After our lunch reunion, Mom wanted to visit her parents' grave sites. Albert and Loretto Weller are buried at Mt. Calvary Cemetery; a beautiful, tranquil place, set in the rolling hills of North West Portland. Mom remembers her mother visiting and caring for the family grave sites at Mt. Calvary when she was younger. I too have grown-up stopping at Mt. Calvary during our many visits to Portland. As we drove the old roads through Mt. Calvary trying to locate the family plots, it was like driving through a familiar childhood neighborhood; innocently nostalgic.Mom talked to Grandma, sang a few hymns in her honor and spent a few moments in prayer. Andrew, wrapped, in Grandma’s arms, loved listening to Mom sing. He was respectful and caring. When it came time to go, my sweet boy held his Grandma’s hand to help her maneuver back up the steep hill.
We slowly drove out of the cemetery commenting on the impressive old tombstones, statues and family mausoleums; a time representative of different cares and concerns; lives that have seen horrific wars, debilitating diseases, extreme economic conditions; lives that have seen astounding inventions and advancements; lives that were in many ways more simplistic, respectful and abundant.
We crossed from one end of Portland to the other via Burnside Avenue to Willamette National Cemetery where my father is buried. Visiting my father’s grave site was an interesting experience for me. It has been only four years since he died and I find, even now, the events surrounding his passing are so close in my recollection that it feels as if the emotions, events and memories live softly behind my eyes, where images are clear and tears are waiting.
Dad’s plot is right by the last entrance on Outer Drive Loop. Precious birdies atop the road sign lighten the mood as we rounded the curve to the burial site. The area where Dad is buried is lovely. There is a Japanese style meditation garden just a few feet away from his headstone. The view looks out over a large expanse of grass and stone in tribute to the thousands of men and women that have served our country over the years. Mom’s brother, Wilfred Weller, and his wife Nancy are both buried at Willamette National Cemetery.
Mom said hello to her sweetheart and held on to Andrew as she sang a few songs for her “Blue Eyes.” After some quiet time we left with teary eyes and a heavy heart.
When speaking with Romie at lunch, she mentioned that Grandma and Grandpa Leines, my dad’s parents, were buried right across the street from Willamette National. To our surprise Lincoln Memorial Cemetery was literally across the street. It felt strange to have never been there before. I later discovered that Dad's sister Glady's and her husband Lester Lansing are both buried here, as well as, Allen Hanson, Dad's cousin.
Both Grandma and Grandpa Leines had died long before I was born. Dad’s mother had passed away when he was just twenty-one and Grandpa died when he was thirty years old. I believe that this early loss greatly impacted Dad’s desire to make his family such a fierce priority.
I inquired at the front desk about the location of my Grandparents graves. The receptionist didn’t have a database at her disposal, so she went down to the basement to retrieve the records. She informed us that the cemetery is so old that all records have to be found manually, to put all the grave sites in a computer data base would take two people working full time, two years to complete the task. She returned from the basement with a copy of the two death certificates and a map. Henry Waldimir Leines and Mathilda Hansen Leines are buried on Pine Hill (as silly as it sounds, I couldn’t help but notice the connection to my last name and it made me happy)
In harsh comparison to Calvary and Willamette, Lincoln Memorial was very unkempt. The grass was brown, trees and shrubs were wilting and the graves sites were covered with weeds. I desperately want to tidy up my grandparents graves. Luckily mom had packed a sharp knife for cutting fruit. I wrapped my hand in a washcloth to protect my fingers from thorny weeds. I cut out the roots, pulled the grass and brushed away the compacted clippings from the edges. It looked better, for now. Mom sang “In the Garden” in remembrance of the hymn sung at both Grandpa and Grandma Leines’s funerals.
On this day of family connection and strong memories, it was comforting to locate the place where my grandparents were buried. It made me feel closer to my father. I thought of him as young man, so much younger than I am now, standing in that same place decades before, surrounded by his four sisters, mourning the untimely loss of his mother and then later, still younger than I, he, as a husband and a father – grieving for his earthly father, this time, turning to his wife for comfort.
That evening we made our way to Seattle Midtown and fell quickly asleep, the first day of our Seattle adventure was just a few hours away.
Both Grandma and Grandpa Leines had died long before I was born. Dad’s mother had passed away when he was just twenty-one and Grandpa died when he was thirty years old. I believe that this early loss greatly impacted Dad’s desire to make his family such a fierce priority.
I inquired at the front desk about the location of my Grandparents graves. The receptionist didn’t have a database at her disposal, so she went down to the basement to retrieve the records. She informed us that the cemetery is so old that all records have to be found manually, to put all the grave sites in a computer data base would take two people working full time, two years to complete the task. She returned from the basement with a copy of the two death certificates and a map. Henry Waldimir Leines and Mathilda Hansen Leines are buried on Pine Hill (as silly as it sounds, I couldn’t help but notice the connection to my last name and it made me happy)
In harsh comparison to Calvary and Willamette, Lincoln Memorial was very unkempt. The grass was brown, trees and shrubs were wilting and the graves sites were covered with weeds. I desperately want to tidy up my grandparents graves. Luckily mom had packed a sharp knife for cutting fruit. I wrapped my hand in a washcloth to protect my fingers from thorny weeds. I cut out the roots, pulled the grass and brushed away the compacted clippings from the edges. It looked better, for now. Mom sang “In the Garden” in remembrance of the hymn sung at both Grandpa and Grandma Leines’s funerals.
On this day of family connection and strong memories, it was comforting to locate the place where my grandparents were buried. It made me feel closer to my father. I thought of him as young man, so much younger than I am now, standing in that same place decades before, surrounded by his four sisters, mourning the untimely loss of his mother and then later, still younger than I, he, as a husband and a father – grieving for his earthly father, this time, turning to his wife for comfort. That evening we made our way to Seattle Midtown and fell quickly asleep, the first day of our Seattle adventure was just a few hours away.
No comments:
Post a Comment