Preface: For me celebrating Memorial Day meant traveling to ancestral gravesites.  I loved it.  In my head a created my family tree and tried to record the stories of my ancestors in my head.  They seemed so alived to me.  For me me, four wheelers and boats were far removed from 2nd East and Memorial Day....

For many the last Monday in May has become nothing more than a 3 day weekend to celebrate the beginning of Summer. This "3 day weekend" has created a distraction from the true meaning of the day. Memorial Day, originally called Decoration Day, is a day to remember and pay tribute to those who have died in the service of our country.

The first observances of Memorial Day date back to post Civil War years as Southerners and Yankees honored their dead by decorating graves of deceased soldiers. While this holiday grew from a division between a country ravaged by war, it later became a day of reconciliation, In 1873 General John Logan, national commander of the Grand Army of the Republic ordered flowers to be placed on both confederate and Union graves in Arlington National Cemetery. However, Waterloo New York was the first to officially recognize the holiday and was recognized by President Lyndon Johnson as the birthplace of Memorial Day in 1966. It wasn’t until after World War I that the holiday united the country and became of day of honor for any and all Americans who fought for freedom and died in so doing. In 1915, poet Moina Michael penned the poem,

"We cherish too, the Poppy red

That grow in fields where valor led,

It seems to signal to the skies

That blood of heroes never dies."

It was Moina’s idea to wear the "red poppy" in honor of the dead who died in service to their country. Today, you can find members of the American Legion selling poppies on or around Memorial Day

For those Southern Utahns who have not chosen to go boating, fishing, or camping on the first "3 day weekend" of the summer, it is a day to go and decorate ancestral graves. Graveyards throughout Southern Utah become a field of color on Memorial Day weekend. I was either lucky enough or poor enough to become one such observer. As a child, every Memorial Day we would travel to the Parowan graveyard to decorate the graves of my great grandparents. Afterwards, we would travel to Beaver to do the same as well as raise a flag by the grave of my Great Uncle Ike who served our country in WWII..

With Memorial Day fast approaching, I decided to celebrate it "backwards" this year. I took a day and spent it with my favorite WWII Vetran. My grandfather, Max Dickson Weaver served in the 1669^th division of the Army in both the Liberation of the Phillipines and the Occupation of Japan. Max is the recipient of 2 Gold Stars.

Before it becomes time to place a flag at his grave, I wanted to travel to the Dickson ancestral sites in Richville and Porterville, Utah. We visited the old Dickson homestead where my great grandfather Albert Douglass Dickson served as an LDS bishop for 36 years, we visited the grave of he and his wife Rosella and the graves of my great great great grandparents, Billa and Mary Ann Dickson. It was an amazing moment to stand at that beautiful cemetery amongst the snow capped mountains to honor my kindred dead as well as my grandfather. It made me proud of where I came from and proud to be an American.

Grandpa shared stories from the war and from his growing up years. What history my grandfather has witnessed. To put it in perspective: he rode to school bareback on a pony, in a wagon, on a bob sleigh and then in a 3 pedal car. He has seen the inventions of indoor plumbing, the telephone, the television, the computer, and the internet. My grandfather is a monument of time and place. Like so many Vetrans, he deserves our gratitude and our honor.

In efforts to "return to Memorial Day" try an observance of your own. Visit a local cemetery and place a flag or flowers on the grave of one of America’s fallen heroes. Travel to a nearby memorial and pay tribute there. Fly a U.S. flag half-staff until noon, or participate in the "National Moment of Remembrance" at 3 p.m. Purchase a Red poppy from your local American Legion and wear it on Memorial Day. Whatever the celebration, let us remember those who have kept our freedoms "Alive."

Epilogue:  I treasure this memory with my grandfather.  Last October, he passed away. 

Yesterday, I was showered with one dozen yellow roses (my favorite- a tradition from Rigby) homemade cards, chocolates, gifts, hugs, kisses and deep gratitude.  And to top it off, our FAB FIVE  didn't even fight.  I love being a mother.  It is a constant adventure!

Mother's Day Always makes me think of my mothers and grandmothers.  This next piece I wrote about my grandmother Lucile Evans Hofheins

Grandmother sits in the old, white timber house
Her wrinkled fingers consistently in motion as she pieces the tiny squares together.
Her words, as always are few.

Sitting there, her eyes speak to me in the same voice
as the day of my birth- she was the first to hold me.
It's as though she pieces our live together in the colored fabric.
Yesterday it was my mother's wedding quilt she readied.
And through the years, for the rest of her children,
and then her grandchildren.
With each quilt a phase of life began with the piecing
                                        and then ended with the binding.
The laughter of all is present in the motion- up and then down.
     Every square is perfectly quilted in.
     And the teardrops of sorrow and happiness
dance upon the material as the squares gain in number.
     Soon this quilt will be done,
And its owner will have a treasure of my grandmother.
Up and down, the needle continues
             The thimble, her only comforter
Just as she my silent grandmother has been ours...

The clouds are hanging low this morning, dancing upon the mountains.  On our walk to Ty's house this morning Maleck and I searched for big foot tracks.  The tulips were laughing and the birds were singing their morning song.  Suddenly the words from a childhood song fell from my lips,  " he gave me my eyes that I might see the color of butterfly wings, he gave my ears that I might hear the magical sound of things...."  Oh how our Heavenly Father loves us...  and then of course he gave us our mothers


Generations
by Amyanne Rigby

Her hands tell her story: The wrinkles speak of years of service rendered to those she loved; of a belief in God whom she served endlessly, and  of the countless small acts of service that have wound themselves into a ball creating her legacy.  On the day she held my Emma’s hand, I realized the significance of a moment.  It is fleeting.  It is a millisecond of laughter sprinkled by  tears and crowned with joy.
One worn hand tracing nearly a century of experience and wisdom clasping tenderly a small hopeful hand.  If one could gain knowledge through osmosis, I wish her hands could teach my Emma’s what it means to live and to live well.
It is through those hands that we have  learned to smile, to laugh, and to dance through the moments of life.

I wrote this piece for my husband's grandmother, Zina Lunt Rigby. Not only did she teach me how to laugh but  she taught me so much about what it means to be a strong woman and a loving mother.  I miss her!