There comes the time when we all must face it: Returning to the place where you grew up and there are no parents to greet you.

I recently traveled with my brother to Michigan for an extended Memorial Day vacation. The four of us "kids" gathered to conclude family business following our mom’s passing last December. We had been planning it since her funeral and figured that weekend would be fitting for us all to be in Michigan at the same time. Two of us live in Minnesota now, one lives in Utah and one farms where we grew up.

Mom’s side of the family always has a reunion on Memorial Day and we wanted to be there to represent our family. We grew up attending that, eating tasty potluck foods, playing with cousins and getting our first sunburn of the season.

That weekend was also special for us growing up, as my folks tended the graves of various relatives in the Thumb area of the state. My dad was one of 13 in his family, and he annually made the drive to care for his two sisters’ gravesites an hour or more away from the farm, as well as his parents’ grave in the local township cemetery. My mom also cared for local gravesites for her parents and other relatives. We learned by their example the importance of honoring the lives and memories of loved ones long passed by tending their final resting places.

We also learned why we celebrate Memorial Day. We participated in the town parade as youngsters and enjoyed marching in it with our little flags. Our challenge back then was to be quiet during the brief veterans' program held at the town cemetery. I didn’t fully appreciate the ceremony at the time. As a young person, my mind often wandered while there. During the program, I marveled at how those two youth had the courage to stand before a crowd and recite from memory the Gettysburg Address and "In Flanders Fields." I was very shy at the time and figured I could never do that.

Well, with age comes some wisdom, along with the belief that you do have to pipe up now and then. Journalism masked my introverted tendencies and gave me a voice.

Where to stay, who to see
It may seem odd, yet one of the first thoughts I had about returning to place of my childhood was where do I stay? After Mom was widowed, she lived in her house another seven years. This was located a mile from the farmhouse where we once had lived, and where my brother and my sister-in-law are now. So when my siblings or I returned to visit, we stayed with Mom.

I felt a bit lost and did not feel it my place to ask my brother if I could stay at the farmhouse. Thankfully, he brought up the subject and said he hoped we would all stay there. Oh, that was so nice — staying in the home where so many good memories were made! And we made a few more while there. One item, though: I forgot how steep those staircases were to the basement and second story. Once I got used to them again, the longer extending to step felt good.

As busy as we were, my siblings and I made time for each other and for extended family. My niece and grandnieces stayed overnight one evening at the farm home (where my niece grew up, too), as did my nephew. We also visited our uncle, my dad’s last remaining sibling, and our aunt, my mom’s last remaining sibling. I even made time one evening to get together with several high school girlfriends.

My trip concluded with a visit to stay a couple days with my mother-in-law and her best friend in a resort town along Lake Michigan. As the local newspaper would have reported back in the day, “A good time was had by all.”

I think I’d edit that sentence a tad: “A great time was had by all.”