Our old family cemetery has been on my mind all morning. It was a lovely place, down on the point of the ridge overlooking Big Laurel Creek.
It was never a morbid or sad place, but a cool, wooded place that was dear to us in our childhood, and holds many precious memories. My maternal ancestors are buried there, and several members of our family.
How we loved to go there as children! After parking on the dirt road that led to the cemetery, we had to walk down a path through the woods that was bordered on each side by tall trees. Along the path grew many wildflowers, which we gathered and added to our floral tribute to loved ones long dead.
The path led over a series of rocks that sloped downward, and fragrant wild roses bloomed along the sides. Daisies and wild geraniums were rife along the path, and of course we picked many of them too. The grown-ups had their glass jars of piney-roses (peonies)—pure white, pink and deep red. Irises (which we called flags) were added. The purple ones smelled like grapes, and other ones were variegated.
These were carefully placed on the graves of a saintly old grandfather that I barely remember, and a grandmother that I never knew. Some of my aunts had babies buried there; mostly little ones who had died in infancy. It was not a sad place for us children; on the contrary, it was a joyful place where we met with our numerous cousins. All eleven children of Grandpa Hooge had married and produced large families. Many of the cousins were the same age. Oh, those were happy times!
On Father’s Day we would have our family reunion there. Grandpa Hooge had requested that all his descendants keep the tradition of assembling together to keep the family ties intact. They are scattered all over the United States now, but the same family blood flows in our veins. As Memorial Day approaches, memories abound as we re-live the old days once again.
Big Laurel Creek was always a favorite place to picnic and swim. We were down there enjoying the day, when someone brought us news that my beloved Myles was killed in action in Korea on May 30, 1953. I remember the white water honeysuckles were blooming along the edge of the creek. Their delicate fragrance always brings a pang to my heart and tears to my eyes as I remember that day.
He was just past eighteen years of age, and due to come home in a matter of days. He had volunteered for a combat mission and was killed instantly. The haunting scent of water honeysuckle will forever be entwined in my mind with war, and death, and heartsickness. His grave rests high in the hills he loved so much, and while I have grown old and gray, he will forever be eighteen.
Until then, no real grief marred our youthful hearts. I remember sobbing at the funeral of Grandpa Hooge, and can remember faintly of a little cabin down over the hill at Twistabout where he lived alone. I loved visiting him, as he showed such kindness to his numerous grandchildren. The most vivid memory was the time Mom and I visited him, and he had just churned. The butter was soft and white, and he had made a pone of batter bread which was still warm. He gave me a piece of it slathered with the fresh butter, and then he sprinkled sugar on it. I went back up the path to the road, blissfully eating my bread, with the butter dripping off my elbows. I thought it was the best food I’d ever eaten!
Although we used Decoration Day (as we called it) to show our love and respect to our friends and families who had passed on, the day was actually set apart many years ago to honor our fallen soldiers and sailors. General Logan, then commander of the Grand Army of the Republic, issued an official order in 1868. “The 30th day of May, 1868, is designated for the purpose of strewing with flowers or otherwise decorating the graves of comrades who died in defense of their country during the late rebellion, and whose bodies now lie buried in almost every city, village, hamlet and churchyard in the land.
“In this observance no form of ceremony is prescribed, but posts and comrades will in their own way arrange such fitting services and testimonials of respect as circumstances will permit.”
My cousin Bobby wrote me years ago and said, “I visited a historical site where a great battle had taken place in our country’s history. Places of great past conflicts make me feel odd.” Yes, I know—when I think of the Civil War and where our countrymen were pitted against one another, I feel a great sadness. He wrote a poem that I think is very good.
On a peaceful country knoll
I wandered uninvited
When on the path before my feet
A shard of steel was sighted.
I knelt and found that more of it
Was buried in the earth
I pulled it from its berth.
The blade was badly rusted
And broken long ago
Perhaps in mortal conflict with
An unremembered foe.
Gold inlaid the grip and guard
Of this once handsome sword
A tool of war that common men
Weren’t likely to afford.
Then, as I grasped it, sadness came
And memories not my own
Of battlefields and brave young men
That I had never known.
I felt the thund’ring hooves beneath,
I heard the cannon roar,
The mortar’s whine, the acrid smoke,
As if I’d lived before.
I grieved for mortal effort
That none cared to record
And courage great as man has known
That went without reward.
On this peaceful country knoll
I died with him today.
And lifting up the loosened sod,
I put his sword away.
By Frank S. M. Samples
For those of you who have expressed an interest in Polly, my Jack Russell puppy, here is an update on her. I had to go for a medical procedure this week, and left her in the house. She has a stuffed bear that she loves, and she had played with it and literally chewed the corduroy pants off it. I don’t know if she ate them, but I couldn’t find the remains. Today she blundered into the electric fence around our garden, and I’ve never seen such a shine as she cut. I brought her in the house and she spent the rest of the afternoon looking at it out the window and furiously barking at it. (More later!)
