“Here, these go on Uncle Frank’s,” Dad says matter of factly, pulling the bright plastic flowers out of their boxes.  “Then you can run these over and put them on Grandma and Grandpa Stolka.”Dispatching me across St. Michael’s Cemetery, the low to the ground plastic arrangement is carefully placed next to Uncle Frank’s, my great uncles, tombstone.  Turning, Dad has the arrangement going on his grandparent’s stone in one hand waiting for me to take it as he digs through the others.

“Didn’t we buy another one for Uncle Charlie’s last year?”  he muses to no one imparticular, then, as I grab the arrangement out of his hand, he takes out another arrangement, a small wreath with bright red carnations, “and you might as well take this one and put it on Uncle Charlie’s, we’ll put that little cross on there too.”

Slowly, we’ll go through the list of relatives, four generations scattered throughout the quiet hillside nestled among the farm fields.  Over a hundred years of family, resting and at peace in among the fields they had wrestled from the wilderness.

Grandpa and Grandma Stolka - the true pioneers, bringing their five children across the ocean and half way across a continent, hoping for freedom and a better life.

Uncle Charlie, their bachelor son, who cared for them, farmed one of the biggest spreads in the county, and was one of the favorites among his nieces and nephews (and great nieces and nephews).

Uncle Frank, Aunt Mary, and their son, Little Charlie - resting together, none of their children living close by, Dad still makes sure they are remembered.

There are a handful of other relatives that we check on, making sure that they have flowers on their graves, just in case a relative couldn’t make it this year.  I think also Dad checking to make sure that we children remember where those relatives are, so that one day, when we pick up the mantel, we will know who to watch out for, who to remember.

Dad will help place the last one’s himself.  First, the ones that say “Mother” and “Father” and a another small wreath will go between them - next to the headstones of his parents.  Taking his dress feed cap off and sliding down over his heart, our heads are bowed and a silent prayer is said.

The cap goes back on and we walk back to the car to grab the last arrangements.  Slowly, we walk over to Mom’s stone.  Kneeling, we put the arrangements into the soft spring soil, standing up, Dad slides the cap down over his heart, and we both bow our heads again in silent prayer.

As we drive away, the stories start flowing.  Uncle Charlie hung over for the big family reunion when Uncle John came to visit.  The stills that Grandpa made.  Uncle Frank’s farm up on the other side of highway 200.

On Monday morning, we’ll be back in the cemetery, for the Memorial Day service.  For as long as I can remember, that is where we have been on that sacred morning.  Remembering.  Honoring our loved ones and their memories.  Honoring the brave men and women who gave their lives for our freedom.  Remember who we are, as a family, as a nation, as a people.