When I think of cemeteries I can't help but remember my experiences as a child. My parents were divorced, my father was in the Navy and I rarely saw him. I lived with my mother and was the eldest of six children. During the summer, when school ended, my mother always sent me to my father's family, my grandparents, for the summer. They lived about three hours away, but I didn't know them very well, and although I'd never really wanted to go there, my mother said it was better so I could meet my father's family. My grandfather, who I called Dad, while his name was actually Sid, was the highlight of my visits. My mother always told me stories about him, and as the story goes, she adored me when I was a child. I was the first nephew, the first niece, the first baby in the family for quite a long time. Dad would walk for miles to pick me up and take me home with him, and I loved flowers, so along the way I wanted to stop and pick every flower I saw. Of course he let me do it, even if it meant picking them straight from someone else's garden. My grandmother, Mattie, told me she was jealous because Dad was so crazy about me and spoiled me terribly. Of course I don't remember any of this. However, I remember that when I visited during those summers he didn't seem particularly happy to see me. My father had a stroke and, as a result, his throat became paralyzed, so he couldn't speak very well. He eventually passed away, but my travels to be with my father's family did not stop because of that. My Grandma Mattie had her sister, who I called Aunt Bert, come to live with her after Dad died, and it was Aunt Bert who enjoyed me more and tolerated me more than my Grandma Mattie. Don't get me wrong, Grand... middle of paper... paper ones. He knew many of the people buried there and told me stories about them, who they married, how they lived their lives, how many children they had, and all the details in between. For me, as a child, I found it very interesting. I often wonder if she made up some of the stories she used to tell me. They finally caught Aunt Bert stealing, I don't know how or when, but I remember them coming to visit me one summer and asking why we couldn't go to the cemetery. She told me they no longer allowed visits, but years later I discovered the real reason, which was that they had caught her stealing from graves. Aunt Bert died years later of breast cancer, after I stopped going for the summer. However, she was buried in the same cemetery where she visited every day. I wonder if he still walks around at night, visiting everyone else who is there.