Yesterday, my family and I kept up the yearly tradition of putting flowers on the graves of loved ones. Decoration Day is always the same Sunday every May and has been that way for generations. The beautiful little cemetery lies in northeast Oklahoma, surrounded by trees, gentle hills, and a creek that runs under the hill. It’s a peaceful place.

Seven generations of my family lie in that final resting place. Each person has a story and if all the tears shed at their passing were gathered together, they would float a ship. The cemetery is a place of peace and rest, of sadness and celebration of lives lived, and it’s a place of reassurance, where I can point to my grandfather’s grandmother’s grave and tell my own grandchildren what little I know about her. Her chief attribute was courage. I can tell them about my nephew who died in Viet Nam and remember a few of the stories of when he was a little boy with big brown eyes, who loved to take his grandma’s biscuits in his pockets when he went out hunting for bears with his B-B gun.

Traditions are things we hold onto and look forward to. They are a familiar pattern woven into the fabric of life. Decoration Day is getting in touch with history and remembering the ones who’ve gone before and being grateful for their memories.

Blanche Day Manos

Caney Cemetery