Until our holidays were standardized, May 30 was Decoration Day, or Memorial Day, as it came to be. I’m young enough to appreciate the long weekend, but old enough to remember the odd day of remembrance that came on the 30th.
There were two churches, 175 miles apart. Mt. Zion, and Corinth, good Bible names. People came out the weekend before, and cleared the graves of their families. Cut grass, swept, put out fresh flowers, and set things right for the 30th.
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The day before, the women would cook. All the best foods of my childhood. Fried chicken. Pot roast. Home-cured ham, pork roast, baked beans, homemade mashed potatoes and gravy. The end of last year’s canning brought out to share: crowders, purple hulls, and black-eyed peas. 50 kinds of Jell-O salad made, a hundred different pies and cakes. Fresh strawberries, if we were lucky. Fresh yeast rolls made, and biscuits early in the morning of the day. And they laid in a goodly supply of ice, rock salt, and all the ingredients for homemade ice cream.
On the day, the men would go out early and clear out the graves without living families. Brush-hogs, mowers, hoes, whatever it took. Dangerous work, as snakes loved to curl up beneath the tumbled stones and simple rock markers. I heard the story told many times of walking right in front of a large copperhead when I was about three. There always was a feeling of dread about it all, even with the food, and the excitement, and the promise of the ice cream.
At the front of Mt. Zion, some of the older women would come up and drape a simple flag with the a star in the middle on the communion table. There were several. We sang from lovely shape-note books, and then names were read. People began to cry, and soon, my mother would ease us out of the church, while my father and grandmother remained.
At Corinth, there was no going indoors, but people gathered outside, with benches for the old folk. Two men took turns, reading names in turn: “John Wilson, Vicksburg” one would say. “Frank Wilson, his brother, Andersonville” the other would say. And so on, through various wars and battles, up through Khe Sanh. The two readers were a tradition begun with due respect to the rift that the Civil War had torn in families. It also allowed readers to wipe their tears and regain their composure. Then silence, and a question: “Who, here, will be next?”. A prayer, and someone would begin the singing of Amazing Grace.
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I have not been there since Vietnam was past, though the tradition goes on. The continuity from past to present was palpable and frightening, even to a small child. Does everyone who died have their name read by someone? Who would be next?
It was a relief to eat. I have wondered if Americans are the only people who eat to push back their memories. But the adults were quiet, and even the homemade ice cream did not arouse much enthusiasm.
Finally, it was a relief to pile into the car, and head home in the dark. My parents, who usually sang us home, were silent.
