Tuesday, May 30, 2017

Memorial Day, long ago

When I was a kid, we used to go to Waiteville, West Virginia, my father's birthplace, every memorial day. There was a huge dinner served to support the town cemetery's upkeep. More food than you could imagine. So much food you'd be sick if you could imagine it. Wondrous country cooking and a time, after eating, to walk around the graveyard.

One year my crazy great-aunt Arbana put confederate flags on on the Bradley graves and my Uncle Russel chased them all down and took them off, cursing as he did.

My father's name was Virgil Hoyt and his father's name was Filbert. And I still remember, as a kid of 8 or so, wandering around the graveyard and coming upon two stones to James Gordon Bradley and James Gordon Bradley, Jr.

That is my full name and I was freaked out and went running, breathless, to my mother who told me she thought I knew I was named after my great-grandfather and great-great-grandfather. But I sure didn't remember being told.

That was a memorial day I remember clearly  over 60 years later.

At least my name isn't Virgil Filbert Bradley--sounds like an ancient poet and a nut.

Well, putting it that way, it wouldn't be so bad....

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some ponderings by an aging white man who is an Episcopal priest in Connecticut. Now retired but still working and still wondering what it all means...all of it.