Sons, Stories, and Graveyards

Last weekend was the Connelly family reunion. This weekend it's my own sons coming home to watch Jordan, the oldest grandchild, graduate from high school. We had plenty of people in the stands to cheer her on.

Today we got together for a country breakfast, then the guys moved on to their own priorities. Aaron headed home to Fairmont, Jon got on the tractor and started the first brushhogging of the year, Derek went to his house a few miles way to prepare for a cookout, and George hung out with Larry and me, just talking and enjoying the day. Grandchildren were all over this place, exploring the hollow, asking Poppa Larry about coal mining and watching as he lit his old carbide lamp for them.

Around noon the kids and I gathered on the porch and I told them, as I had promised, the story of Mr. Fox. That led to more stories, and we even read a few from Coffin Hollow by Ruth Ann Musick. The kids listened, wide-eyed, imaginations in full throttle. I'm not sure if their mothers approve of ghost stories, but the kids love them and keep me challenged to find new ones, especially those with local connections.

It's their eyes that amaze me. They listen completely, eyes on me but in the story. How many kids can listen like that? It's a skill that will help them in many ways as they get older, because good listening is the key to understanding.

By 2pm, everyone was gone to Derek's for the afternoon cookout with their Granddaddy and his wife, and Larry and I drove to cemetery below Charleston to put new flowers on his family graves.

There is something peaceful and comforting about tending graves. We walked through the rows of stones, searching for those of his two bachelor uncles, both WW II vets, so we could put out flags for them. Then to his brother Maxey's grave. His wife Becky had already been there but we added another flag and more flowers. Maxey, gone too soon at 49, rests in the old section of the graveyard where stones are allowed, and Becky makes sure he always has new flowers.

Then we found his parents' tombs in the mausoleum and put new flowers in the holder. A mausoleum does not convey the same peace that a graveyard does, and it never feels right to visit his parents there. His grandparents took a little while to find, but I liked their place near a big shade tree. We had an extra flag and it went to his great-uncle who served in WW I.

My family are too far away for me to visit graves this year, and those in England I will likely never see. Some time I want to go to Arlington Cemetery to find the graves of my grandparents and my great-great grandfather, a Civil War veteran. But for now, these West Virginia graves are mine to care for and those beneath them are people I will mostly know only through my husband's memory.

I found myself wishing the grandchildren were with me to learn about this part of life's responsibilities: caring for those who have passed on and remembering and honoring them with flowers and flags and a few moments of memory and prayer.

I think these children of my children would understand about graves. Below is a poem I wrote a couple years back, when I took them for a hike through the woods to an old graveyard that is hidden in the trees.


Graven Image

I took the grandkids for a walk last Sunday
to the old graveyard in the woods
about a mile from my house
Last time I was there
the trees were growing through the graves
and most were marked
only by sunken ground
No stone noted the names or dates
of those who lay beneath
in anonymity

Someone had been there
since my last visit three years before
the trees were cut and the broken base
of a pale amethyst kerosene lamp
had been carefully placed
on top of the one tall gravestone
that marked the grave of Birdie Parsons
and her sister Ethel
Birdie died at one year four months
and Ethel lived less time than that
but their parents had marked their little lives
with a carved marble stone
placed on their forgotten grave
so many years ago
no one thought to carve the date

My grandchildren looked at the moss-covered stone
and ran their fingers across the names
they spoke in hushed voices
and wondered who had left the lamp
and if they’d spent the night
in that lonely place
so far from road and lights
Or was the lamp left
for the use of those
who sleep beneath the stone