The Second Sunday in June is Decoration Day at Davis Cemetery in Dora.
It is also where many of my family members are buried including, my parents, brothers and paternal grandparents.
My dad didn’t spend time in church but he loved helping with the Davis Cemetery. Every year for as long as I can remember he volunteered to help take up money for the clean up committee. He and many of his friends would sit under a big canvas tent (supplied by the local funeral home) and talk for hours telling tales about those buried there in the cemetery. They greeted every car that came up the driveway taking donations for the upkeep of the grounds.
I have great memories of sitting there, listening to their stories. Now I sit under a tent every Second Sunday, hoping to keep those memories alive.
My dad has been gone for 20 years, but the thoughts of him and this cemetery are ingrained in my brain. I think about May 22, 1986 and a call I received while I was on a business trip in Atlanta. Jilda called, she told me dad was worse; I needed to talk with my mom.
My first thoughts were my commitments to my job, and that I would go home that night. When I talked to my mom and heard her voice, the only thing that registered in my brain and heart, “ you need to go home.”
My boss was not happy that I had to leave, his words were “ I need you here, but if you have to go, then go.” Under normal circumstances his words would have influenced me to stay, but my heart was tugging, pulling me to Alabama.
I caught the next flight back to Birmingham, all flights were full, but one seat opened up at the last minute and I knew home was where I had to be.
Jilda picked me up at the airport and took me to the hospital in Jasper. She drove in record time, making sure I got to my dad.
When I walked into the intensive care unit, my dad’s breathing was labored. My older brother Neil and I stood there and listened to the machines bleep and click and dad’s breathing. Dad opened his eyes and looked at Neil and then me and I told him I loved him. He squeezed my hand.
A few minutes later he was gone.
I never regretted my decision to come home that day. I am so glad I listened to that inner voice.
So now, as I sit under the tent at the entrance to the cemetery, hearing the wail of a train, I find comfort in knowing that I’m doing what my dad did all those years every Second Sunday in June.
