Graveyards have always fascinated me. Most of them will take you centuries back into history. My grandfather supervised the cemetery near his farm for many years, so it was a place I visited many times as a child. We even had picnics there. Positioned at the bottom of a hill, overlooked by towering trees, it was serene and fragrant with the smell of country grasses. Many of my ancestors were buried there, including a great great Uncle Ren White, who’d served in the Civil War. I still make the annual Memorial Day pilgrimage to put flowers on my family gravestones, but find it sad that so many graves appear to be forgotten. Who will visit your grave? Or will you even haveone?
Most people who pass away in this century will not have a traditional burial. It’s estimated that by the year 2040, 80% of us will choose cremation. Most will not have a gravestone to visit, although some will chose to have their ashes buried in a cemetery next to their spouse or family members who preceded them in death.
But even if you do have a gravestone, it’s no guarantee anyone will come to visit it on Memorial Day. Many people are actually afraid of cemeteries, and will avoid them at all costs. That’s because cemeteries remind them of their own mortality.
Who Wil Visit Your Grave? Cemeteries are a place of peace for some, and fear of mortality for others.
And yet, for me, as the only remaining member of my immediate family, a flood of memories stream into my consciousness at the gravesites: My oldest sister braiding my hair and reading Grimm’s fairy tales to me. Middle sister, blonde and giggly, yet kind enough to let me into her bed on the nights when I was scared. Her twin brother’s ashes are up in Michigan, but I remember him buying me shoes with his paper route money. My mother’s wonderful cooking, and Daddy taking us to the fireworks and the beach all summer long.
I feel the tears coming on, and try to distract myself. They no longer allow flower planting at the cemetery, but they let my Grandpa’s 100 year old peonies continue to bloom every year. To this day, I’m a sucker for peonies.
So yes, I’m one of those people who love to visit the cemetery. And I’m not alone. There’s always someone visiting a grave when we enter the driveway. And many graves have fresh decorations on Memorial Day. Driving away , out onto the crowded highway, I feel refreshed and restored. Just for a while, I’ve had my family back again—if only in my heart.
On Memorial Day, we still see a few WWII veterans at ceremonies commemorating those who served. My husband and I were were both children of that era, and our lives were forever changed. We remember rationing, air raid drills, and uncles who went to war, some of whom did not return. Several years ago, my husband published his memoir, A Preacher Called Sinn, and devoted several chapters to that historic period. One of his most vivid memories centers around the Bruning Air Force base that sprang up near his family farm in Nebraska. As a result, It changed the local economy, and brought the war close to home. Especially on the day when he found a young man who had parachuted to his death. In honor of the missing pilot who lost his life , I’m sharing chapter 6 from my husband’s memoir:
THE MISSING PILOT
IN HONOR OF THE MISSING PILOT. When the Army built Bruning Air Force Base, a boy’s life was changed forever.
Less than a week after the Bruning Air Base was finished, the Army Air Corps moved in and began their maneuvers. Our chimney was a turning point for B-19 liberators on their sorties. The roar of airplane engines hammered the once quiet skies, swooping down to frighten the chickens and spook the cattle. When Grandpa and I went into town so he could play cards, the men talked incessantly about the war effort. I didn’t want to say it out loud, but it seemed to me that the evils of Mussolini and Hitler had actually made things better for the folks in Thayer County. The stores around the courthouse square, once struggling for survival, were crowded with customers. New shops and restaurants opened up, and they added an extra shift at the bakery.
One warm afternoon in September, I looked up North across the pasture and saw my cousins on two small ponies galloping toward our house. Having finished my chores, I ran out to greet Herb and Irvin. They were short robust boys whose pink cheeks glowed with innocence and good health
. “What shall we do today?” I asked, hoping each of them would offer me a turn to ride, as they usually did
. “We’re collecting milkweed pods,” Irvin announced. “You want to help?” The boys jumped to the ground, tied up the ponies, and produced a burlap onion bag. I looked at the dirty bag, feeling a rush of disappointment.
“What do we care about some old weeds?”
Irvin shot me a look. “Not weeds. Pods. It’s for the war. They use the silk inside the pods to make flotation devices. We might save a pilot’s life if we do this.”
Reluctantly, I trailed after them. The wind across the prairie scratched our eyes, and the prickly pods stung my fingers. I collected more pods than the two of them together. As we searched the brush and weeds alongside the road, I remembered the time when all we could hear on a Sunday afternoon was the mooing of cows and the honking of geese. Now, aircraft droned overhead, and the roads were clogged with convoy trucks.
An approaching jeep rumbled along the road in a cloud of dust and jerked to a stop. “What you boys up to?” asked one of the men.
“Collecting pods,” I replied.
The soldier in the driver’s seat tapped me on the shoulder. “We need your help. It’s urgent.”
I felt a stir of inner excitement. ‘Sure, what do you want us to do?”
“We’re looking for some wounded men.”
“They’re missing?” My pulse quickened. Had the war come right here to Thayer County? There had been worry we might be invaded when the government built the air base.
The soldier nodded. “Yes, one of our B-19’s lost an engine and the men bailed out. They could be hurt. You three boys spread out and see if you can find them, and have your folks call the base if you do.”
I took charge. “You go thataway,” I told Irvin, pointing to the tree row at the edge of their farm. “And you, Herb, go down toward the river. I’ll head for the pasture behind Grandpa’s house.”
Search planes thundered overhead, casting huge terrifying shadows across the land. At first, I ran so fast my lungs were on fire. But soon, I slowed down to catch my breath as I approached a field where stalks of wheat stood brown and ripe in the blazing sun. I imaged myself actively engaged in a military operation, feeling important and yet afraid of what I might find.
I saw it then: a flash of white blowing in the wind, the parachute billowing out like a tablecloth. My heart sped up as I saw the familiar drab green fatigues on the twisted body of a man lying on his side next to the fencepost.
My hands trembled. The guy must be in terrible pain. I had witnessed gory farm accidents and seen cows in agony during childbirth, and hated that gut wrenching feeling of helplessness in the face of suffering.
My knees went weak as I sank to the ground. The airman’s cap had come undone; his coppery hair gleamed like a new penny against the crusted earth. Upon the ghostly pallor of his face, his lips were dark as blueberries. His half opened eyes looked toward heaven. When I gasped his long thin fingers, they felt clammy as a Blue River Catfish.
They told us later he had broken his neck when he hit the fencepost.
That evening, there was leftover fried chicken for Sunday supper, but no one was hungry. I picked at my food as we sat around the big oak kitchen table. I wondered if the pilot had brothers and sisters, and thought of how terrible his parents would feel when they heard about their son’s fatal accident. I knew that someday I might have to go in the service, and hoped I would have the courage to face death in a place far from home
As if reading my thoughts, Mom touched my hand. “Don’t you worry, Son,” she said. “We’re going to win this war real soon, and after that, we’ll all live in peace. There won’t be any more wars in your lifetime.”
What does Memorial Day mean to you? When I was a kid, it was the first big summer holiday. It meant picnics, flying flags, and the end of school. As a teenager, it still hadn’t sunk in. Yes, I knew of people who had lost their menfolk during World War II. but Memorial Day was a time for fairs, graduations, and parties, mainly. My mother always went to the cemetery to decorate her parents’ graves, but it didn’t seem like anything I would want to do. And then, one day, it all kicked in. My generation’s boyfriends, husbands, and brothers fought in the Korean War. Some of them came home wounded, or not at all. The Korean War Memorial is my favorite in Washington, DC. But at Clinton, Indiana it’s a simple monument erected by my great, great uncle after the Civil War. Here’s a Memorial Day salute to Uncle Ren and Company D.
Memorial Day is special for me. Many of my ancestors and immediate family are buried in a small country cemetery. Usually, my husband and I drive up to a nearby shelter for a picnic, then over to visit the graves. That’s a hard time for me—missing them so much that a hollow feeling rises in my chest and tears blur my vision.
After arranging the flowers, the highlight of the day awaits me at the top of a hill, under a towering oak tree. For there, my great, great, great uncle, Ren White, came back from fighting in the Civil War to erect a memorial to the men who served with him in “Company D.” Every man in the company is listed, but it doesn’t say which ones didn’t return. Uncle Ren wasn’t a captain, either—just a mere sergeant. But when he came home, he spent the time and money to erect this memorial to the men who fought to free this country of slavery. Wow! Gives me the shivers, just thinking of how proud I am of him.
Memorial day salute to Uncle Ren and Company D. After the Civil War, he erected this monument to Company D.
I wonder what motivated him to enlist. Knowing that branch of the family, I’m sure his motives were not mercenary, because they owned thousands of acres of Indiana farmland. My mother, who loved genealogy, probably knew if Ren had a wife and children, but I don’t.
Little did he realize that one day, a photo of that thoughtfully erected monument would be shown over the internet. On this Memorial Day holiday, I salute you, Uncle Ren White, for your courage and patriotism.
