Family cemetery rituals

Monday, May 25 — 8 p.m. This is Memorial Day, when my family traditionally places fresh or synthetic flowers and other decorations on the graves of loved ones in Greenwood Cemetery, which sits atop a hill overlooking our town. I have always believed it is one of the most beautifully located cemeteries in our region.

My purpose, as I carry large plastic bags filled with colorful, natural-looking silk flowers from the car, is to brighten, beautify and decorate the graves of those I love. I remember doing this on the last Monday in May from the age of 3 or 4. I am sure I was there even earlier, as it was a longstanding family tradition, but by that age Mama was already letting me carry a single flower and carefully place it on the grave of someone dear to us.

She had begun teaching me about life and death even earlier through what we saw on the ranch and range — perhaps a rabbit struck on the highway, or a calf lost to bitter cold before its mother could save it. In that way, I came to understand what it meant when someone we loved had died and was buried beneath a headstone. Mama or Daddy might place a wreath as she gently told me the name of the person resting there.

Today, as I placed a wreath on each of their graves, I thanked Francis and Violet Sedgwick for the lives they shared with me — for teaching me how to live, and how to walk with God and follow His laws. They taught me respect for all living things and showed me how to care for the creatures on our land — not only cattle and horses, but also antelope, deer, coyotes, foxes and rabbits.

I could almost hear Daddy’s hearty laugh and remember how often he found reason to use it. I thought, too, of the joyful times when he played his fiddle and I accompanied him on the piano. I smiled at the memory of him twirling Mama across the dance floor at a celebration I surprised them with for their 40th wedding anniversary.

I gratefully placed flowers on the graves of my dearest love’s great-grandfather, born in 1859, and great-grandmother, born in 1892, who rest beneath an old, shady tree near the corner of the cemetery. I cannot begin to express my gratitude to them for the gift of their son, William Wallace Stearns, whose life made possible the life of my precious William Allen Stearns — the one I fell in forever love with when I was just 3 years old.

The eternal goodness of God is very evident in cemeteries.