Grandpa's Decoration Day-Susan Lawrence Bartel

As the end of May would come around each year, I not only looked forward to school ending but to Decoration Day. Decoration Day was the signal for the wonderful lazy days of summer to begin. Fresh strawberry jam, then later sand plum jelly, bacon and tomato sandwiches eaten on the swing in Grandma and Grandpa's backyard in El Dorado. Decoration Day was Grandpa's holiday. He would collect large coffee cans all year. When I would show up, usually the day after school was out, all focus was on Decoration Day. The cousins, who had the luck of living one block from our grandparents, and I would get up early. We helped Grandpa cover all the cans with shiny aluminum foil. Sometimes we licked our fingers and we could taste the tiney, metallic foil. Then we'd followed Grandpa to the front yard. There, with his long rusty scissors, he would quietly, almost reverently, cut the peonies, the wild blood red roses growing along the fence and the purple flags (iris). He would jam them into the cans we held so carefully, there was never any arranging, but there was something unique about his jamming technique. It made the most beautiful bouquets we cousins had ever seen. If we ran out of cans, Grandpa would sneak into the house and get some mason jars to finish our floral duty. Then we were off in the old Dodge to visit the cemeteries: Quito down by Leon, the OLD El Dorado cemetery, we'd swing by Sunset Lawns to check out where Grandpa and Grandma would be laid to rest, ending up at Cumberland to meet up with the rest of the family to decorate and visit and then head out to a picnic. At each cemetery, Grandpa would tell us who was buried there, how they were related to us and, most especially, if they had been in the "Armed Forces", a most highly honored job. Sometimes on the drive between cemeteries, he would tell stories about being an Army cook in France during World War I. I didn't know then what a trench was, but I knew it was a despicable place to have to cook, sleep, and basically live in. As we drove along, with all the windows down, our small heads hanging out the back windows with our hair blowing in our faces, if there was a long silence. . .my Grandpa would begin to whistle. And that was a most wonderful holiday.

I think

we need a summer get together at the pool!! Who's in?

My Grandpa's Garden - Susan Lawrence Bartel

Every summer I spent weeks at a time at my Grandma and Grandpa Lawrence's house in El Dorado. Across the small driveway was a 1/3 acre garden plot that was my Grandpa's pride. I can still feel the freshly tilled brown dirt, warmed by the summer sun, squishing up between my toes on my grubby bare feet. I can hear the hum of the honey bees, busy gathering nectar. I can taste the first ripe strawberry...never have any strawberries been so sweet, so juicy. I can remember lying in between the rows and watching the fluffy, white clouds pass slowly by, creating animals in their shapes. And I can hear my Grandpa's melodic whistle. My Grandpa was known for his whistling...even to the point of being nicknamed Birdie and known throughout Butler County as Birdie Lawrence. He whistled old folk songs, probably tunes he made up, theme songs from the 50's television shows, and hymns. Of all my memories spending time with Grandpa in his garden, the one engraved on my heart and that brings tears to my eyes so easily is Grandpa whistling, "In the Garden". Sometimes he sang it in his rich baritone, softly, while his hoe kept time. And I was quiet and listened and knew that time was exceptional, when spent with my Grandpa, in his garden.