Memorial Day is a day of remembrance.  A time to take a moment – however brief – and remember those who served in the armed forces and gave their lives as the ultimate sacrifice for their country.

For me, Memorial Day is also a day of remembrance, but in a slightly different vein.

My family (on my mother’s side) has deep roots in Western Maryland, Eastern West Virginia, and Western Pennsylvania.  Many of my ancestors lived in the area around Uniontown, PA.  Every year (on Memorial Day weekend), my mother makes the two-and-a-half hour drive through the mountains to visit the graves of her grandparents, great-grandparents, aunts, and uncles – changing out the flowers on their plots and tombstones as a sign of respect to their memories.  It’s a pilgrimage she does not take lightly, and one that was started by her parents many, many years ago.  The tradition has passed down to her – and now she is working on passing it down to me.

I’m merely in the “apprentice” or “assistant” stage at this point, riding along to learn the route, the locations of the various cemeteries, and the locations of the gravesides we visit (twelve in all).  It’s a long ride over some rough roads (especially in “by God” West Virginia) and takes the better part of a whole day to complete.

It may seem trivial, but it’s not.

It’s actually a good day.  My mother and I drive west from Clear Spring starting in the early morning, and after catching up on our own lives, she begins to tell me stories about her childhood and her own interactions with these relatives that we’ll soon be visiting graveside.  Her stories bring them to life and make their memories come alive, if only for the day.  They become more than just names and dates on a slab of granite.  I learned how my great-grandmother kept a creamer in the shape of a cow on her kitchen table that was full of change, and how she would raid it to give the grand-kids money to buy popsicles in the summer.  I passed by the school attended by my grandmother when she was only a child, and drove past the church where my grandparents were married.  My mother recalled an old skating rink she knew of on the outskirts of Uniontown as a child.  Within minutes, there it was.  Closed, rundown, and dilapidated now, but it was right where she remembered it.

Throughout the day, I discovered other family histories.  I learned that my Uncle Bill served in the Korean War, and another relative served in World War I.  We laid flowers on a woman’s grave I knew as “Aunt Evelyn”, who I fondly remember spending Christmas Eves with in my own youth.  I vividly recall stopping by her house late at night after opening presents to eat hot trays of cabbage rolls or lasagna, her small home filled to the brim with family and friends.

Other relatives from Pittsburgh were passing through Uniontown to visit graves and pay their respects as well on this holiday weekend, and we all met up at a local barbeque shop (owned by more relatives – of course) to catch up, eat, and renew old friendships.  The back room of the restaurant turned into an impromptu family reunion.  There was plenty of good food, laughter, and conversation as even more family stories were shared.  The afternoon sped quickly by and it was soon time to go our separate ways, albeit with the promise to meet up again next year.

It may take me a few more trips, but soon I’ll get the hang of this yearly quest and hope to continue it long into the future.  It will be my turn to keep the family torch burning, staying in touch with the many branches of my family tree, paying my respects, and passing down the heritage and stories to my own kids in their own due time.

Yes, it takes some effort, but the rewards make the journey that this annual trip reveals worth every mile.

Our friends and family are never truly gone – as long as we remember them.  May our hearts and minds be filled with their spirits on this holiday weekend.