Nearly every year of my life, so far, I have spent the fourth Sunday in July at the “decoration.” When I tried recently to explain to someone the significance of this day, it was harder than I thought to put it into words.
Decoration Day is a deeply-rooted tradition for my family that still continues although many of the old timers have passed on and most of the rest of us have moved from that mountain we once called home. Still, we keep going back. All my siblings and I, along with many of our children andgrandchildren, were among the group that gathered this year.
In some ways it is always the same although there have been plenty of changes through the passing years. As a child I remember all the preparation that went into making this a special day. My mother would spend a couple of days preparing food to take for the pot-luck picnic lunch that was served following the church service. My dad and brothers made sure the cemetery was mowed and cleared of old flowers to make ready for the new ones that relativeswould bring to “decorate” the graves.
Once the day arrived, we loaded up the food that my mother had painstakingly prepared. She always fretted that it wouldn’t look like much after the bumpy ride over miles of winding dirt road, but all I remember is that everything tasted so good. The platters of fried chicken, bowls of potato salad, plates of sliced fresh tomatoes and cucumbers, home-baked breads and desserts and the many other Sunday-best dishes crowded the long tables. Each family brought its own plates, silverware and drinking glasses.
Although we met in the little church house for services on other occasions, the “decoration” activities took place under the shade of the big oak trees beside the old well. There was time for visiting before the servicesstarted, and the scene was similar to a family reunion, with cousins and aunts and uncles showing up that we hadn’t seen in a while. My dad enjoyed this part and took us kids around and reintroduced us to those we might have forgotten.
The service came before lunch and began with the singing. Hymnals would be passed out and we sang a cappella. After a few old favorites like “I’ll Fly Away” and “Amazing Grace,” the preacher would deliver his sermon. Afterwards my dad would give a financial report since he was the keeper of the cemetery fund. Then he or someone else would pass a hat to gather donations for the continued upkeep of the place.
When the ladies finished final food preparations, lunch was served. Afterwards, we walked throughthe cemetery and placed the flowers we had brought with us on the graves. My parents would relate stories as we wandered along. It seems they knew something about each grave, the earliest dating back to 1914, about the time my grandfather donated the land so the community could have a cemetery and a meeting house. The place was called Reeves, the name of a family that lived nearby at the time, and I wondered why it hadn’t been called “Edwards” for my grandfather.
Some things have changed since the decorations of long ago. The little church house is gone and the old well goes unused. We meet under a pavilion that has been built in an unused corner of the cemetery and food is placed on folding tables. My dad is now resting in the cemetery he spent so much time caring for, and my brothers help tend to its business. Fried chicken is often brought in boxes picked up at drivethrough windows and we eat with plastic forks and paper plates.
Still, the most important things remain the same. We come together to remember the ones who are no longer with us and to share the day with those who are. We leave with hope that the younger ones will grow to care for this place as we have and will feel compelled in the coming years to return to continue the Decoration Day tradition.
Annette Rowe is a freelance writer from rural Gentry and a speech-language pathologist at Siloam Springs High School. She may be reached by e-mail at [email protected].
Opinion, Pages 6 on 08/03/2011