MEMORIAL DAY-PAST

As a lucky child of the Fifties, my childhood was somewhat carefree. With black and white Westerns on our new one channel television serving as models, we built a ranch on one side of the two car garage. My best friend, Rosie, and I rode our bicycles for miles, after all they were our “horses.” We rode through the twisty paths of the local cemetery, stopping at the pond to catch tadpoles in mayonnaise jars. And yes, we did stay out until the street lights came on.

I say somewhat carefree because I knew I was different. I was a war orphan, my last name did not match my mom’s and in the Fifties that was a big deal. And on Memorial Day I didn’t picnic or watch parades, or even get together with Rosie at our ranch. I went to the cemetery with my mom and my Grandma. We’d share a picnic at a roadside table along the way. Grandma would make deviled ham sandwiches with tiny pickles chopped so finely that even I, a non pickle lover, didn’t mind. Or maybe I didn’t mind because it was just so good to be with Grandma and Mom and hear them talk about my dad.

On the drive to the cemetery, they’d share memories of Mom and Dad dating during high school, his baseball prowess, going to Lake Michigan after Prom (called the Junior/Senior Dance in 1939.) Mom would talk about living in Biloxi with Dad during the summer of 1943, in a tiny one room cabin with no air conditioning. “But we didn’t care, we were together.” Grandma would point out neighbors on the cemetery road who knew Dad, or were on my Grandpa’s postal route. Even as a child, I was never bored on those trips. I soaked up every memory of Dad they were willing to share.

We’d turn down the gravel road, outside the tiny village of Fulton and drive to the top of the hill; nestled under two huge pines (gone now) was North Fulton Cemetery and the Martens family plot. My name certainly fit it there! Fulton must have been founded by a Martens or a Snyder. It seemed every other marker carried one of those names. Mom and Grandma were reverent and quiet as they dug flower holes around the graves of Grandpa, Dad, and a still born infant brother. The brand new American flag the V.F.W. placed every year waved above Dad’s marker. I loved trudging over to the pump for water, sloshing it over my tennis shoes.

Later we would drive into Fulton, turn down Artmartin Street (named for Dad, but spelled wrong) and stop in front of his home. Mom and Grandma would spend a few minutes remarking how it had changed, remembering the wrap around porch everyone loved.

Driving through the village, we’d slow down at the bigger cemetery on the south side of town. They’d remind me of the Memorial Day I was asked to place a wreath on the World War II Memorial. About age ten, I remember especially my white patent shoes and anklets, how carefully I walked down the cement steps surrounding the Memorial, making sure I wouldn’t slip.

My husband, Tim, my Aunt Francie, and I will make the trip to Fulton again this Memorial Day. How could we not?