Memorial Day was a very active Holiday in my house while growing up. It is officially the day for honoring the men and women who died while serving in the United States military. My dad served and survived both World War II and the Korean war so I grew up with the language of Veterans my entire life. Our home was filled with his memorabilia from his days “in the War.” He was active in the VFW, and marched in Memorial Day Parades as a color guard. We would pack up and drive to small towns throughout Ohio so that he could march with his VFW Post 3808. It was always a proud moment for me. We were always the only Black VFW post marching in those parades in small-town Ohio. Daddy stood so tall and proud alongside his fellow veterans, calling out commands as they they marched in formation with rifles and flags. There was no wavering on the correctness of that war. Those veterans knew they were fighting for a righteous cause: to end the Nazi threat.
Memorial Day was also the day to go to Woodlawn Cemetery in my hometown of Dayton, Ohio to place flowers on the graves of our dead relatives. It was my moment to shine because I always knew how to find everyone’s graves in that sprawling place. I later found out that Woodlawn Cemetery is one of the Nation’s oldest “garden” cemeteries with an arboretum of trees and rolling hills dating back to 1841. Prior to the late 1960’s all the African Americans were buried in the low lying flats of the cemetery. So we would go there first to drop off flowers – most of which were picked out of our huge garden. Daddy maintained a massive flower garden of roses, lilies, iris, peonies, lilacs and tulips. I loved going to the cemetery. The whole thing became a social event when we were in the Black section of Woodlawn. Everyone had family buried there and the adults would catch up and socialize. It was lively: full of laughter and energy. There was a man-made lake across from the grave sites in the Black section and there were always huge white swans gliding across the water. I always wondered which came first: the Lake or the designated “Colored section.” I recall thinking: “Hmph! if this is supposed to be the lesser of the whole place then somebody screwed up because this lake is full of grace.”
I remember looking down at the older graves with the names of people gone long before. I knew them by reputation: Sonny Webb, a cousin who died at age 12 years before I was born, Uncle Morgan Revere (mama’s brother who died before I was born) and grandma Fannie Revere – my great grandmother – born a slave who “took no mess!” Their head stones were simple and darkened with age.
Then we would go to the hilly section of the cemetery where the Whites were buried with their huge statuary and private custom mausoleums. That part of the cemetery was gorgeous with huge solid trees and away from the chatter and laughter of the low lying “Black section.” That’s when my keen sense of memory and direction would come into play. I could always lead my family directly to the graves of Aunt Betsy and my grandfather: Papa “Reverend David Revere” They were buried in the late 1960’s after the cemetery dropped their rules of segregation. Go right up the hill at the huge Moorehead Family Monument (as in the actress Agnes Moorehead) and up the next hill to the left. This part of the cemetery was always quiet and empty as though no one came to these grave sights. There would be the occasional flowers laid down but it was as if the grand monuments were enough. I don’t recall there being any great sorrow at these times. It was a duty filled with reverence but not so much sadness.
I remember the stillness of it all. The occasional twittering of birds. The sunlight sneaking in between the full cover of the trees. It was serene.
I never associated Memorial Day with picnics or barbecues though I’m sure that my daddy barbecued. He was the barbecue master. He grew his own chili peppers, picked them, hung them to dry and then pounded them to make his own chili powder which he added to his “brew” of special barbecue sauce. I never went near it. it was vinegar based and the smell made me gag. Never could stand the smell of vinegar as a child.
I do remember that Daddy would mount the U.S. flag on the porch. He was a patriot and a proud veteran of two foreign wars.
I think of him on this Memorial Day Weekend 2013.
