Why not? We are already out here." When we got to the highway, we turned and headed even further away from home. As I drove he continued to chat. Oh the stories that man can tell.
We rode for miles and suddenly he said for me to turn off the road. "Here?" I mean it was a logging road! He assured me that this was the place. Once again I left pavement and hit dirt. We drove through what was once a HUGE cotton plantation. The area still bore obvious signs of where the various sections had been marked off for planting. The plantation house had burned long ago. Suddenly out of the wildness of overgrown fields and stands of trees I saw it. My grandfather’s handiwork was all around me. Ken’s too. They had taken a long forgotten family cemetery that had been vandalized and transformed it. A "Heritage" marker stood proudly at the chain link fence. Headstones had been repaired.
I opened the gate and started wandering through the markers. About thirty graves were nestled into this corner of the plantation property. Great-grandparents from "Grandpa Henry’s" side were resting here. He died in 1875 at the age of 42, another Civil War marker at his feet. His wife, Martha Caroline was the midwife that delivered all of my great-grandmother’s children but the youngest. This woman delivered my grandmother! To the side was a newer marker, very new in fact. I looked at the name and date. Ken told me that this was my great-grandmother’s first born child. She had a terrible fever during her pregnancy (apparently there was an epidemic) and her baby was stillborn. The grave was unmarked for years. Ken found out and had a marker made. The baby didn’t even have a name. When the marker was ordered, Ken gave the baby a name. I stood looking down at the tiny marker and my heart broke for the woman that I now know was "piss and vinegar AND tough as nails". The baby is now "Samuel Boswell"  August 19,1900. Ken said he just always liked the name and that it was "Maw’s" daddy’s name. I grinned and told him that I have always liked the name as well, obviously as I named my youngest child "Samuel".
We visited two more cemeteries. The entire trip was spent driving through hills and valleys of what was once either family land or at the very least their "stomping ground". Ken was obviously exhausted and even beginning to stagger a bit. I herded him back into the Tahoe and we set off for town. He insisted on buying me supper. I was relieved as he needed to eat and more importantly he needed an injection. 
When we arrived at his house he asked me to look at his inhaler as he didn’t think it was working. Well there is nothing wrong with my vision and I had a hard time locating the directions! As it turns out he wasn’t using it correctly. You would think the pharmacy would show you how it worked. Once that was taken care of I told him that I REALLY had to be getting home. He gave me a big, sincere hug and said something I have never had anyone say to me before, "Thank you so much Susie. I wouldn’t have been able to do this without you. This was the BEST day I can remember having. I had such a good time."
If spending the day with me, wandering around cemeteries, and having Barbeque sandwiches was the "Best" day he could remember I am truly humbled. It wasn’t much of a sacrifice on my part. I had a good time too. I will admit that I was dragging a bit when I finally got back home. It was a good kind of tired though. I had spent the day becoming acquainted with my family.