The wonders that spring from the earth ~ June 8, 1995

David Heiller

 We don’t get much traffic on our road. Sometimes only a car or two a day.

Last weekend it was busy though, from people going to Faith Lutheran Cemetery. They drove slowly, taking their time, the way you do on a nice spring day,

At the cemetery they prepared the graves of their loved ones for Memorial Day by planting flowers, or pulling a few stems of grass that the lawnmower missed, the way you brush the hair out of a child’s eyes so he looks good for company.

People at the cemetery wanted their sons and husbands and mothers to look their best on Memorial Day.

I watched the cars from the garden, where I was planting seeds of flowers and vegetables. And I got to thinking.

Life springs from gardens in a way we can measure and enjoy. You work the soil, plant the seeds, and three months later the black soil is transformed into a place of beauty and bounty.

A peaceful spot.

At first I thought a cemetery must be the opposite of a garden, a plot of ground planted with dead people. But really a cemetery is its own kind of garden, a garden of people.

It blooms on Memorial Day. That’s when we’re supposed to recognize soldiers who died defending our country, or who served in the military. We do that in a vague, patriotic way.

But for most people the Memorial Day trip to the cemetery brings thoughts of their own loved ones who are resting beneath their feet.

We may speak a few words about them with friends and family, but mostly we remember them with an inward smile and a silent greeting.

How are you, Lynette? I miss you.

Malika with Grandma Schnick's stone

 

Dad, they’re playing taps for you.

Hi Grandma. See how big the kids are getting? Somehow at the cemetery, you know your sister or father or grandma are listening.

Maybe it’s a husband who died of cancer. Maybe a child who took his own life. Maybe they died peacefully in their old age. Maybe they died tragically and young. They are all remembered on Memorial Day.

And we remember the good things about them. That isn’t hard, because in cemeteries only good things grow. You pull out the bad memories like so many weeds, and their love and kindness and generosity comes out. At least for me.

Planting some young seeds

Several years later, Malika
with her friend, Sarah.

My nine-year-old daughter, Malika, invited a friend, Sarah, over on Saturday. I asked if they would like to have their own garden. They said yes.

I let them have two nice beds. In one they planted flowers: four marigolds and six alyssum sets which Malika had picked out the day before at a greenhouse, and four packets of seeds of alyssum and celosia.

I told them how deep to plant the sets, and how to dig a trench for the seeds. They listened politely, and then did it their own way. That was fine with me. The flowers won’t disappoint them, and I didn’t want to wreck their first garden with a lecture.

“What if weeds come up?” Malika asked.

“We’ll pull them,” Sarah said in a determined voice. I plan to hold them to that promise. (OK, maybe I’ll help a little.)

In the other bed, they planted carrots, squash, cucumbers, lettuce, and sweet corn. I read them the directions on each packet, how far apart to plant the seeds, how far apart to make the rows. They listened this time and did it the right way. I’m a little sterner with vegetables.

I hope their gardens turn out, and I hope the kids turn out too. The two go hand in hand.

Mostly I hope they see at a young age the wonders that spring from the earth.