We go there every summer, on the second Sunday in August, just to remember. It’s called Decoration Day, which I think sounds a bit flippant, but it is what it is and no one gives it a second thought. Some places call it Memorial Day, but here it’s Decoration Day. Amid the sea of bright new plastic flowers that adorn the graves, Aunt Nelda is buried, as is Aunt Hazel, Mama Bell, Papa, and a slew of other family members.
I remember most of them. Aunt Nelda died too young at 62, but not before she became my favorite aunt. She is the reason I overcame my fear of riding the Spider at the county fair when I was 9. She made anything possible. As the baby of the family, she was supposed to live a lot longer. And Mama Belle never stopped hoping to return to the hills of Carolina after she lost Papa and moved to the flatlands of Amory. So even if it was to the cemetery of the little Methodist church she attended most of her life, she did return. Of all the Conwill sisters, Aunt Hazel was probably the prettiest, inside and out, with deep blue eyes and the soft voice and gentle smile of a graceful Southern mother. I miss them all.
I’m pretty sure the hottest time and place on earth is in the middle of a cemetery in August in Mississippi. Especially a cemetery with few trees, covered in sand, and swept clean. And yet, on Decoration Day at Carolina United Methodist Church, those of us with relatives in that cemetery invariably make the pilgrimage. Hot or not hot, we’re going to show up. It’s what we do. People have been showing up here for Decoration Day for over 100 years, when those who are now buried in the cemetery were among the ones doing the remembering.
Under the green Pickle Funeral Home tent at the cemetery gate, Aunt Jimmie collects money for upkeep of the cemetery. An ages old oak tree shades the tent and her folding chair. It’s sort of like the cemetery equivalent of a movie theater ticket booth. She assures us that she’d rather stay out there in the shade rather than sit through the service, so we leave her to it.
My dad grew up on the family farm about ½ mile down Carolina Road, so he’s been a regular at Decoration Day since before he could walk. Now he’s among the oldest. According to him, the time was chosen because it was when the crops were laid by. That means the cotton was hoed clean but not yet ready for picking, so much of the farm work was at a standstill.
That was when the event took a whole day, with tables under shade trees groaning with the weight of meats, side dishes, cakes, pies, and jugs of tea, ready for the after-service crowd. A washtub filled with ice and lemonade, with a dipper nearby, satisfied many a kid who had worked up a thirst. Mamas in printed cotton dresses buzzed around the tables, shooing flies and organizing platters, while Liberty overall-clad men gathered in the shade to talk about whatever men talk about while they wait for dinner.
Uncle Alfred, who was actually nobody’s uncle, played Swing Low, Sweet Chariot on the old pump organ during the church service, masterfully coordinating the pedals and keys, while kids fidgeted and mamas corrected and late summer wasps, disturbed by the crowd, distracted everybody.
It’s pretty much the same today except there is no cotton resting in the fields, the place is thankfully air conditioned, bright plastic flowers adorn the cemetery instead of fresh blooms, and dinner on the ground is now dinner in the fellowship hall. The wasps have vacated, and Uncle Alfred is probably buried out in the cemetery. But except for that, it’s the same.
You never know who will deliver the message, but most often the topic is upbeat and assuring. This past year, though, a lifelong Carolina resident and semi-ordained pastor felt led by the Lord to let us know that as much as we would like to believe that everybody buried in that cemetery out there had found Heaven, the truth was that for some, the reverse was true. To save ourselves from a similar fate, while we still had time, we simply must repent on that day and follow him to Christ. He found a lot of ways to make the same point, even solo-singing a repentance hymn from the pulpit, before he finally, and reluctantly, released us. I felt a bit sorry that no one took up the invitation for salvation. He had worked so hard for it.
I very much wish he had taken a different tack, but the one thing I have no doubt about now is that Mississippi in August is actually not the hottest place ever.
For the past few years, a local family gospel group has provided the singing at the Decoration Day service. They could have stepped right out of my grandmother’s 1971 black-and-white TV set, with a world of talent and stacked hair. But don’t underestimate them. Saying that Mama is pretty good at playing the piano is like saying it’s just a little bit warm in hell. They harmonize like nobody’s business on I’ll Fly Away and Precious Lord Take My Hand. When you leave that service, you’re definitely in the mood to remember.
The day of thinking about and honoring those we’ve lost should be sad, I guess, but it’s a whole lot easier to celebrate life than to be angry at death. The shared roots we claim in that little cemetery are more than the names and sum of years on each tombstone. They are the touchpoints that make us family.
They are why we don’t rush off after the service, but instead gather at a local restaurant for Sunday buffet. The table is long and full of children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren that Mama Belle would never believe still share the closeness of the little family that gathered around her kitchen table after a similar service at the same little church. And I think that’s a life or two well worth remembering.
