Yesterday was a picture perfect December day here in Houston. I awoke to a slight chill inside the house which is exactly the way I like for my mornings to be. The sun was out and the sky was blue. Mike and I went searching for a new dishwasher and found a great deal so quickly that we had the rest of the day in front of us. I had already placed an assortment of holiday flowers in the back seat of our truck in anticipation of finding the time to do a cemetery run to honor our grandparents and parents and some other relations who have already gone to their heavenly reward. Mike and I like to visit at least once during each of the four seasons to keep their floral decorations looking fresh. Mostly though there is something quite soothing about going to the final resting place of their earthly bodies.
We make our little trips something pleasant rather than dreary. Our first stop is almost always the James Coney Island near Gulfgate. It was one of my mother’s favorite eateries and before it was built she often took us to the original location on Walker Street. Mike and I each order the same thing every time, two original coneys with mustard, chili, and onions, a drink, and a bag of chips. The little tradition always takes us all the way back to our childhood and memories of shopping trips and movies.
Back in the days of our youth the downtown area was the center of the Houston universe and a bus ride there was a major event. It meant a day long adventure and virtually always a visit to the James Coney Island hot dog heaven where millionaires, celebrities, and common folk gathered together to munch on the delightful concoctions. My mother was always as delighted as a child to eat there. She thought it a wonderful extravagance that demonstrated just how far she had progressed from her childhood days when eating out was financially impossible. She had to have been one of James Coney Island’s biggest foodie fans. Nothing brought a smile more quickly to her face than the thought of dining there.
Mike and I always stop first at Forest Park cemetery on Lawndale. We marvel at the names on the headstones that remind us of people that we knew from church and our old neighborhoods. We suspect that this is where parents of our friends are resting in peace. We have landmarks to guide us to my relatives. We have to find the Dimicelli marker near the street to know that if we walk straight back we will locate my grandparents and three of my uncles. I’ve been going to that place for all of my life because my grandfather died before I was born. My mother faithfully visited his gravesite which is where I suppose I first got into the habit of checking on the memorials to the dead. When all of my aunts and uncles were still alive the monument to him and later to my grandmother was always bursting with assortments of flowers. Now my elders are mostly gone or too old to travel so far. I’m not certain but I suspect that I am perhaps one of the only family members who still visits regularly. I often wonder what will happen when I am gone.
They say that a person is still alive in a sense as long as they are remembered. I’m not one to dwell on the past but I do believe that it is important for my children and grandchildren to know about their heritage. The trouble is that it is very difficult to interest them in people and events that seemingly had no impact on their lives. They still have special corners in their hearts for their grandparents but their great grandparents are only vague illusions to them. It’s difficult to spark an interest in such ordinary people who led such uneventful lives. They were born. They struggled to exist and they died. Most young people today have no idea how valiant their ancestors were just to survive. There is nothing glamorous about them and yet to me they are incredible.
Of course we also drive to the spot where my father and mother now lie side by side, united in the love that bound them even after my father had been gone for decades. I marvel at how young my father was when he so tragically died and I think of the infinite courage that my mother demonstrated time and again as she did her best to raise me and my brothers. If our own lives are any indication then Mama must have been a brilliant mother. Even though its been almost five years since her death I still miss her. I have those little moments when I remember how enchanting she was. Even her quirkiness which so often annoyed me has become a wonderful memory. Of all of my deceased loved ones she is the one that I know is truly a saint. She may never be declared so by the pope but I am certain of her status in the eyes of God.
After we spend a bit of time at Forest Park we drive across town to Brookside Cemetery. My father’s parents are both there. It’s easy to find them because Grandpa insisted on purchasing plots next to a memorial featuring four books of the Bible. He always said that Grandma would be able to read for all eternity, a wish that had been denied her in life. Her illiteracy was the one thing that brought her shame and frustration. Her pride in my father’s academic prowess was widely known but what few realized is just how wonderful if was for her to know that her son was able to read and unlock the mysteries of the world. Knowledge was the gift that she most wanted to give her children and in my father she found a willing and eager recipient.
Grandpa liked to read as well. Like my father he was either working or poring over books, newspapers and magazines when he was awake. He rarely wasted his time on trivial matters. He was a student of history and a storyteller in his own right. Had he lived in another lifetime he might have become a writer or perhaps an entertainer or even a politician. He could charm a cobra with his wit and wisdom. Sitting at his feet was akin to visiting with the Dali Lama. He had a way of soothing fears and setting things right. My grandmother was literally the love of his life, his buddy, his everything. It does my heart good to know that they are forever reunited in heaven.
Our final stop is in front of the chapel at Brookside where Mike’s grandparents, an aunt, an uncle, and his mother are buried. It is perhaps the loveliest site in the graveyard. When we are lucky we arrive when the bells chime the hour or play a lovely tune. I never met his grandparents but I have heard enough stories to believe that they were delightful people. I did get to know his Aunt Elsie and Uncle Bob so well that I have developed a vivid image of what Mike’s childhood was like. Aunt Elsie was sweet and unfailingly loving. She was unable to have babies of her own so she volunteered to help in the nursery at the old Jeff Davis Hospital. She was also involved in ministry at St. Andrew’s Episcopal Church in the Heights. Uncle Bob was the classic good ole boy. He worked long hours as one of the best electricians in the city and spent his leisure time drinking beer, barbecuing, and smiling at his nieces and nephews. He became a kind of surrogate grandfather for Mike and he taught Mike everything that he knows about fixing things. To this day Mike does as his uncle did and carries a box of tools in the back of his truck just in case he needs them. Many of the implements once belonged to Uncle Bob and so they are treasures that only Mike truly appreciates.
Mike’s grandfather died when he was quite young. He’s not sure if his memories of the man are real or simply the result of stories that his mother told him again and again. Like me Mike lost his grandmother when he was only fifteen. She captivated his heart and he provided the same level of joy to her. He was still grieving over his loss when I first met him. She was a beautiful woman and from what I have gathered had a heart to match.
Mike’s mother was a tiny woman, barely five feet tall who possessed a gigantic personality. She was oozing with charisma and courage. I do believe that she would have faced down the devil to protect the people that she loved. I can still see her clapping her beautiful hands together and smiling with unbridled glee. She was brilliant and kind and people were just naturally drawn to her. I always give her the biggest bunch of flowers because she has a vase built in to her gravestone and the cemetery workers won’t throw them away like they seem to do with everyone else. They will no doubt still be there when we return in the spring.
Visiting for a moment with our loved ones always makes me nostalgic, not sad. I remember my time with them with such pleasure. It makes me happy to recall just how wonderful they were. I like to end our little journey with another tradition. I always want to stop by the Airline Farmer’s Market to purchase some fresh produce. They have items there that I can’t find anywhere else in Houston. It is always bubbling with life and it too harbors memories of both my mother and my mother-in-law.
Yesterday I found the tangerines for which I had been searching for weeks. There were piles and piles of nuts of every variety. I gathered the simple items that most remind me of Christmases past and placed them in one of my grandmother’s enamel bowls when I got home. I felt complete. I was ready to bring on the holiday and to feel grateful for my memories. Christmas has nothing to do with expensive gifts but rather focuses on rooms full of love and nature’s simple treasures. Visiting with those who helped to make me the person I am today always puts things back into perspective and brings me great joy for in them I know that I have been loved.
All It Takes Is A Little Love 