~if only we will take the time to listen~
I've been keeping a close eye on the peonies in the yard here at home in Newkirk. There are probably a dozen bushes filled with buds that day by day let go of their grip upon the beautiful flowers waiting inside. For now I can see a variety of colors that range from deep red to pink and white. Mike and I had no idea they were there until about a month ago when they started to arise from their winter's slumber. Now we wait for them to put on their show, one that is filled with a colorful display of petals and aromatic scents.
As a young child growing up on the south central Kansas prairie, now such a very long time ago it would seem, peonies were the flower of choice for taking to the cemeteries on Decoration Day in May. My Grandmother Brown grew several different kinds of them in her backyard on Locust Street in Halstead, Kansas. She would watch her peonies, just like I am doing to mine now, and then cut them when she felt the time was right. Quite often she would bundle them tightly and secure them with a rubber band before placing them on shelves in the "icebox" in the days ahead of needing them. I can still remember the beautiful scent and see my grandmother's hands as she went about the task of making them ready. Little did Catherine Brown realize that she had an audience of one and that she was setting an example for the tiny girl called "Peggy Ann". Even I wasn't aware at the time that I was learning a lesson that would go with me 60 years into the future.
Some of my happiest of childhood memories revolve around trips to the cemeteries with my grandmother and mom. We kids learned early on that going to visit the graves of family members and friends that we knew was a way to honor the fact that they lived in the first place. Those two women taught me that I didn't have to be afraid or dread going to the graveyard. It was instilled in me that it was a sacred place and while there I was to act accordingly. Following my grandmother around the cemetery and listening to her speak of the folks she had known was like being the recipient of an oral history lesson. By the time she was done telling me all about them it was as if I had known them all along. I'm so thankful for the lesson they taught me, one that I tried to teach my own three children as well.
Now that we live closer, I'll be able to take care of the graves of my two sisters, a brother, a niece, parents, and grandparents once again. I'll take some silk flowers but the biggest share of what I use to decorate will hopefully be the cut flowers from the peony bushes here. Nearly all of my family is buried in Halstead, Kansas except for Sherry who is back home in Haven. I hope to make a day of it and spend time walking amongst all the graves that are there. Seems like I know over half of the people buried at Laurel in Haven. Going there to visit brings back a plethora of memories of good folks who helped my parents to raise me up in the days of my youth. Some day when my time has come, they will take me there as well to my place alongside my sister Sherry.
Going to the cemetery is a habit I have gotten into. As a lifelong learner, I know that the history one can find there is a valuable tool to understand where I came from. Even in death, folks have a story to tell us if only we will take the time to listen.
As a young child growing up on the south central Kansas prairie, now such a very long time ago it would seem, peonies were the flower of choice for taking to the cemeteries on Decoration Day in May. My Grandmother Brown grew several different kinds of them in her backyard on Locust Street in Halstead, Kansas. She would watch her peonies, just like I am doing to mine now, and then cut them when she felt the time was right. Quite often she would bundle them tightly and secure them with a rubber band before placing them on shelves in the "icebox" in the days ahead of needing them. I can still remember the beautiful scent and see my grandmother's hands as she went about the task of making them ready. Little did Catherine Brown realize that she had an audience of one and that she was setting an example for the tiny girl called "Peggy Ann". Even I wasn't aware at the time that I was learning a lesson that would go with me 60 years into the future.
Some of my happiest of childhood memories revolve around trips to the cemeteries with my grandmother and mom. We kids learned early on that going to visit the graves of family members and friends that we knew was a way to honor the fact that they lived in the first place. Those two women taught me that I didn't have to be afraid or dread going to the graveyard. It was instilled in me that it was a sacred place and while there I was to act accordingly. Following my grandmother around the cemetery and listening to her speak of the folks she had known was like being the recipient of an oral history lesson. By the time she was done telling me all about them it was as if I had known them all along. I'm so thankful for the lesson they taught me, one that I tried to teach my own three children as well.
Now that we live closer, I'll be able to take care of the graves of my two sisters, a brother, a niece, parents, and grandparents once again. I'll take some silk flowers but the biggest share of what I use to decorate will hopefully be the cut flowers from the peony bushes here. Nearly all of my family is buried in Halstead, Kansas except for Sherry who is back home in Haven. I hope to make a day of it and spend time walking amongst all the graves that are there. Seems like I know over half of the people buried at Laurel in Haven. Going there to visit brings back a plethora of memories of good folks who helped my parents to raise me up in the days of my youth. Some day when my time has come, they will take me there as well to my place alongside my sister Sherry.
Going to the cemetery is a habit I have gotten into. As a lifelong learner, I know that the history one can find there is a valuable tool to understand where I came from. Even in death, folks have a story to tell us if only we will take the time to listen.
My great-great grandmother, Rebecca Keys Burch, was considered to be the last living pensioner of a Revolutionary War soldier. This monument was erected in her memory by the DAR just outside the Quaker Cemetery north of Halstead, Kansas. Her grave is one that I have visited often, beginning back in the days when Grandmother Brown would take me there when I was only a little girl.
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