Another Memorial Day, another time to visit the sites where relatives are buried, clean up their headstones, contemplate dates of birth, marriage, death; leave flowers. Well, someone leaves a can of Bud on a grave near Sandy’s parents each year. Each to his own taste in remembering lost loved ones. Robin, Tim, and Kris went with Sandy and me again this year.
I always pause at my dad’s parents’ marker.
My grandfather William Harrison was born in 1855, six years before the Civil War began, and died in 1920 at 65, nine years after my dad was born. He may have been Canadian. I don’t know when the original Harrison settlers from England arrived but they first lived in Canada before migrating into Michigan. I know that Granddad completed veterinarian school in Canada. I have a pair of his gold-rimmed spectacles, one of his college books (THE PRACTICE OF VETERINARY MEDICINE for a class in 1891-92 at Ontario Veterinary College, but the book was purchased from Bad Axe Drug Co., School Books and Stationery), and his pocket watch. I posted here some time ago that on one occasion I wound the watch a few clicks, held it to my ear, and sure enough it was ticking. It was an emotional experience for me to be listening to the same watch that he did long ago.
So we go to the cemeteries now and then or on special occasions. We stand and look and think our thoughts, and lost ones come back to us more keenly than usual to visit the part of heaven we keep in our hearts.