Holidays, except for the trifecta of Halloween, Thanksgiving and Christmas, aren’t major occasions in my family. There are no 4th of July bbq-drenched celebrations, no Valentine’s Day exchanging of gifts and no Memorial Day outings to monuments or events to honor the war dead, even Mother’s Day and Father’s Day are low key get-togethers, if anything at all.
And while I yelled “Happy Father’s Day!” to my dad yesterday, we didn’t do anything particularly special.
But there was someone I felt a pull to pay a special visit to, buried many feet beneath the ground, on the luscious green grounds of Forest Lawn somewhere between Bette Davis and Liberace: my grandfather.