Memorial Day

Jerry and I went to Pleasant Hill yesterday and walked along one of my favorite trails.  Houses back onto it, and you can look over or through fences and see chickens, hammocks, fountains, trampolines, grills, sun umbrellas, outdoor furniture, children's toys, play houses, and even a mini-vineyard.  Tall trees, dappled light, perfect weather, an excellent walk.  Afterward, we bought frozen yogurt at a joint in Lafayette.

When I was a kid,  my family would drive from San Jose to Oakland every Memorial Day to leave flowers at the grave of my dad's mother, who died before I was born.  This meant visiting my grandfather and his second wife, Eddie (see recent post), which was a bit of a sticky wicket.

Eddie was not all that enthusiastic about her predecessor, so she and Grandpa did not join the excursion to Mountain View Cemetery in Oakland.  But my family and my Aunt Phyllis went, the trunk of the car filled with buckets of  home-grown flowers, some brought with us from San Jose in what my mother called "the didie pail," a white enameled bucket into she'd used to soak diapers in. The Italian family who lived next door to my grandfather would pass roses over the fence in buckets.  Possibly my grandfather sneaked in some flowers from his own garden.

When we got to the cemetery, we'd go through the usual trimming of grass away from the stone, filling the vases with water, and arranging the flowers.  And then my aunt would stand up and said, "Bye-bye, Mama."   I'd think, "Her mother's under there?"  Then we'd all go off and eat one of Eddie's weird lunches. 

Memorial Day, 1968:  My sister, my Aunt Phyllis, my dad, and my mother, the last time I can remember all of us going together.  I went off to college the following fall.