Friday Nights In A Small Town - Memorial Day Memories - May 2010

BY: Jennifer Oleen-Rook
    "Just go pick some!" my brother urged. "They'll never even know! We don't have any other flowers for them. We NEED these."
They were quite pretty. The lilacs were gorgeous and in full bloom at just the right time that year. They had bloomed out perfectly, just in time for Memorial Day. Some years the lilac bloom was over by the time Memorial Day came around and other times it was too cold for lilacs to be out yet, but this particular year, there was a bountiful crop, and I needed some flowers. We were headed to the cemetery and I needed a bushel of flowers for a couple of special graves. The only problem was we didn't have a lilac tree in OUR yard. The one I was contemplating robbing was in my neighbor's yard.
    "Come ON!" he pushed. "You've got to hurry or we'll get caught. GO!"

      I was hesitant to move, but I couldn't help but think about those headstones in the cemetery that my grandfather so lovingly cleaned each year and how he would take out his pocket knife and carefully etch out the name, barely visible in the stone after a year of erosion. In addition to our family headstones, there were two extras he cleaned up each year. The smaller of the two had just one name on it. It read "Dunham". There was no birth year, no death date, and no other name; just a single name in a small stone placed in the ground on the edge of the Roosevelt Cemetery. The other headstone was larger, but was no more than a cement slab.
    My brothers and cousins and I always helped Grandpa take care of these graves each Memorial Day. We'd carry coffee cans full of water so he could clean the stones off. He'd use that same pocket knife to cut the overgrown grass away from the sides of the tiny stone. Then, we'd put flowers on those graves. His father had been taking care of them for years so Grandpa followed in his footsteps. We simply called them "The Paupers".
    "Jennifer! GO!" My brother hissed as I lay there daydreaming.
So, I went. I ran across our field, climbed the fence to the top rail and jumped over. Then I did my best Mission Impossible tuck, roll, and duck behind all the objects in my neighbor's yard until I reached her prized lilac trees. I raised my scissors and began to snip. I snipped a small bushel, hurrying as fast as I could, but also taking care not to take too many from the same spot. I spread the trimming out so I didn't make an obvious bald spot in the bushes, but once I had my little bundle you could hardly tell any lilacs had been removed.

      With the stolen lilacs in hand, I sprinted to the fence. I got to the top rail though, and went nowhere. I was sort of hanging in mid air as my brother laughed and pointed up to where my pants were caught on a nail on the top rail of the fence. Seconds later I crashed to the ground as the seat of my pants ripped out completely, but I wasted no time. I immediately got up and set off running. The denim that once covered my rear end flapped in the breeze as I tore up the ground, prized lilacs clutched in my hands. I'm not sure if the Paupers were somewhere up above smiling down at me or shaking their heads in shame, but I was pretty sure my Grandpa would be happy I'd brought the lilacs, as long as I didn't tell him about my crime and the ripped jeans.
     The Pauper's story goes that Dunham and the Sexton's had been poor homesteaders who couldn't afford perpetual care in the cemetery. My Great Grandfather, Theophilus Phillips, a Roosevelt area homesteader himself, and some other homesteaders saw to it that these folks' final resting places were tended to. They all eventually paid for perpetual care for the graves, but that really only meant grass would be planted around them. Great Grandpa Phillips continued to make sure those headstones were cleared and cleaned and decorated every year as a sign of respect.
    He passed this duty on to his son, Ted Phillips, who in turn passed the same duty down to all of his own grandchildren. Grandpa Ted is gone, but my cousins and I still gather at the cemetery in Roosevelt each Memorial Day to decorate the graves of our family members and you better believe we have some fresh lilacs to place on The Pauper's graves as well. And somewhere, Grandpa Ted is smiling.
   Wherever you find yourself this Memorial Day, be sure you take the time to remember those who have passed before us. Maybe I'll see you at the Cemetery.