My story

After Daddy died in 1945, Mother and us four children walked up to his grave at Lakewood every Sunday afternoon. Only Karen, three years old, got to ride in the wagon. We helped Mother pick flowers to add to the wagon, and off our sad little troupe would go, over one block to DuPont Avenue and then down several blocks to the walk-in gate which was open to walkers only on Sunday. Mother gained comfort there and chose the grave to gather us and tell us important things. We kids would explore. The nearby headstone with a big brass plate had a tiny lid with a keyhole. Across the road were big mausoleums—we only looked their way.