On Memorial Day weekend, my sister Karen visited the graves of the Blocher and Gutshall relatives (my maternal family) at Crescent Hill Cemetery in Adrian, Missouri. My sister Beth visited her husband’s kinfolk near Tipton, Missouri.
And I drove an hour south on Monday morning and visited my father’s parents and grandparents. And my father’s paternal aunt, Elsie Schoultz (and Uncle Roy, who I barely remember).
I have hazy recollections of both of my paternal great-grandfathers, and of course I felt the old childhood surge and thrill as I pulled off on MO-110 to make the final approach to De Soto. Fifty years later, I recall how excited I would be as we drove the twisting road that led to town. Grandma and Pop’s house meant peppermint candy, bells to ring, early in my life a pallet on the floor between their twin beds, and later on a canary named Petey. And blueberry muffins. And cream horns from the local pastry and doughnut shop.
The folks are long gone now, but the memories remain.