By the Sunday before Memorial Day, my father would already have the flowers set out on the family graves. He would have called the flowers “decorations,” because being an original Ozarker he knew the holiday by its old name. The relatives whose remains were held safe by these grassy plots had been gone for years, or in some cases decades, but they lived still in his memory.
As a kid, as an unwilling accomplice, during these annual rituals there wasn’t much for me to do except find the shade of a nearby tree and listen with the bored disinterest of a designated witness to his recitation of the names on the stones. I had known perhaps only one or two of them — my grandmothers, for example — but the rest were as distant to me as the sun overhead.
My father was not a devout man or much given to ceremony, but Memorial Day was the holiday he observed with a rigor that resembled a civil religion. For Carl McCoy, the year began not with the lengthening days after the winter solstice but with Memorial Day. The solemn remembrance of the dead typically concluded with a family meal (although seldom a picnic) and then the doors to summer were flung open, with its long days and baitcaster fishing and homegrown tomatoes by the Fourth of July....