Day 08 - A moment
On the way back from Leavenworth we took Highway 9, which is a two lane road that more or less parallels the freeway through the countryside. When I realized we would be passing the Arlington Municipal Cemetery I asked Alex if we could stop there, and we did.
I thought I was okay doing this, and mostly I just wanted to make sure Grandpa's stone had been placed and that it looked nice. A year or so after my Grandma Bert died, Bill and I stopped at the Kingsburg Cemetery in California to see her marker, and there was none. I collapsed on the grass and cried. It felt awful, but then so did losing Grandma Bert. I have never gotten over it.
It took a few moments to locate Grandpa Harold. I vaguely remembered where he was buried, but the day of his service two years ago was such a blur of tears. I was surprised by the number of temporary markers that had been in place for three years or more, it gave me misgivings about finding Grandpa's stone.
The cemetery abuts a trailer park, and the trailer across the lawn from Grandpa has been on fire at some point; the cypress lining the cemetery was scorched. This gave me a bad feeling, too.
Alex found him before I did, and his stone was very nice. Granite and brass, proudly announcing his service in the Merchant Marines during World War II, as well as his roles as husband, father, and grandfather. I thought I was going to be okay, but my eyes welled with tears. I kissed my hand and put it on the stone. I whispered "Hi, Grandpa" and stood there a few minutes before I felt that it was time to go.
Alex handed me some pebbles to put on the stone, which I did. I didn't know that this was a Jewish tradition, but it is. We are not Jewish, though, but it felt right. When I got home I read more about this:
"The leaving of a pebble is in a way the erection of a small, new monument-a tomb-stone to honour the memory of the dead. Indeed, the custom may have evolved from an ancient method of marking graves. So in one sense, it is simply a way of saying: here lie the remains of a person worth remembering. And the pebble also lets others know that someone did come and remember. Symbolically, it suggests the continuing presence of love and memory which are as strong and enduring as a rock. And we know that one name for God is "The Rock of Israel." So the rock is a reminder of the presence of the Rock, Whose love truly is stronger than death." from here.
I don't think Grandpa would mind.
I thought I was okay doing this, and mostly I just wanted to make sure Grandpa's stone had been placed and that it looked nice. A year or so after my Grandma Bert died, Bill and I stopped at the Kingsburg Cemetery in California to see her marker, and there was none. I collapsed on the grass and cried. It felt awful, but then so did losing Grandma Bert. I have never gotten over it.
It took a few moments to locate Grandpa Harold. I vaguely remembered where he was buried, but the day of his service two years ago was such a blur of tears. I was surprised by the number of temporary markers that had been in place for three years or more, it gave me misgivings about finding Grandpa's stone.
The cemetery abuts a trailer park, and the trailer across the lawn from Grandpa has been on fire at some point; the cypress lining the cemetery was scorched. This gave me a bad feeling, too.
Alex found him before I did, and his stone was very nice. Granite and brass, proudly announcing his service in the Merchant Marines during World War II, as well as his roles as husband, father, and grandfather. I thought I was going to be okay, but my eyes welled with tears. I kissed my hand and put it on the stone. I whispered "Hi, Grandpa" and stood there a few minutes before I felt that it was time to go.
Alex handed me some pebbles to put on the stone, which I did. I didn't know that this was a Jewish tradition, but it is. We are not Jewish, though, but it felt right. When I got home I read more about this:
"The leaving of a pebble is in a way the erection of a small, new monument-a tomb-stone to honour the memory of the dead. Indeed, the custom may have evolved from an ancient method of marking graves. So in one sense, it is simply a way of saying: here lie the remains of a person worth remembering. And the pebble also lets others know that someone did come and remember. Symbolically, it suggests the continuing presence of love and memory which are as strong and enduring as a rock. And we know that one name for God is "The Rock of Israel." So the rock is a reminder of the presence of the Rock, Whose love truly is stronger than death." from here.
I don't think Grandpa would mind.