If I had a grandchild, I would take him places good for him: picnics in a city park, church, dentist, ball games, a riverboat ride, and wholesome places that would mold his character as he grew into a strong boy.  I would take him to places he wanted to see the most, maybe even Walt Disney World™.  One day, I would take him to the Chowchilla Cemetery. Yes, I said

C –E –M- E- T- E- R- Y

We would read the markers of my parents first. I would describe his Great Grandmother with eyes so deep brown they matched her black hair when she was young.  I would tell him about her nickname, how she was called Tude in her childhood home in Oklahoma. I would tell how she was married in 1912 at the age of 15 to 24 year old John Carr. I would talk about my twin and how we were the last of ten children born over a 25-year span. I would tell him that she died Nancy Douglas, Archie’s widow after a brief marriage at age 76, but we buried her beside Papa as Nancy Carr.

I would describe Papa’s small build and size seven shoe; his black hair and grey-green eyes which contradicted his sternness; and how Papa said “no” to most things and “yes” to few.

A minute at his great uncle Frank’s grave nearby would allow me to tell him that my brother was a man of little education and much work. After he retired from farm work and had enough savings to be leisure, he took on a new career of gardening and yard work for local clients which he continued into his 80’s. He outlived two of his sons.

Then I’d take my grandson by the hand and walk with him across the lawn to the grave site of his Great Aunt Genevee who was married to two of his Great Uncles, first to Elmer, then after he died, to Clyde.  I would talk about how different these brothers were.  Clyde, who is buried nearby, was tall, dark and handsome and worked hard on a dairy farm. He was first married to Thelma who is here in this cemetery.

Elmer, short, looking more like Papa, had a tough time keeping a job or much else because he drank heavily. I would concentrate more on the good things, telling my grandchild about those wonderful hardwood whittlings that Elmer made and the chairs he constructed from common matches cut and glued together with long tweezers inside clean Karo^® syrup bottles.  I would boast about the full-size violin he made from an apple crate and how he played it with a handmade bow he strung with real horsehair.  I would talk about how he could play any song on a guitar from hearing others play it.  Finally, how he quit drinking just months before he died of a ruptured appendix in the Madera County Hospital. 

We would walk to the small brass plaque for William Thomas Carr, my black-sheep brother. I would have to tell him that Tom, who preferred to be called Bill, was a carefree person who abandoned his wife and young sons. Then, as abruptly as he left, he would reappear or make contact telling them to join him in Arizona. I would tell him that Tom died in Arkansas near his youngest son from his second marriage, and how my sister Mary selected his grave next to where she will be buried. Darkness is approaching but we have one more gravesite to visit. The story of how we managed to bring Tom’s ashes to this cemetery will have to wait.

My sister Addie lies next to her husband Norvel. I would tell my grandchild how she inherited her stubbornness from her father and her caring nature from her mother.

In the winter, we would sit by the fireplace looking at old family pictures.  “Who’s that, Grandmother?” he would ask. Then I would remind him of the cemetery trip where I introduced him to his ancestors.

         But sadly, I had no children, so 

    who will pass on these stories for me?