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Stories about people
Jun. 2nd, 2004 08:44 am"Want to go out to the cemetery?" Dad asked on our way home Sunday. "You can see the flowers" (my grandma, his mom, used to put pots of artificial flowers on her family members' graves; when she couldn't do it any more my mom took over). "And you haven't even seen Grandma's grave yet, have you."
"No, not since..." The funeral. Just after Easter. "Yeah, that's fine, I don't care," I said. All I really wanted was to sit down--I'd been helping my mom help her friend at the other grad party she had to work for this weekend, and I'd been on my feet for six or seven hours, in heels. (I keep typing "hells"; quite the Fruedian slip.)
The trip was only a few minutes, and then I had to get out of the car again, which hurt, but once I was standing again I was okay. I looked down at the ground tiredly--which looks about the same as looking at the ground solemnly--as the wind blew my dress and hair around.
We'd stopped in front of the graves of my grandma's bachelor brothers Joe and Al, so I heard again the story my parents always tell about how they went to get my brother (he's adopted, like me) one Friday, Al saw him on Sunday after church, and died unexpectedly on Monday. This time Dad added Joe's story, which I don't think I'd ever heard before; his death was abrupt too but came a few days after he went to the doctor and heard that he had "a bad heart." My grandma had a really bad heart, too, but knew about it for years.
I looked a little more closely at my grandpa's headstone than I had before and noticed besides the PFC US ARMY WWII stuff, which was nothing new, it said PURPLE HEART under that, which I'd never heard about. Of course, my family never talks about anything; I barely know and often forget that my grandpa was in the Army or in the war at all. My grandma's only has her name and dates and under that, WIFE OF ORVILLE MATTHIES. It seems exactly fitting for someone who called women by their husbands' first names. She may not have liked him much (I always got that impression, at least) but she was Mrs. Orville Matthies.
Dad surprised me then by mentioning going out to the other cemetery (the Lutheran one, natch). My feet still hurt and I still wanted a nap but he was talking about some old momument that belongs to someone named Matthies and is all old and faded so you can't read it but he'd like to do something about this. He talked about this as we got back in the truck and drove to the other cemetery.
And, indeed, though I haven't seen this cemetery as much (my dad's family are all Lutheran, until my grandpa, who married a Catholic, thus making my immediate/intermediate family Catholic), I do remember this thing. It's a block of stone taller than me, and it always vaguely reminds me of a chess piece--a rook, maybe, with a little bishop thrown in. It has names on all four sides--well, had names; only one of them is legible now: August Matthies, who was born in 1840 and died in 1922.
Some of my grandpa's siblings are buried here, as well as their parents--my great-grandpa's name was Carl, and there's a great-grandpa on my mom's side named Carl too, so that's how my brother got his middle name. We looked at their graves too, but nothing was so interesting to my dad as the really old one. He looked at the dates of the other really old stuff to see if there was anyone else who'd been born as long ago as 1840, and didn't find any until just before we left, when he came across someone from 1806 or something like that. I've heard stories about both of my grandma's families coming here on boats--one's from Norway, one's from Luxembourg--so I'm used to that sort of thing, but I never thought about how long parts of my family have been in the U.S....in the same little towns in southeast Minnesota, no less.
Even though I have no great desire to end up in one (if I have to die, I want to be cremated), I like cemeteries. As silly as it might be for dead people to take up space in the ground, it does provide a tangible reminder of what has come before you. I like the excuse it provides for even taciturn folk like my relatives to tell stories about people. I like the way everything connects and intersects; everything I've written about here reminds me of other things I'm not writing because I want this journal entry to end some time at least as much as you do if you've read this far...but the free association tangents are still there, and I like that too.
"No, not since..." The funeral. Just after Easter. "Yeah, that's fine, I don't care," I said. All I really wanted was to sit down--I'd been helping my mom help her friend at the other grad party she had to work for this weekend, and I'd been on my feet for six or seven hours, in heels. (I keep typing "hells"; quite the Fruedian slip.)
The trip was only a few minutes, and then I had to get out of the car again, which hurt, but once I was standing again I was okay. I looked down at the ground tiredly--which looks about the same as looking at the ground solemnly--as the wind blew my dress and hair around.
We'd stopped in front of the graves of my grandma's bachelor brothers Joe and Al, so I heard again the story my parents always tell about how they went to get my brother (he's adopted, like me) one Friday, Al saw him on Sunday after church, and died unexpectedly on Monday. This time Dad added Joe's story, which I don't think I'd ever heard before; his death was abrupt too but came a few days after he went to the doctor and heard that he had "a bad heart." My grandma had a really bad heart, too, but knew about it for years.
I looked a little more closely at my grandpa's headstone than I had before and noticed besides the PFC US ARMY WWII stuff, which was nothing new, it said PURPLE HEART under that, which I'd never heard about. Of course, my family never talks about anything; I barely know and often forget that my grandpa was in the Army or in the war at all. My grandma's only has her name and dates and under that, WIFE OF ORVILLE MATTHIES. It seems exactly fitting for someone who called women by their husbands' first names. She may not have liked him much (I always got that impression, at least) but she was Mrs. Orville Matthies.
Dad surprised me then by mentioning going out to the other cemetery (the Lutheran one, natch). My feet still hurt and I still wanted a nap but he was talking about some old momument that belongs to someone named Matthies and is all old and faded so you can't read it but he'd like to do something about this. He talked about this as we got back in the truck and drove to the other cemetery.
And, indeed, though I haven't seen this cemetery as much (my dad's family are all Lutheran, until my grandpa, who married a Catholic, thus making my immediate/intermediate family Catholic), I do remember this thing. It's a block of stone taller than me, and it always vaguely reminds me of a chess piece--a rook, maybe, with a little bishop thrown in. It has names on all four sides--well, had names; only one of them is legible now: August Matthies, who was born in 1840 and died in 1922.
Some of my grandpa's siblings are buried here, as well as their parents--my great-grandpa's name was Carl, and there's a great-grandpa on my mom's side named Carl too, so that's how my brother got his middle name. We looked at their graves too, but nothing was so interesting to my dad as the really old one. He looked at the dates of the other really old stuff to see if there was anyone else who'd been born as long ago as 1840, and didn't find any until just before we left, when he came across someone from 1806 or something like that. I've heard stories about both of my grandma's families coming here on boats--one's from Norway, one's from Luxembourg--so I'm used to that sort of thing, but I never thought about how long parts of my family have been in the U.S....in the same little towns in southeast Minnesota, no less.
Even though I have no great desire to end up in one (if I have to die, I want to be cremated), I like cemeteries. As silly as it might be for dead people to take up space in the ground, it does provide a tangible reminder of what has come before you. I like the excuse it provides for even taciturn folk like my relatives to tell stories about people. I like the way everything connects and intersects; everything I've written about here reminds me of other things I'm not writing because I want this journal entry to end some time at least as much as you do if you've read this far...but the free association tangents are still there, and I like that too.