By Bob Chrisman
After my father died in 1984, my mother made semi-annual trips to Southern California to stay with her step-sister-in-law, Aunt Gladys. Uncle Roy had died a couple of years before my dad did. I would fly out to spend some time with them and then accompany my mother home.
During my first visit, Mom and Aunt Gladys announced their desire to decorate Uncle Roy’s grave at the VA cemetery in Westminster, California, near the Pacific Coast. At 90 my aunt had stopped going. “I’m not as quick on the highway anymore. I’ll leave that to you.”
We loaded the car with grass trimmers, scissors, throw rugs, plastic buckets, dishwashing liquid, sponges, old rags, and rolls of paper towels. My aunt directed my driving.
“Take that exit. Now be careful, Bob. A lot of these people aren’t paying attention. Lucile, look. Honey, did you see those mums in front of that grocery store? Weren’t they beautiful? Roy loved mums.”
I moved into the right lane to head back to the store. Aunt Gladys wanted mums. And my mother would want to make Aunt Gladys happy. One right turn, three left turns, and 15 minutes later we pulled up to the store. They climbed out while I parked.
When I caught up with them in the store, they had removed all the pots of deep red mums from the rack and lined them up for inspection. My mother and my aunt handed me the mums they eliminated as possible choices.
“Here, put this back where it belongs.” While I redecorated the mum display, they narrowed the choice down to three.
“Bob, you pick the one you think is the best one.”
I chose, but my choice wasn’t the best one so they bought the one they had already agreed on.
That done, we headed toward the cemetery.
A sign greeted us at the entrance:
The level of the cemetery has been raised by several inches. If you have trouble finding the gravesite of a veteran, please contact the manager located on the property.
We drove to the spot closest to Uncle Roy’s grave. My aunt and my mother tottered across the grass. I, the beast of burden, unloaded the trunk and followed.
“Now, he’s here somewhere. Lucile, you don’t think they’ve moved him, do you? That sign said something…”
“No, Gladys, they only put more dirt on top of him.”
I found the spot. “Here it is.” I dropped all of the grave decorating equipment and took the bucket to get water.
As they spread out the throw rugs, Aunt Gladys said, “Lucile, I don’t remember the grave being this far from the road.”
“Gladys, it’s always been here.” Mom yelled at me. “Don’t fill the bucket too full. We don’t need that much water.”
They had donned their gardening gloves and hats and set to work. They trimmed the grass around the stone. They scrubbed the marker with old rags and dried it with the paper towels.
“Roy and I bought an in-ground vase. I can’t remember exactly where it is, but I’ll find it.”
She pulled out a knife with a long slender blade and stabbed the ground like Anthony Perkins slashed at Janet Leigh in “Psycho.” Stab, stab, stab.
“Aunt Gladys, please stop.” Mom didn’t say a word. Stab, stab, stab.
“I need to find that vase. It’s buried here. They better not have removed it. We paid good money for it.” Stab, stab, stab.
“Wait. Put the knife down. I’ll go to the office and find out where the vase is.” Stab, stab, stab.
My aunt worked up quite a sweat. “Okay. I’m tired. Why don’t you go to the office. We’ll keep ourselves busy while you’re gone.”
I ran to the car. I knew they wouldn’t wait long to do whatever they wanted to.
I drove to the office. As I entered the building, the air-conditioning hit me in the face like a block of ice. The hot and humid outside air vanished in a room where you could have hung meat without it spoiling.
A cheery young woman asked, “Hello. May I help you find your loved one?”
I smiled. “My aunt is stabbing her husband’s grave with a knife to find the in-ground vase. To avoid injury to her, can you tell me where the buried vase is located?”
The woman’s mouth dropped open.
“Let me speak to the manager.”
She disappeared only to return with a rotund man dressed in a robin’s-egg blue polyester, double-knit suit. The exertion of walking from his office to the desk had turned his face beet red and he mopped his brow with a white handkerchief.
“I’ll show you where it is.”
I asked, “Do you want me to drive?” I wasn’t sure he would fit in the rental car.
“No, I’ll take my car. Suits me better.”
He climbed in a huge car, exactly the same color as his suit and rolled down his window.
“Lead the way.”
When we arrived at the gravesite, I pointed to my aunt and mother busily working.
“That’s them.”
He nodded and waddled off, wiping his head and neck as he went.
When I arrived at the throw rugs, grass trimmings and dirt covered both women. The manager stared at the ground, his jaw agape.
Aunt Gladys said. “Honey, we don’t need him. When we couldn’t find the vase I paid for…” she looked up at the manager. “…we simply dug a little hole and planted the mums on top of Roy.” She looked very happy. They both did, but the manager didn’t.
“You…you can’t do that.”
“Can’t do what, young man?”
“Can’t go around digging holes in the cemetery. It’s…well, it’s grave desecration.” His color had grown much redder. Sweat poured off his face. His handkerchief looked sopping wet. “It’s against the law to dig holes here.”
“If we had been able to find the vase, which, I will remind you again, we paid for, my sister-in-law and I wouldn’t have dug this hole.”
He took out a pocket knife. My aunt grabbed her knife, prepared to fight.
He stepped next to the stone. He jabbed in the ground and dug out some grass.
“Here. Right here.” He stood up with a smug smile on his face.
My aunt ignored him. “Lucile, look. It was right there all the time…under a foot of grass and dirt.”
“Next time, ladies, please don’t dig a hole.” He snapped his knife shut and waddled back to his car.
“I think I’ll report him. Grave desecration? What a bad attitude these young people have.” She extended her hand to me. “Help me up.”
With both of them on their feet, I brushed off their clothes. I gathered everything, wrapped the knife in an old rag and dropped it in the bucket. I packed the stuff in the trunk.
When I went back to help them to the car, I heard my aunt ask, “I think we did a lovely job, don’t you? Roy would be pleased.” My mother agreed.
About Bob: Bob Chrisman is a Kansas City, Missouri writer who frequently writes memoir about his mother, her three sisters, and their influence on his life. Desecration Day is about his Aunt Gladys and his mother. Other pieces about his aunts include Aunt Annie’s Scalloped Oysters and The Law Of Threes. He published two pieces about the life and death of his mother — Hands and In Memoriam.
He also wrote a trilogy about his father: My Father’s Witness, Bearing Witness, and My Life With Dad. Bob’s other red Ravine posts include Growing Older, Goat Ranch, and Stephenie Bit Me, Too.
Bob, I’ve heard you talk about this memory before (stab stab stab) and so it was a treat to read it at last. Your descriptions are vivid. Loved especially the way your mother and Aunt Gladys ignored your advice, plus the description of the office manager at the cemetery.
Also, just wanted to let you know that I’m about to head out for our annual pilgrimage to Costilla with my father and sisters to clean Dad’s parents’ graves. We’ll pick up my Aunt Olivia in Taos. Olivia always brings all the supplies–picks, shovels, trash bag, new flowers, gardening gloves, etc. I’ll be thinking of this post while I’m out there today. It should be a beautiful day. Will revisit this post when I get back.
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I have many fond memories of grave decorating. It’s no longer a family affair for me as my “grave decorating” family have all died. My cousins and my sister have moved away.
yb, hope you enjoy you time with your family remembering those who have gone before.
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Bob, the humor in this piece makes it sing. I can hear your voice as you read it out loud. I can totally relate to the visits to the cemetery, particularly when Mom and I go Down South every year. It’s our way of honoring the past, passing down family stories. I wanted to ask — do you think this tradition will fade away in coming generations? Most of the younger kids in our family aren’t much interested in visiting gravesites. I wondered if it isn’t really being passed down as much as it used to be. I’m a big believer in honoring those who came before us. I also like the historical aspect of cemeteries. I wondered if you thought it was something that was fading away.
Another thing I wanted to mention is that I was talking last week with my brother about having a marker versus not having a marker. Many people are cremated these days; some still choose to have a marker or gravestone and have their ashes buried. Others like theirs scattered to the wind. I’m the kind of person who likes to have a marker to visit, a place where I can go and visit a loved one who has passed on. But I can sure see why people would not want the expense and hassle of having a marker. And I’m not really planning on having one myself. So that leaves me at opposing views inside. What do you think of that aspect of honoring the dead?
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I don’t think it’s as much about honoring the dead as remembering where we came from, our ancestors, our shared stories, our youth. The dead don’t care that we come visit them. They did when they were alive, but I doubt that any of them care after they die.
My Aunt Gladys worried that no one would visit her grave in the cemetery after she died. I have only been back to that part of California once since she passed away and I went to the cemetery and took mums for her and Uncle Roy. That trip made me remember all the fun times we (Mom and I) had with her in Yucaipa.
For me the cemetery visits serve as memory joggers of the people whose graves I decorate.
I think the tradition will fade away because so few people are born, raised, live and die in the same area with their families. My extended family is spread all over the country with one cousin who lives overseas. We don’t see each other very often.
I decorate graves, but I don’t know that anyone else in my family does.
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My shooter/film editor told me once that it was much harder to edit comedies than it was to edit tragedies. I didn’t believe him until we did our first comedy for an annual corporate meeting. The editing session was grueling. The timing had to be just right.
Bob — your comedic timing here is just right — and vivid. I love the references to the knife with the looooong slender blade (can’t you just picture it?) and Anthony Perkins, jabbing, stabbing — I could picture the shadow of the blade eclipsing the scene as it does in the best Hitchcock films. You were such a helpful — and seemingly helpless — foil to your mother and Aunt Gladys. I love how your mother was prepared for a fight with the manager, “a rotund man dressed in a robin’s-egg blue polyester, double-knit suit” (what manager isn’t dressed this way, really?) with a face that did not get any less red after dealing with your mother.
For a graveyard scene, this is funny, funny stuff which makes it all the more hilarious. I needed to laugh today. Hell, I’ve needed to laugh for a week. Thanks. And echoing your mother a bit: you helped me up today and did a lovely job.
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Dear Cousin: You did a great job as usual. I didn’t know your Aunt Gladys, but I sure knew your Mom and I can just see them there cleaning the stone and trimming the grass. Your Mom was maticulous about keeping the gravesites of Grandma and Grandpa Patton and Aunt Vera and Uncle Howard just right.
Can’t wait to read your next story.
Your Cousin, Sharon
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Flann, I learned long ago to just go with the flow of my mother and Aunt Gladys. I would always lose if I tried to take them on. Besides the fun usually began when I just followed along with what they were doing.
I have lots of funny stories about cemeteries. They outweigh the sad ones because of all the grave decorating we did. Going to the cemetery was not always sad.
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Thanks, Cousin. Aunt Gladys and Mom, although not related by blood, came from the same grave decorating mold. They went to the cemetery equipped for any situation and took the maintenance of the headstones seriously. Even today I could put together the perfect grave decorating kit if someone asked.
Thanks for stopping by.
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I’m so jealous. Not about your variety of family craziness, but because of your writing. Jesus. Hilarious, touching, and revealing. I love how you show us your exasperation mingled with love for your mother and Aunt Gladys. I can’t get enough of your stories of you and various supporting members of the family cast.
We had our family tradition of visiting the “family cemetery” in New Mexico, but we didn’t do any maintenance or renovation. I think we left some flowers but that’s it, and maybe not even all the time. I remember feeling sorry for graves that didn’t have any visitors or flowers, and sneaking them a flower.
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Thanks, Neola. I envy the people who decorate graves in New Mexico because the decorations are so colorful and ornate. That would have been considered “bad taste” for my family.
Sunday when my friend, R., and I stopped in Gower to visit the graves of my parents, I could see that modern grave decoration in Missouri has taken on a gaudier style with stuffed animals and photographs and gee-gaws (as my mother would have called them). Maybe grave decorators in Missouri are becoming a little less conservative in their choice of decorations.
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Something else Neola said jogged a memory. As a little boy I would roam the cemetery looking for the really old graves, the ones I didn’t think people would visit. I would take a flower and put it on the grave to let them know they weren’t forgotten.
My mother placed a limit on the number of “forgotten” graves I could decorate because I seriously impacted the number of flowers she had to put on relatives’ graves. We only had so many irises, peonies, and mock orange branches to dole out it seemed.
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Going to the cemetery was not always sad.
This caught my eye as I read the comments, Bob. We sure did laugh a lot yesterday during our grave-decorating tradition. Since my dad’s youngest brother died, some of his kids have been coming down from Pueblo, CO, and meeting us in Costilla to clean and decorate Dad’s parents’ graves. It’s also a chance for us to stay connected, and for them to stay connected to Dad.
Well, as soon as we arrived at the cemetery, the laughs began. First it was a case of mistaken identity where my sisters mistook a stranger for my cousin. They only looked vaguely alike, this man and my cousin, but it gave us a good chuckle. Then all our windows were on child lock and we couldn’t open our windows when we finally did arrive to where our cousins were. So it was like a comedy trying to roll down the windows and talk while they were wondering why the heck we weren’t rolling down the windows. Silly things that just got us laughing so hard.
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QM, on the question of fading traditions, I did want to say that every time we go to Costilla, my dad mentions how he wonders what will happen to the graves after he and his sister are gone. I always assure him that I will continue to come every year. I hope he believes me.
My oldest wanted to come this year, but she had a commitment with her horse that prevented her from coming. Next year, though.
And Neola, I wanted to ask you, what part of New Mexico was your family from?
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I love your stories. Keep writing.
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Bob, you brought your mom and your aunt back alive with this piece. I recognize them in the way that I recognize my own ancestors. Well done!
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yb, when I was little, my parents would meet people in the cemetery they hadn’t seen for years and they would have a reunion of sorts with these old friends. It was a good time for them to catch up with these people.
Karen, thanks for the compliment. Wait till I write stories about the cousins.
Monica, thanks for stopping by. Look forward to seeing your writing someday soon.
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When I read this, I thought about the cross you (and a handful of the people from the Intensive) placed on the roadside for Denise. I didn’t know you very well at the time, but now I think, “Well, of course Bob would go to the spot of her death with something to honor her. Bob would think of that.”
I laughed out loud when I read what you said to the person in the office: “…my aunt is stabbing her husband’s grave with a knife…” I can just hear you saying that, and enjoying the reaction in the cemetary office.
Missouri Memoir. Wouldn’t that be a catchy title for your book?
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Oh Bob!!! I’m still laughing. I know just the place and can picture it so clearly… right down to not be able to find the vase. This cemetery is about 10 miles inland from my house and I have Family there too. Never saw the guy you described but I did get chased by their security for taking sneaky shots from behind large gravestones. Man, I wish I been there on this day to get that “stabbing” and the Families’ expressions. You just let me know if you ever want flowers laid for your Uncle Roy. I’d be happy to do so.
😉 H
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Thanks, H. If I ever come back to that part of California, I will arrange for us to meet in the cemetery and we can decorate graves together.
Do you remember when the place was a few inches lower and any significant rain turned the VA cemetery into a big lake?
My mother told a story about being with Aunt Gladys and her three “girl” friends (everyone of them over 80 and nearing 90), my mother (in her 70’s) and a 70-year-old niece on a trip to the cemetery after a heavy rain on the coast. The ladies were so upset that their loved ones were drowning that they lodged a protest at the front office. Guess it must have worked as MANY years later they raised the level of the cemetery.
I have so many stories about my aunt and that cemetery and even more about the local cemetery where my mother’s people are buried.
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Terri, thanks for the book title. How about “My Visits with the Dead: A Missouri Memoir”? I could tell so many cemetery stories local and otherwise. I guess I would have to save the “Otherwise” storied for somewhere else.
And I have a story about Aunt Gladys and what happened at her funeral at the cemetery, a story I promised my mother I would not tell until everyone involved in it (except me, of course) died. I think she only meant that she didn’t want to be alive to answer any questions about what happened. A bizarre story that is so odd it’s funny.
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Terri, does your family decorate graves? if so, how.
annuevue, your family must decorate graves if you’ve been before. What is your custom?
yb, what was the grave decorating like for you and your family? Was it simple like flowers and crosses or was it more?
Grave decoration is one of those things that I assumed everyone did with their families, but, as I talk with more and more people, I realized that it is unusual for some people who never go to the cemetery for any reason.
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Oh Bob, you MUST write about that funeral. Its one of the funniest stories I’ve ever heard, mixed in with sadness and of course craziness.
yb, mostly Farmington, although some in Gallup. One of my sisters was actually born in Gallup as my parents lived there briefly. I still have lots of family in Farmington.
And I meant to also say, Bob, that I appreciate the work you did for Denise and John’s memorial cross. And I’m glad you took me to see it.
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Neola, that trip to the Coast for Aunt Gladys’s funeral is full of craziness and humor and sadness. I have written about it and it may go into my book, Talking with the Dead Outside Missouri.” I’m making up titles now.
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Teri, my apologies for mistyping your name. I do know better. I also know a TeRRi. As my mother always said when you misspoke a name, “She must be thinking about you.”
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Bob, everyone below ground now was above ground in 84 and earlier so I didn’t visit at that time. I do remember when they raised it up because I used to rent a little 1920’s house in Westminster (just a few streets down). It was a disaster down Beach Blvd (a major road) for a really long time. There was actually a Family owned lumber yard right next door and they took over the land in the remodel. Now the place is pristinely kept and holds both weddings and funerals. The side entrance of the cemetery has a magnificent Buddhist area designated for the large Vietnamese and Korean communities that now live in Westminster. The monuments are amazing.
ANYTIME you want to decorate graves… I’m there.
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H., you’re on. I know right where Aunt Gladys and Uncle Roy are buried, but I might need to stop at the office to see if the “on-site” manager is still with us.
They held the funeral for Aunt Gladys in the chapel on the grounds, but that’s a whole other story.
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Heather, you never cease to amaze me. I’d love to hear if you and Bob ever hook up down at the cemetery (I want to see the Buddhist side entrance). In fact, maybe ybonesy and I can come along, too. I really hope we get to meet in person someday!
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Bob, I’d love to hear about the funeral of Aunt Gladys. (I’m hoping for a sequel to this piece on red Ravine.) I love the stories about your mom and your aunts. Wouldn’t it be cool if the manager is still there? If he is, how could he forget Gladys & Lucile?
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Given the redness of the man’s complexion and how profusely he sweated after little activity, I doubt that he lasted long at the cemetery under the stress caused by people like my aunt. In the intervening 15 years of so, I imagine he has had more difficult people he took care of. I hope my aunt and my mother faded from his memory. Think of the horror of remembering elderly grave desecrators.
QM, I’ll tell you the story of the funeral sometime, maybe when I see you next. There is sadness, intrigue, humor…it contains a lot of different emotions.
If I go to Southern California, I will let Heather know and we can meet at the cemetery where we will take lots of pictures of the place. I’ll even take some snapshots of Aunt Gladys and Uncle Roy’s marker…flat. The cemetery didn’t allow ones that stood more than a few inches above ground…easier to mow the lawn that way.
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When Teri suggested the name for the book, I got to thinking about how many cemetery, funeral, burial, and other activities associated with the dead stories I have. I easily came up with at least 20 stories I have about odd, funny, some sad stories I have that involve funerary customs among my family and friends.
Maybe Teri is right, I do have a book in these stories.
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Something I just remembered, if he was there at the time of my aunt’s burial, he would have had to deal with all the craziness that went on with that funeral, but that’s another story.
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Bob,
You can’t just lead us on with these teasers about Aunt Gladys’s funeral and not tell. Spill the beans, Mister.
There is a lot of grave decorating where I come from, too. The cemeteries are country types surrounded by working farms–so not the sort of cemeteries that have rules about types of flowers, heights of headstones and all that. My Mom just had an elaborate planter custom-made for my Dad’s grave.
When my young nephew Ryan died, the mementos his friends left by his tombstone became very important to his parents. They knew they weren’t alone in their grief.
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Teri,
I love those country cemeteries in the middle of fields or pastures where you must cross someone’s property to get to them…often on a low rise in the field. I always thought of those as “private” or “family” cemeteries even though I know that’s not always true.
Most of my ancestors are buried in “proper” cemeteries along with lots of other people.
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Teri, it turns out that the story Neola was referring to concerns an incident at the funeral home during visitation for my Grandma Hecker. Too bizarre.
The incident(s) around my Aunt Gladys’ funeral would take too many posts to tell because there were several of them. It’s a short story all own it’s own. Maybe next year or maybe for Halloween. I’ll talk with yb and QM about the stories.
Thanks for talking about your own family’s grave decoration traditions.
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Bob,
How thoughtful of your mother and aunt to involve you in the choosing of the best mum. Too bad you chose the wrong one, but it’s the thought that counts.
Cemeteries, funerals…I trust you can create humor in the operating room, too.
Good Stuff, Bob!
Dane
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[…] cousins. Names like Patton, Divelbiss, Pogue, and Williams mark the plots of family members. Every Memorial Day we decorated those graves. As time passed and more relatives took up residence among the […]
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Great story, I too could hear you tell it.
Have you written down the trip – I think maybe the last one – with your mom to California when you stayed in some nice hotel and your mom tried to retrain the wait staff to give her smaller portions? As I recall, the whole problem of too much food ruined the whole experience for her…
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Dane, thanks for stopping by. I have no operating room stories…no, wait. That’s not true.
When I had my first (and only) colonoscopy, the doctor who showed up to insert the scope was one of the doctors on the medical staff I supervised. When I say him I said, “I guess you’ll see a side of me you’ve never seen.” He laughed. I went to sleep.
Lois, I think you’re talking about the time I took Mom to San Francisco and stayed in the Ritz-Carlton. She was overwhelmed by the lavishness of the place and upset over the price of things. The staff listened patiently as she lectured them on cutting costs so more people could eat in their restaurant.
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Bob, this is a sweet, humorous story.
I really like the Anthony Perkins/Psycho description of your aunt stabbing at the grave. That, more than anything else, drives home the “desecration” aspect of this story. The story captures how the emotions of love and caring, mixed with who knows what else, can come out awkwardly and sometimes harshly. The in-ground vase was so important because it was bought by your aunt and her husband. “Roy and I” bought that vase and that vase was missing. All of her care became focused on that one important vase. All of the emotions came out in that stabbing hand trying desperately to find that vase.
I also liked the back and forth dialogue between your mother and her sister-in-law which evoked a friendly comfortableness with each other.
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Thanks, Joyce. Glad you stopped by. I think some of her frustration came from knowing that she wasn’t long from joining him. She wanted all the things “wrong” with the cemetery fixed before she died.
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Ah, that makes sense, Bob. “Everything must be right, must be right, must be right. Then I’ll know all will be OK, be OK, be OK . . . .”
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Hey, Bob! Not sure how I missed this post when it first went up, but glad to read it now. Just can’t believe how well and humorously you recall these stories, and the way you describe your aunt’s actions to the secretary…well, I can just imagine the looks you got. You have such an excellent way with words!
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[…] Missouri writer who frequently writes memoir about his family. For Memorial Day 2010, we published Desecration Day, Bob’s humorous yet moving piece about a grave decoration day that got a bit out of hand, […]
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[…] frequently writes memoir about his family. His last pieces for red Ravine were Exit The Telephone, Desecration Day, and Uncle Howard At The […]
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