"Remember me"

By TAD BARTIMUS

The tombstone is sinking. I worry about this as I put Memorial Day flowers on the grave of a man I never met.

Should I tell someone? I ask myself. Who would care? All around me markers tilt and lean; several are simply propped up. It's not a vandalized place, this country cemetery, just old. Some of its inhabitants were laid to rest a century ago; the names carved in weathering rock are Japanese, Filipino, Chinese, German, French -- testimony to the transience of immigrants seeking better lives who now spend eternity with a million-dollar view.

This man chose for his carved epitaph the exhortation "REMEMBER ME." How could I not?

The headstone where I kneel and begin to weed is new, its engraved letters not yet discolored by rain. I have not sorted out why I come here; perhaps it's because my conscience makes me. This man chose for his carved epitaph the exhortation "REMEMBER ME." How could I not?

Several years ago I was decorating the markers of friends I'd loved and laughed with when I first saw his nearby. Passing the newly-turned earth I noticed there wasn't a single blossom. I went back and took a few blooms from my friends, then hunted through the bushes until I found an old mayonnaise jar for water. Putting the skimpy bouquet smack in the middle of "REMEMBER ME", I thought: There. That's the end of it.

It wasn't, of course. Every time I returned I visited the stranger. The Star of David chiseled above his name was a startling symbol in Protestant ground. I asked around; he'd owned property nearby and his dream had been to retire here. He didn't make it in life; his last wish was in his will.

There was humbug, of course. Should a Jew be buried among Congregationalists and Episcopalians? The debate was brief; common sense prevailed. His children who lived thousands of miles away were dismayed -- who would tend the grave? They decided honoring his wish was more important, so left that up to fate and I came along.

Maybe I'm trying to keep myself young at heart by going through the rituals of my childhood. Growing up in the middle of America a generation ago, my parents would load us up in the car every Decoration Day and drive from one country churchyard to another, hoeing and mowing and leaving behind tidied-up graves where huge tinfoil-covered cans overflowed with sweetly-scented peonies, delicate iris and roses as big as a fist. That tradition, as predictable as Christmas dinner and Fourth of July fireworks, showed respect and offered connection; one day every year the past, present and future were together on common ground.

Like much of my generation, I've moved away from my family's graves and peony bushes. Memorial Days come and go; I wonder if I could even find those gravel roads again. Now florists who take phone orders deliver hothouse blooms to my own sinking ancestral markers; hired gardeners mow and hoe. I feel guilty and try not to dwell on it. I know that the severance of connection is the price of independence.

Tidying up the tombstone of a stranger who wanted someone to "REMEMBER ME" has given me back ritual. I weed where I am. I honor someone else's father and hope that is enough.

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