Memorial Day Memories—Learning Family Stories Around Headstones

Peonies blooming, flags flying from light posts, and alumni celebrations signal Memorial Day’s arrival. For some families it’s time to camp at the lake or picnic in the backyard. No matter what I do to celebrate this holiday, this last weekend in May is a reminder of trips to the family cemetery and lessons learned about long dead ancestors.

Just saying Memorial Day brings back memories of Grandma Lottie lugging her store of floral arrangements up from her basement. She’d lay them all over her back porch and examine them for wear and tear--no worn out arrangements for her deceased loved ones. Then she’d make certain each had appropriate metal clothes hangers clipped in two to anchor them into Southwest Kansas soil until it was time to retrieve them for another year.

After she’d inspected and repaired her wreathes and bouquets, she’d relegate them to boxes destined for particular cemeteries where deceased relatives rested. By the time she and grandpa finished, the trunk was full and the journey ready to begin.

I’d find my place in the backseat of their Mercury and we’d hit that asphalt ribbon guiding us toward Dodge, Jetmore, and Ford. I loved sitting behind them, listening to their reminiscences of people I never met. 

During these drives over green prairies, I learned about a family branch that immigrated to northwest Kansas in the early 1870s. Once there, several families homesteaded and formed the little community of Devizes, named after their hometown in Canada. One of these great greats was a Methodist Circuit rider who served rural residents living in dugouts along Beaver and Sappa Creeks. After the Cheyenne Breakout in 1878, he buried some settlers killed in that incident.

I always wondered if his tiny wife, daughter of a ship captain on the Great Lakes, saw the similarity between waves on huge bodies of water and the ripples of wind moving prairie grasses in rolling surges. I know she saw the grass because she hid her children in it when she heard Indians traveled near their homestead.

Another side of the family moved first from Kentucky to Indiana and then to Kansas as their families expanded and they needed more resources to support them. We have photos of their homestead, livery stable, general merchandise store, and boarding house in Ford, where they settled. By the time I came along, I realized I’d only see that family name engraved on headstones at the cemetery. We descended from the female side, and that great grandma’s name changed when she married into the Canadian branch I mentioned earlier.

At each gravesite, Grandma and Grandpa continued sharing tales of those who rested beneath our feet. Though I’d hardly met a single soul resting in those hallowed plots, I thought I knew them personally. I learned what they drove, whether it was wagon or a Model T. I learned who their children were and what they served at family dinners.

Through these annual narratives, I understood what it took to survive and thrive in a land that nature designed to suit nomads. Looking back, I’m sure these pilgrimages with my grandparents triggered my love for this prairie that brought me home to Kansas.

First Hunt: The Stories Begin

Parents mark children’s lives by firsts: first tooth, first word, first step, and first day of school.  As youngsters mature, firsts come further apart.   However, for a youngster who hunts, the list of firsts continue.  If my husband and his friends’ experiences are any indication, not only continue but  are infinite.  Hunters live for their stories, which always include a first. Perhaps this is a hunter’s way to cling to childhood’s elusive magic.

Last weekend my daughter joined a select group.  She got her first turkey.

 Hunting requires certain before, during, and after rituals.  For  dedicated outdoors enthusiasts, it is not bagged game that is the goal.  It is the  preparation.  Kelli and her dad spent months discussing their upcoming hunt: where to hunt, what to shoot, how long a shot to take,  and how one makes sure to shoot a tom.

 As opening day drew closer, she kept asking, “When?”  Finally, it was time. 

To build Kelli’s confidence, the two practiced shooting targets.  Considering she hadn’t used a shotgun much, Kelli showed promise.  But, there’s a big difference between a standing target and a moving tom.  Not a problem for Kelli. 

The night before the safari, she laid out camouflage and hunting boots.  She would be ready when the alarm sounded, even though she never shows such enthusiasm on school mornings.  Copying her dad, she set out her coffee cup. 

Those two were so efficient in their leave-taking I barely noticed them rising at 4:30 a.m.  This signaled new dedication from my daughter.  She never gets up early for any other reason.  This alone made a campfire story.

I figured she would hunt and return with tales of turkeys she saw and missed or couldn’t shoot.  After all, she’d heard plenty of these from her dad. 

By nine a.m., my crew returned jubilantly from the woods, lugging a big turkey! Underestimating the situation, I asked the adults, “Who bagged the gobbler?” Imagine Kelli’s joy as she proclaimed, “I did!  I got him in one shot.”

I wanted to hear the whole story, but I, too, had to follow the ritual.  Pictures first.  Kelli alone with her turkey, tail fanned out.  Kelli with turkey draped over shoulder.  Kelli with calling partners, Dad and Wes, on each side. At last, a photo of our aged dog creeping out to sniff Kelli’s trophy.  I can date the years of our marriage by photos of past hunts.  Now my daughter’s beaming smile added to those memories.

The photo op completed, Kelli could tell her story. The telling is so important.  It isn’t the shot--it is the preparation.  Arriving on site before the birds fly off their roost, listening to morning come to life, watching and waiting for gobblers to come to the decoy. 

Kelli provided Easter dinner, and she accomplished more than putting meat on the table.  If she had come home empty-handed, her hunt would have been successful.  She joined an elite group initiated into rituals of hunting preparation and storytelling.  In this group, she can count on many more firsts.