I remember two very different activities on Memorial Days of my childhood. Neither involved picnics. Or hot dogs.
Usually the official Memorial Day service was in the morning. The high school band. Solemn music. A classmate reciting the Gettysburg Address. Taps. It didn’t last long, but failing to mark the day in this way would have been unthinkable. Is that still a thing?
Later at home, we gathered flowers bundles which always involved lilacs. Sometimes irises. Honeysuckle. Maybe some late tulips. We made bouquets (I remember Mason jars) and visited the cemeteries where my ancestors were buried. Mostly, I didn’t remember these great-aunts and great-grandparents. It was interesting to see the names and helped me feel a sense of the context of my life at that time.
None of my ancestors are buried here. The ashes of my parents and my sister have been scattered in places that were special to them.
I don’t have lilacs in my yard, but I’m looking forward to gathering peonies and maybe an early rose. And indulging in memory.