The cemetery in Seneca Nebraska sits high above a river valley and has around 200 graves. There’s not much left of the town now; perhaps 30 souls, counting dogs and cats. When I attended school there the population was around 250 but, once upon a time, Seneca had six or seven hundred residents. A number of my people are buried on that hillside, but most other markers have names of people I can put a face with, or recall my parents mentioning.
Cemeteries require a surprising amount of upkeep and, in a hamlet the size of Seneca, it’s a labor of love. Not much mowing is necessary, but even there, among the cactus and soapweeds, someone needs to tend the outhouse, make sure there’s no vandalism, and arrange for new burial plots. When I drove in on the holiday weekend, there were flowers on every grave. That’s in addition to things that families put out.
Here’s where community spirit enters the picture. The woman who has taken on the task of making sure no grave is forgotten doesn’t even live in Seneca. She goes to garage sales and picks up any silk flower offerings. If she mentions they will be placed on graves, sometimes people give them to her free. Before Memorial Day, she and her son make the rounds so that families who come to remember their dead are welcomed by a mass of color. Of course, there’s the matter of picking them up, and storage until next year. Thanks, Donna and Jody. I know you don’t seek recognition but I hope that many others express appreciation for your thoughtfulness.
Memorial weekend was a time of joy for me this year. Cousins from Arizona, Nevada, Oklahoma, and Kansas got together for a trip of remembrance, and we were blessed to be on their itinerary. We laughed at ourselves, and old memories, over dinner at a local eatery. Linda said, “Do you realize there’s nobody at this table under eighty? Bruce registered a protest; he’s not there yet. Chuck told the female faction that we ought to act our age, but we paid about as much attention to him as we ever did. He’s the badly outnumbered little brother. At first, he wasn’t going to come on this adventure. “Who would be crazy enough to get in a car with a bunch of eighty-year-old women?”
But we’re all glad he had a second thought. Betty and Sally grew up on bad roads in the Sandhills but agreed that our ranch trail took first prize.
Here’s the thing. We are the only ones left who remember those years, those people, and how blessed we were to be raised as we were, hard times and all. We realize that, even if we are allowed more of these visits, it’s probable that some of us won’t be present. We’ve had our share of tragedies and sorrows, but blessings were always there too, and we’re finally old enough to appreciate that.
Grandma’s generation referred to this holiday as Decoration Day, and it was all about remembrance, rather than a weekend at the lake. However you celebrated, I hope you took time to decorate your day with memories and laughter.