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Until my people (that is, people within whose arms I remember enjoying an embrace) lay in the isolated country cemetery, this customary maintenance of graves and grounds had always struck me as only a quaint and outdated practice of country people—something for old women in flowered dresses with rolled-down stockings and men wearing overalls and faded fedoras.
But while participating in this custom, I was reminded "not to forget my raising," and that I had come from what are considered to be country people, whether or not I chose to observe their customs. Consequently, throughout the day I carried along with my spade an awareness of my connections to those both in and above the ground.
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