Connections

It was Memorial Day weekend, 2010. On Saturday, we drove with Julia and her family to Granbury. The purpose was to change the silk flowers on my parents' grave. They share a headstone, and it only has one vase. I suspect that was a decision made by my frugal German mother! The cemetary rules are, suprisingly, no fresh flowers. I guess they would rather have artificial ones fade, droop and eventually diminsh with pounding from the north Texas wind than ask the maintanence crew to blow away faded natural flowers. Oh, well... I try to replace the arrangement at least once or twice a year. Usually I can find red or yellow roses (Mother's favorites) on sale at Hobby Lobby; again, that German influence. But Daddy was Irish, and he loved to get the roses with the acrylic dew drops because they looked like tears for Mother. So, I always look for those to satisfy my sentimental Irish side!

The drive from Denton was pleasant; Our son-in-law, David, drove and the kids were occupied with a video and some games. When we arrived at the cemetary we all needed to stretch our legs after an hour or so in the car. Julia did her best to show the kids to be respectful of the graves. But I think the concept of people being buried under the grass escaped them.

While I was busy with the flowers my mind wandered to the two funerals of my parents. In my mind I saw Daddy and I sitting, both a little bewildered, watching cousins place roses on top of Mother's casket. It was a hot day, four days after Mother's birthday and only a week before Julia's wedding. And less than 3 years later I was there again for Daddy's service. The Air Force Honor Guard was over to the left performing a 21 gun salute. I remembered standing to receive a flag from a colonel who had just told the story of my dad's actions in WWII; how he had received the Silver Star, Distinguished Service Cross, and Purple Heart. Today, three of my grandchildren were chasing butterflies across the area.

It's funny, coming back to a place which is loaded with so much emotion. At the time of the funerals I never imagined coming back there with busy grandchildren. Tanner, age 7, was fascinated with the name "Quinn" on the headstone because he knows that's his own middle name. I'd love to bring my other grandson, Quinn, here for obvious reasons! It's important for these boys to grasp the connection to their great-grandparents.

My knees were aching from tending to the flowers and my son-in-law, always sensitive to others, appeared with the floormats from his car for me to kneel on! He didn't realize he brought a tear to my eye doing that.

When I make that trip to Granbury, it is often solitary and hasty. I usually meet a friend for lunch, so I'm in a hurry. But today I'm struck by butterflies instead of the sound of rifles, the kindness of a young man I barely knew at the first funeral, and the sweet connection from one generation to another.

Starting Somewhere

I love my daughter's blog, Living Lockhart. Such a great way to keep track of events and memories. As I am now 59 11/12's it seems I'm full of memories! Something happened this week which has motivated me to record it:

I can just see him, age 5, clutching two quarters and going “by himself” into the big room to shop. It was Thursday School at the Church of Christ in Lubbock where Michael went one day a week. It was the week before Mother’s Day and he had money to shop for a present for me. We had been told there were crocheted towels, hair accessories, refrigerator magnets and more, in case we wanted to drop a hint to our little one. I’m so glad I resisted the urge because I wanted to see what he picked out. A few minutes later he emerged holding a brown paper bag with a ribbon around it, and with a funny smile on his sweet face. Even then he wanted to give me a Papa Quinn-style hint, but instead he made me open it as soon as we got home because he was “worried” about it. (Good heavens! Was it something alive? It didn’t squirm or make a noise, but I gingerly opened the bag anyway) Inside was a miniature terrarium! A glass jar about 5 inches tall, including the lid. There was a little potting soil and 2 or 3 tiny plants. It was gorgeous! Michael was so very proud of himself! I was amazed at his good taste! I kept the plants alive for a few months, but they succumbed to my only occasionally green thumb. But that darling jar! I’ve had it for 35 years through many moves and for several uses. For most of these years, though, it has held cotton balls on my bathroom vanity. I can’t begin to count all the times I’ve looked at it and been reminded of my son’s sweet, giving spirit.

Today Olga, my cleaning lady sheepishly came to show me something. It was the pretty lid for the jar, broken into shards. She felt bad about it, but not nearly as bad as I do. I didn’t get mad at her; I know it was an accident. But right now there are tears at the back of my eyes. I know the dear Lord doesn’t want us to hold things too dearly. I know Michael probably doesn’t even remember giving it to me. My darling boy has a five-year-old boy of his own now. Time just keeps going by.

But I’m not going to throw the rest of it away. Maybe I’ll put a small plant in it and give it a new use, similar to the original. And no matter what, I’ll always have that image in my mind of a cute little guy, blue eyes wide with hope that I would like his gift. What a blessing!