Memorial Day

For those of us who live out at the end of a long winding road, Memorial is the day we go visit the dead relatives.

During my growing up years Memorial day meant a trip to the cemetary the day before to spruce up the graves before the out of town relatives arrived to decorate graves. The community cemetary was a fenced 10 acre plot of sagebrush and Indian rice grass littered with tombstones on the east facing slope of the Cemetary Hill. On the north boundary stood the white washed outhouse for the convinience of the low capacity bladder crowd.

We would load the back of the pick-up with rakes and shovels. Dad and Grandpa would ride in the cab, kids in the box. When we arrived at the cemetary custom dictated that we would start with the graves of our direct line. We would remove the rements of last year's flowers if any. We would take a shovel to the cheat grass growing on and around the mound then reform the mound with the rake. While we worked, Grandpa would tell stories about the people who were burried in the grave we were working on. When we finished with the direct line, we would branch out and start doing the extended family. Grandpa would explain the relationships and maybe a few of his memories about that person. Often times there would be other families at the cemetary doing what we were doing. This would be an excuse to exchange stories of common ancestors and maybe gossip about some members of the extended family. We would go home knowing a little bit more about who we were and how we got here.

I learned my family history. Some of my cousins envy the knowledge I have of the family and the relationships. I didn't work very hard for it. I just listened and tried to remember what I was told.

There are people from the city who are shocked and appalled at the condition of the cemetary. They are used to manicured greens with no effort on their part. They ignore the history staring them in face and don't recognize the opportunity to teach the rising generation about their roots. A lot of that rising generation is so busy playing with their electronic toys that they are cutting themselves off from their roots.

Now I'm working on teaching the rising generation about their roots. It's challenging. We don't have the excuse of going to the cemetary to clean graves. The school year doesn't end until after Memorial Day. So they don't have much opportunity to know the dead relatives on my side of the family. I do make sure they learn about the dead relatives that are buried here where we live.

The Thirty Year Reunion

Last fall I attended the 30 year reunion for the class of 1978. It was a hoot. We told stories and laughed until our sides ached.

I graduated from a small rural high school. There were 30 people in our class. I was related to about a quarter of the class and several of the teachers. Because we were a small high school everyone was involved in as many activities as they wanted or as their parents would permit. Every able bodied man that wanted to be part of the football team played on the team. If the football coach could have worked out separate showers there were several females he would have recruited also. Because we were so small people who played sports also participated in drama and music. When we went to speech and drama contests around the state we competed against the big schools. The speech and drama contestants from the large schools were much more flamboyant people than we ever met.

By the time we graduated we knew each other pretty well. It's fun to get together and vistit and find out what everyone is doing. Our last reunion alot of people who live close didn't bother to come but we managed to have a fun time.

The most memorable conversation involved Trudi, wing commander in the space cadet corps. You know her, the cheer leader who always dated upper class men. Who had to have the teacher's jokes explained to her. She's the one whose junior prom dress still fits her. She was there with husband #2. We were going down the list of people who weren't there and filling in where they were living and what they were doing. Someone mentioned that Kenyon was living with wife #2 in Santa Clara, near St George. Trudi speaks up and says, "I like St George. That's

where I'm going to find my third husband." We all laughed and laughed. Trudi was bewildered and then it dawned on her what she had said. As she fumbled around trying to extract her foot out of her mouth, June, one the more out spoken members told her, " I know I've said this to you before, JUST SHUT UP." We laughed some more.