My father is buried at Fort Snelling National Cemetery. Near the airport, with planes zooming overhead as they come and go. Not the resting place I would have chosen for him. I had something posh, yet tranquil, in mind.
     Like Resurrection Cemetery in Mendota Heights, where Dad’s parents are buried. With larger than life statues of Jesus and Mary, gargantuan crucifixes and mega grave markers, its very name, Resurrection, gives hope. And Mendota Heights has a nice ring for a final address.
     Dad wanted no part of it. No doubt, he thought it a waste of real estate. Plus, his honorable Army service during World War II meant burial at Fort Snelling was free. Dad, who used to brag he bought his undies at the dime store, loved a bargain.
     Before my parents’ divorce, I’d accompanied them to the cemeteries where their own parents had been laid to rest. I never knew what to do as we all knelt on the prickly grass, so I bowed my head and moved my lips, all the while taking in the ornate statuary and curlicues on the head stones.
     Years later, I tried to discourage Mom from making the five hour round trip from Brainerd every Memorial Day, but she insisted on visiting my stepfather’s grave site in Minneapolis, placing red geraniums in the green metal vase with the pointy end.
     Now, with Mom gone, I’m the one who reserves the Sunday morning of Memorial Day weekend to trim the dead grass and place flowers (Yes, red geraniums.) next to head stones.
     My husband and I stop first at Sunset Memorial Garden where Mom is buried alongside her second husband. Impressive and peaceful, Sunset is a fitting place for my mother, a woman of grace and dignity. Across the street is a public golf course we imagine my stepfather played often, so my husband always leaves a golf tee on the top of the grave marker.
     Our next stop is Fort Snelling, where we drive slowly along boulevards lined with American flags. For the Memorial Day holiday, many of the streets have been changed to one-ways and we can’t help but make a wrong turn, or two. It doesn’t matter. Even though we aren’t there on the official day, and no speakers or singers are in attendance, we are not alone. Many others also arrive a day early.
     My husband plays his own variation of the license plate game as we drive up, down, and across avenues. South Dakota. Michigan. Montana. We can’t help but watch families stand over their loved one’s grave, arms wrapped across each others’ shoulders. We can almost see their tears. Other families spread a cloth on the ground and share a picnic lunch, giving a sense they’ve done it many times before. Here and there, elderly women, each one alone, stand or kneel in front of a head stone.
     Fifteen years of Memorial Day visits have given me a new perspective. While Fort Snelling National Cemetery lacks grandiosity, it is a magnificent sight, a fitting place of repose for my father—a man who hated war but served his country well. Whatever their rank, military branch, or length of service, members of the Armed Forces are laid to rest among others who honorably served in active duty. Every grave marker is the same—row after row of identical marble stones stand at attention, like never-ending picket fences.
     Dad was right, after all. You don’t need a fancy place to rest in peace.