"Your people are buried in this cemetery." This is what I grew up hearing my mother tell me and now what I repeat to my own children. My maternal great-grandparents passed away when I was so young, I have no memory of either of them except for a very brief one that includes a homemade cherry pie baking in the kitchen of their home; a bungalow that was walking distance from both the Manti temple, and also the Sanpete County Courthouse where her grandfather Erastus Dilworth Woolley presided as a judge. Also walking distance for Alice Snow Woolley to take the white-gloved hand of her little grand-daughter into her own white-gloved hand and take a stroll to the local market.
If ever a child was made to feel like a favorite of their grand-parents, it was Jill Kay. Whenever she'd talk about going to visit them, her eyes would shine as she'd begin to recount memories of rolling down the grassy hill the temple stood on. Conversations with her grandfather. Hours spent in the La Sal mountains, picnics beside the river, aspens leaves rustling in the wind while her grandmother sat at her easel, re-creating the scene before her. Her brush dipping into the oil pigmented greens, blues and pinks; the colors of a perfect Utah Summer afternoon.
Dave and I decided to head south for the weekend to meet up with his parents who are visiting some of Fran's side of family. Since the Manti temple has just days ago re-opened after an extensive renovation, we decided to spend a day here and attend a temple session as well. As we reach the outskirts of town, we can see the temple in the far distance. I can hear Mama in my mind audibly gasping with awe and delight, "Oh Allyson! Just LOOK at that beautiful temple!" And then all the girlhood memories would bubble forth and instantly she becomes transformed to a little girl that is adored by all who know and love her.
I soak in the view from every direction; trying to see through her eyes. We drive to the cemetery and find "my people". Her people. I feel the magnitude of a life well-lived and the importance of making sure your children and grandchildren really understand how much they mean to you and how much you love them.
When I was a teenager, and I had a driver's license but not much of a social life, I'd often spend week-ends with my grand-parents. On Saturdays, I'd fix my grandmother's hair for church the following day. She'd sit at her vanity in her beautiful green robe, and as I'd roll her hair, she'd tell me story after story of her youth and young motherhood. Now and then she'd catch my eye in the mirror, raise one eye-brow and very seriously tell me, "Now don't forget these things I'm telling you." Brightly, I'd reply "Oh, don't worry, I won't!" Mostly I'd tell her that just so she'd lose that deadly serious gaze. I was a teenager. I wanted to finish her hair and then go make cookies in her kitchen with her fancy cookware; not worry about committing to my memory everything she'd just made me promise to not forget. But something about the way she looked at me and held onto my wrist most certainly had a affect on me. I can still smell her perfume "Youth Dew". I can still feel her fierce hugs. "Don't forget."
As we walked out of the temple, I noticed all the tulips blooming. Bending down to look closer at all the various colors, I looked off in the distance and could see the headstones from the cemetery. The connection is not lost on me. I don't typically find a closeness to loved one's that are passed in a cemetery, but I can for certain feel them near me when I am within the walls of the temple. A warm feeling of peace flooded through me.
Our younger grandchildren will never know my parents; the oldest have no memory of my father. They have passed from this life, but through our continued story telling and sharing we will keep them alive in the minds and hearts of the next generation. They will know they come from good people; people who are rooting for their success and happiness from the other side.
How many years old is this oak tree? Did my parents, grand-parents, even great-grand-parents walk by this very tree, when perhaps it was half this size. Will it still be here after I'm gone and maybe my own grand-children visit this sacred place?
As we leave Manti, driving down Main Street, my inner radar detects a candy shop. "Hey! It's open for thirty more minutes!" Without even having to ask him, Dave makes a U-turn and pulls the car up to the front of the little store. We open the old door, freshly painted pink; the aroma of sugar cones, caramel and chocolate wafting through the air. Not having eaten all day, we did the smart thing and ordered a double ice-cream cone to share. Delicious. Milk has protein am I right?! I also got a small bag of gourmet chocolates for my beloved hotel bath-time.
Life is short and then you die. Well that's for darn sure. That's why I'll never give up ice-cream. It's also why I love the temple. I'm grateful for the "loving ties that bind" me to my people.
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