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Nowadays, many Americans have forgotten the meaning and traditions of Memorial Day. At cemeteries across the country, the graves of the fallen are sadly ignored, and worse, neglected.

We bury love; Forgetfulness grows over it like grass: That is a thing to weep for, not the dead.

After I die, I'll be forgotten.

Our dead are never dead to us, until we have forgotten them.

To be forgotten, is to die a little.

One keeps forgetting old age up to the very brink of the grave.

But we cannot rely on memorials and museums alone. We can tell ourselves we will never forget and we likely won't. But we need to make sure that we teach history to those who never had the opportunity to remember in the first place.

It gives a fellow an awful shiver to hear the first shovelful of dirt and gravel rattle down upon the coffin; but after it is covered, it falls gently and makes no sound. The feeling of rest is perfect. There's no more nagging, no more pain!

I don't think most people know what's going to be in their obituary, but I do.

I shall never forget the despair and agony on the parents' faces on the awful day of the funeral when the 13 little children, victims not only of John D. Rockefeller, but of the government of the state of Colorado were buried.