A Golden Girl: Time to Remember

Our ritual to remember the fallen has civil war origins, local roots

By Kathryn Ross

I have a pet peeve, and it seems it stems from my upbringing. I believe that Memorial Day is not the first day of summer to be filled with triviality, celebrations at the lake, beach, river or wherever. To me it is a time for remembering our dead and especially our men and women who have served and died as a result of this country’s militaristic inclinations.

Historically, “Memorial Day began in the aftermath of the American Civil War which ended in 1865 after claiming the lives of over 620,000 soldiers. Local communities, especially in the South, began holding springtime tributes to decorate the graves of fallen soldiers with flowers and to recite prayers. Of course, most of that war was fought in the South, so one of the earliest observances was in Charleston, SC in 1865. Other early commemorations occurred and Columbus, Ms. and Waterloo NY. The Waterloo commemoration is officially recognized as the birthplace of Memorial Day due to its consistent annual celebrations beginning on May 5, 1866.”

“The first national observance, when it was still called Decoration Day, was proclaimed by General John A. Logan of the Grand Army of the Republic on May 30, 1868. The date was chosen so that flowers would be in bloom across the country. Remember at that time there was no such thing as plastic bouquets. While plastic was invented by Alexander Parkes in 1862 it wasn’t commercially used until the 20th century,” according to Wikipedia.

I remember my grandparents calling Memorial Day, Decoration Day and I’m supposing they got it from their parents. The timeline seems about right.

I suppose after people went to the cemetery, they went back and had picnics and enjoyed the warm temperature. I remember early morning rides bouncing and weaving around the red leather, backseat of the Fairlane, driving on the winding, narrow roads to Westfield, Pa. ; where my mother’s family is buried. Dad thought it was hilarious to speed up and bounce over the rises in the road causing my sister’s and my stomach to jump.  I don’t suppose he ever gave a thought that he might end up with more than he wanted to handle.

Of course, my mother would just say, “Oh Clair stop it,” knowing full well what could happen to her daughter’s breakfast and who would clean it up. Dad just laughed it off and continued driving.

Dad was the one who built the pots and urns that we would place on the cemetery sites. For the week prior to Memorial Day my parents would scour local nurseries to find just the right geraniums and spikes to fill the numerous urns they were building.

The night before our family excursions to Westfield and later in the day to Belmont, Dad would set up his assembly line in the garage and fill six or eight urns and pots with the floral tributes. He had an eye for such things and enjoyed doing it.

I remember there was one grave in the Westfield cemetery that I took special interest in. It was for a woman relative who had died decades before I was born, and it was one grave my parents didn’t decorate. Before we left on our annual pilgrimage, I used to cut some stems from the lilac bush in our yard and fill a Ball Jar with them to place on Gramma Moon’s grave. I never knew much about her, but I think the name just teased my creative imagination.

I remember on those trips through the hills and hollows of Potter and Tioga counties; Dad would occasionally pull over on the narrow road at a spot where spring water was gushing out of the hillside from a metal pipe. He would fill jugs and gallon jars with it and take it home. Of course we had village water at home, but spring water was a delicacy. I guess it was since today you pay a pretty penny to purchase just a 16-ounce bottle full.

Kathryn Ross is a Wellsville native and lifelong writer, journalist, and community activist. You can reach her anytime, kathr_2002@yahoo.com