Lasting Memories
by Jill Darling
 
I stood at Maisie Darling's grave on Memorial Day wondering what it must have been like for my Uncle David to dig his mother's grave. He drove the backhoe on the dirt road past our house up to Sleeper Hill Cemetery. I was deeply moved.

 I dealt with my own feelings of loss over this great matriarch born in a home a couple of hundred yards from her gravesite. Although the physical distance between her birthplace and burial site was short, her life seemingly spanned thousands of miles in the number of lives she touched. 

 What was going through my uncle's mind as he shoveled the dirt?  Was he fixed on the task at hand or did he reflect on the memories they shared together?

 Grandma always had homemade cookies or pie for her husband Bert and for visitors who frequently stopped in to chat and were ultimately captivated by Grandpa's amusing hunting or fishing stories. Patiently she listened to those same stories for the umpteenth time as fresh-eared folks laughed. 

 In addition to tending her daffodils and peonies, she pulled weeds from around the squash, zucchini and tomato plants. Rabbit casserole, fried fish or venison roasts were promptly served on the dot of five every evening for her farmer husband Bert. She was the queen of sewing patches on top of patches to lengthen the life of yet another pair of her husband's barn pants and anyone else's clothes that needed fixing.

 An avid Scrabble player, she had an astute mind for unusual words that were wedged to fit on high-count squares. And every word was backed up with her ten-pound dictionary! Known as the family historian, she was always writing letters to relatives and kept the rest of us informed. Everybody loved Grandma. She left her mark.

 Uncle David dug the hole at the cemetery according to the measurements his brother Norman had made, while another brother, Rodney, offered input. Their loving actions spoke to me and gave new meaning to the phrase "laid to rest."  

 This is life in our tiny dairy farming community of Warren Center, Pennsylvania. For generations, family members have maintained two family cemeteries. Grandma and Grandpa spent much time over the years taking care of the cemetery. With them gone, the next generation has taken over. During the summer months, each family has designated weeks on the mowing schedule. Work bees are arranged to paint and fix fences. 

 While mowing around tombstones, we can't help but reflect on the lives of our loved ones. The freshest grave in the cemetery is my sister-in-law's, Nancy. Although dead for two years, I still can't grasp the fact that she's not going to burst through the door at Thanksgiving with at least a dozen pies of various kinds that she baked with her heart and her hands. How can it be that we'll never hear her giddy laughter at the unveiling of handmade quilts she brought to family members for 
Christmas presents?  She left her mark.

 Our lives have an undetermined span of time. We have one chance at it. "So teach us to number our days that we may gain a heart of wisdom," the Psalmist wrote. "…For what is your life? It is even a vapor that appears for a little time and then vanishes away" (James 4:14).

 We all leave our marks as we touch the lives of those around us. What memories will you leave behind?