With our factory income there weren't many spare dollars for flowers for the cemetery. I would have preferred the waving tulips or fragrant hyacinths in springtime, or the lilies that predominated the rest of the year, but the bright little geraniums were the least expensive of the potted flowers that were sold near the cemetery gate or at the garden stands at the "mill outlets." Dad or Mom made the careful selection of three geraniums after counting out creased and folded dollar bills to the proprietor. On Mother's Day, still all dressed in patent leather pumps and spring-colored dress from Easter, fresh out of church and joining the line headed through the gates, I sat in the back seat with the three terra-cotta pots covered with brightly colored shiny paper, a little row of scarlet or pink, as we made our way down the curved road.
Almost as soon as you entered, to your right were a sad little collection of tiny headstones with lambs or cherubs upon them. These were for the babies, and they almost always had soft flowers of white or pink bobbing next to them. Passing several more plots, brave on a sunny Sunday with blooms of all sorts—gladioli, lilies, tulips, hyacinths, roses, and more—and fluttering satin ribbons, we would stop at the right side of the road, choose a geranium, and walk the few steps to Grandma Lanzi's grave. Dad's face always got soft and sober when we approached and he would kiss her picture gently before we stopped to pray. I have no memory of her; she died when I was three; the only thing I do recall is that we had a small Christmas tree that year, set on the big parlor table, rather than a large one, and only turned the lights on Christmas Eve. There were faucets on each corner of each plot, and if the geranium was too dry we would water it before setting it down under the headstone.
Even though it was Mother's Day, we had a potted geranium for Mother's brother, my Uncle Ernest, whose real name was Agnello. We always brought flowers for him, no matter what the holiday. He had not a tall headstone but a small rectangular stone set in the ground, like the rest of the graves in the plot across the street, and Mom kept track of where it was by row number and its distance from a certain tree at the edge of the plot. I have no memories of him, only that he was the adopted father of my cousin Raymond who lived in California. Still, you could see the empty space in the family right there in Mom's face. She would tell me rollicking stories of her girlhood when Uncle Ernie apparently had an old jalopy of a car in which Mom and her brothers would pile in to go places. Several times they drove straight to New York to see the Yankees play; I marvel even now—straight to New York, before the interstates, before the Connecticut Turnpike! It must have taken hours, all for a ballgame, and they would come back tired but happy.
And finally there was the slow left turn that brought us abreast of Grandma and Grandpa D'Ambra's headstone, where Mom lingered. Like me, she was very close to her mother; in her last few days she even called for her when in pain. With a little brush from the car she would sweep any bits of grass or dirt which had gotten on the rim of the stone from lawn cutting, and with spit she would clean the glass over the picture of her parents. I remember their little house on Killingly Street; Mom had no car so we would take the bus to Hartford Avenue and then walk the rest of the way, past the Warwick Shoppers World and the other businesses. By the time I was old enough to remember them, Grandpa had gone blind. He had been a vibrant working man, having grown up on a farm and then become, among other things, a coal miner and an ironworker. Now he was blind from cataracts and I recall only a silent man on the sofa, listening to the television. Grandma was sickly by that time, but I remember her offering me cookies and milk. They were childhood sweethearts and died within a month of each other.
Around us spread marching lines of marble and stone, almost all with a colorful surround of flowers. Cars stopped, families poured out, women in spring hats or lace mantillas, little girls in poufy skirts like mine, men and boys in suits and ties, gathering in little knots to pay their respects. Ribbons from the hats might flutter, the children would fidget, mothers would send a child with a container to get some water. If you saw someone you knew, you waved hello in a gentle manner; like the library this was a place of silence.
But around you the trees rustled, the birds sang, the bees darted from flower to flower, and the red geraniums were like flags.
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