Decoration Sunday in the South...

In the Blue Ridge we are taught from an early age to appreciate our roots and ties to an area and to honor those loved ones in our lives who have passed on before.  It did not matter if they had passed away (bless their hearts) long before we were a glimmer in our parents eye, we were told stories that made them very real to us and our every day lives.  From furniture in our homes, quilts that were passed down from one generation to the next, or mouth watering recipes served at special occasions our family ties were always emphasized and honored.  I am blessed to have grandparents and parents who have passed these stories and traditions on to me, and I hope to be able to pass them (along with a few more) to my boys in the years to come.

One of the most sacred and beautiful traditions in our part of the mountains is the tradition of Decoration Day at the churches our families have attended and those whose cemeteries become their final resting place here on earth.  Although many churches "down below the mountain" hold homecomings, Decoration is a little something more in that not only do families come home to gather for a meal in the church but in the days leading up to and the day of, they go out to the cemetery to tend to love ones graves and to place beautiful flower arrangements (real, silk and more recently a trend of beautiful mixed pots) to "decorate" the grave for the day.  Throughout the community I was raised in, each church has a different Decoration Day and family members from all over come home to celebrate the lives their ancestors.  

Today was Decoration Day at the little church that most of my ancestors are buried at.  My Great-Great Grandparents on my daddy's side to my Great-Grandparents on my mother's (and countless Great-Aunts and Uncles and family friends) and my own sweet Daddy are laid to rest on the hill across the road from the little church that we grew up in.  In the distance, you can see the beautiful Blue Ridge, and on the other side you can see an old white farm house (which happens to be where my father was born) and just across the hill is the house that I was raised in.  Our little church takes pride in being one of the oldest churches in the area, and there are gravestones from the early 1800's in the oldest part of the cemetery of people who came over from Scottland and Ireland and settled in this little corner of the mountains and carved a life and a community in this piece of God's country.  The ladies and men's groups (most of whom are well past the age of retirement) meet many times the week before and clean headstones, and spend an evening placing artificial arrangements on every single grave in the cemetery (unless they know that the family will be by to place flowers on before Decoration).  The men have identified those heroes who have served our country and have added a small American Flag to each of those stones as well.  The night before, many will gather in the cemetery to decorate their loved ones grave and catch up with longtime friends who live far away.  Sunday morning, families gather at the gravesides of their loved ones and catch up prior to a special church service which is followed by a community pot luck dinner in the church fellowship.  Generations of families gather together to celebrate and share memories of days gone by and to honor their loved ones.

I remember growing up that the DOT would plan their mowing schedule around decoration, and mow our road in anticipation of the day.  Our whole road (most of which were either blood or church family) always made sure that their yards and flowerbeds were in top notch condition and we always made sure our house was spotless inside and out (even down to scrubbing windows and shutters) in anticipation of whoever might stop by as they made the venture home for Decoration.  These memories came back today as we went home for this event. As we walked through cemetery today I was reminded of the stories of my ancestors that my dad and grandparents told us growing up.  I found myself walking in my dad's footsteps as we walked through the cemetery with the boys and I shared stories of past generations with my boys.  I want them to know about their Great Great Aunt and Uncle who played such a big role in our lives growing up (and whose recipe I follow for the sweet pickles I make).  I want them to know about their Great-Great Grandfather who loved licorice and taught me to play checkers, and his wife (my Great Grandmother) who earned her high school degree at the young age of 80.  I want them to know about my grandparents, who would call every time that a family member would come home for us to come over and visit- grandma who taught me to sew and my quiet grandpa who picked on me about being his "Old Woman" during his last winter when my responsibility was to keep his woodpile stacked so he wouldn't have to go to the woodshed.  I want them to know my father- who was so key in my life and share the stories he told us and the unconditional love he gave us.  I want them to have the same tradition and roots that were given to me growing up.  Today was step along that journey as they helped to place flowers on the grave, they listened to the stories and they learned to appreciate the generations past.  Today is a day for reflection, memories and to miss those we love.