So, it’s Tuesday . . . oh, gosh, it’s Wednesday. Well, Christmas time will do that to you. I do know it was Sunday when Shane, Sydney and I made our trip to four graves and two cemeteries. It was cold, but we managed. Actually, we managed for quite a long time in the White Pigeon Cemetery because I couldn’t find my grandmother’s grave. I know, it sounds really like I don’t care. But I do; it’s more a matter of Mother having been the one to take flowers to the grave because for a good many of these past 41 years Grandma’s been dead, I’ve lived far away.

I am ahead of myself; first we went to the Sturgis Cemetery, which is sort of one of the town’s showpieces with trees and lots of shade in summer and off one of the old brick streets, across from the park’s ice pond and summer concert area. Lots of people go out there to walk because it is peaceful and lovely . . . and I suppose maybe they are walking to help them stay on this side of the ground for a while longer. (That was not in good taste – but I couldn’t help myself; I mean, it sticks right out at you as far as logic is concerned.)

We put a wreath around Mother’s urn -not that she was cremated – the urn for Memorial Day flowers. I know some put greenery wreaths on tri-pod stands, but we decorated this one and and anchored it on the urn. Then it was time to tend my grandfather’s grave- her father’s. I may have confused you here, so let me clarify.

My mother’s parents each lost their spouses in the early part of the century. My grandfather was married to Edith Crane and she died after a miscarriage; he left the hospital in Kalamazoo as she settled into a state of recuperation and when he got home, there was a call that she had taken a turn for the worse, hemorrhaged and died . . . just, snap of your fingers, like that.

He buried her at Sturgis, with his name on the other half of the stone. He has a lot of relatives there, including a sister who went out to the plains with her husband, panicked when her boys disappeared on a jaunt and died of a heat stroke when she ran out the the fields for help. He and one of his brothers went out west to bring her home. I go past the Skirvin monument every time I go to Mother’s and Grandpa’s graves and remember that tragic story.

His mother’s grave is there, too; she lay dying as her youngest son was a on a train coming back from World War I. He didn’t make it in time to say goodbye, but he, with his five brothers was a pallbearer.

So I put greenery and holly on Grandpa’s grave and I actually said aloud to Edith that she didn’t know me, but I’m certain she must have been a fine woman and, well, here I was. I have the gold inscribed locket he gave her – and I hope that’s all right with her.

My grandmother’s husband died slowly of Bright’s Disease. Near the end, the nurses told her he was stable and to go get a bite to eat; when she returned, he had died. She buried him at White Pigeon along with other members of his family. The cemetery sections are named now and there is a Huff Addition; well, guess what, those were the older Huffs and she and her husband are buried across the lane in a division with another name.

BUT Sydney and Shane and I knew that; we passed that hurdle. We walked out to where we thought the grave was . . . in the snow . . . and we were slightly off. Because of the winter landscape and the emptying of the urn, we thought we were way off. For 45 minutes we walked back and forth, looking, looking, looking. But, finally, we found it and did our greenery thing.

Then we went to my aunt’s grave – my grandmother’s daughter and my mother’s half-sister, who had also been like a second mother to her. More greenery, more holly.

The three of us headed to Mother’s then and threw seasoned firewood into the trunk – no need to let it rot. We went inside finally and I discovered my pant legs were not just wet – they were frozen stiff. So we planted ourselves by the big gas heater and turned up the thermostat and warmed up. Of course, this was the one time I had not stuck extra pants in my bag. I did have another pair of socks and a pair of boots with sheepskin lining. It was the pants that were the problem. I sat there with no jeans and sincerely hoped no one would come knocking.

Of course, I’m home now – – because it is WEDNESDAY — and I’m wearing pants, which is probably the way to go.

Now that I have procrastinated, I will maybe do some Christmas cheery things.