I saw shades of red, yellow, brown, orange, green, and purple bursting in every direction. It was autumn in all of its glory. I kept thinking, we have these colors in our gardens and cityscapes in southern California, but not everywhere. You have to be in the right place, at the right time, to bathe yourself in nature’s rainbow back home in Long Beach. But on this early November day in Minquadale, Delaware, it was obvious that Mother Nature had worked overtime to create the exquisite painting on display for me.
It had been almost three years, and near the beginning of the pandemic, since I last visited five members of our family at Gracelawn Cemetery. Gracelawn is the final resting place for generations of Marshall family members in Delaware. Picture the setting. An assortment of giant American Sycamore, Dutch Elm, and Japanese Maple trees surrounding – and seemingly protecting – the rolling green landscape, twelve months of the year. Mixed among those colorful varieties, one can also find Eastern Red Cedar and a few strategically placed Eastern White Pine trees. It all adds up to understated elegance.
On some visits, I just park the car and walk the spongy green carpet from one grave site to the next. On hot and humid summer days, the shade offered by the abundant foliage is a welcome respite from the hazy sunshine common in the area. In winter months, the deciduous trees, whose bare branches appear to be protected from the elements by those towering pines, always manage to survive the icy cold February temperatures.
But no matter the month, the peaceful solitude offers the perfect environment for quality visits with each family member.
Mom and Dad are laid to rest together, just like they were for the fifty-three years of devoted marriage they enjoyed. Their grave marker tells us they are "Together Forever". When I visit, it’s always fun to spend time reflecting on one of the many happy moments we spent together, just the three of us, on some excursion or quiet vacation. On this last visit, it was a flashback to the fall of 1982. I recall this trip frequently because, in reality, it was four of us. Dad, Mom, me, and Mother Nature. In the crisp, clean air there was no talking, only the babbling brook we followed in the woods of Estes Park, Colorado. While seated next to my parent’s grave, I shared this memory with them. Aloud. I shed a tear, but mostly chuckled, as I recalled the joy my aging parents experienced – while I chauffeured – on our nation’s highest paved roadway through Rocky Mountain National Park. It was on one stretch of the two-lane road that we witnessed summer sun soaking aspen trees shocking us with shades of gold we never knew existed.
“Oh, my God!” Mom exclaimed from the rear seat.
The big sisters, Joyce and Jackie, are buried ten paces apart, east of Mom and Dad, about a quarter-mile away. My sisters grew up together and were always mentioned, one with the other, as Joyce and Jackie. I always sit on the ground between them when I visit. Doing so brings back memories of the old days when they babysat their youngest brother. Now, the roles are reversed. In my new role, I get to make certain their grave sites are well maintained with floral displays, seasonal decorations, and sometimes a good scrub, so everyone can enjoy their final resting places. That’s what my sisters would want and that’s what I do each time I’m there. On this visit, I left the cemetery smiling because those grave sites were extra-clean and shiny.
Southeast of the oldest sisters is where our youngest sibling, Dineen, is interred. Her location is the most open. The open landscape is dotted with trees featuring burnt orange, deep red, and chartreuse colored leaves on trees that are much younger than those where the older family members are buried. I happened to notice that adjacent to those younger trees were older, more mature oaks. That design makes sense now that I reflect on its symbolism. As the youngest of seven children, my baby sister was always surrounded by the bigger, older kids.
There’s a bold Red Maple tree situated a few feet from Dineen’s grave. It reminds me of her. Dineen’s stunning beauty was striking. She was tall, with expressive eyes, and a big smile that warmed every heart she approached. This time, I shared updates about her son, now 18-years old and exceeding expectations in high school. When a gentle November breeze caused a few fallen leaves to rustle and stir around her grave, I assumed it was my sister sharing the joy she felt knowing that her only child was doing so well. It was another good visit.
By definition, a cemetery is a place where dead people are buried. One would generally think of the setting as sad and lonely. But I don’t see it that way. For me, the cemetery is full of light and positive reflection.
I go to Gracelawn Cemetery because being with my family gives me life.
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