Under Oaks That Remember 11/16/2025

By: Jennifer Richardson Holt

It was a brisk Tennessee Sunday. The sun was doing its best to warm things, but the wind insisted on reminding us that it was, in fact, November. We kept an eye on the gathering clouds along the horizon, having heard whispers of snow in the forecast. It didn’t feel cold enough yet, but that breeze was certainly trying to convince us otherwise.

We were traveling through the Great Smoky Mountains, within the National Park. Cade’s Cove—one of my favorite places on earth—opened before us like a familiar storybook. A valley cradled by pristine peaks, scattered with rolling pastureland and historic homeplaces, hardly needed to do anything more to win my affection. We’ve been there many times, which may be why my husband, mother, and father stayed in the car at this particular stop along the scenic loop. My mother especially wanted no part of the cold or the wind that seemed determined to deliver on the promise of snow; she prefers to stay firmly indoors at the faintest hint of winter.

My daughter and I were the only ones who got out to explore the old Methodist Church. I was surprised she wanted to, but my heart swelled when she expressed her love for old buildings. And when she said she wanted to “find all the stories in the cemetery,” I nearly imploded with joy. She is her mother’s child—through and through—and that is exactly why I’ve loved this place and walked those same narrow paths between headstones for more than four decades.

Together we wound between the rows, reading what was still legible after years of Appalachian weather. Countless stories revealed themselves only a few feet in. The smaller stones, often graced with resting lambs, spoke of heartbreaks so tender and devastating that they stopped us silent.

Then we noticed a woman carrying an American flag. She stepped over the chains that marked the walkway and headed toward a stone farther back beneath an oak that had seen many winters. My daughter whispered that the woman was breaking the rules, but I suggested that perhaps the grave belonged to someone in her family. That seemed reason enough.

As we looked up, we realized she was not alone. Many people had gathered behind the chains, each standing beside a stone, each holding a flag.

A woman standing at the center of the graveyard began to speak. In a strong voice she said that veterans die twice: once when they leave this world, and again when their names are no longer spoken. Those arriving at the church yard paused. My daughter and I paused. I took her hand, and together we walked to the edge of the graves to listen. She looked up at me with eyes beyond her years. She knew this mattered.

The woman began calling names and sharing how and when each had served. She read the name of the only person buried within the park who was killed in action during World War I. After each name was spoken, a person stationed at that grave placed an American flag in the ground. Some saluted. Some touched the marble with reverence. Some placed a coin on the marker—each denomination carrying its own weight and meaning. One visitor, an older woman wearing an Air Force cap, placed a flag and a dime, then saluted. She thanked the soldier for his service with a voice that trembled and cracked.

Then the woman at the center played TAPS.

I haven’t been to many military funerals. I wasn’t entirely sure what the proper response should be. I knew hats should come off, and they did. Some put their hands over their hearts. I did the same because if ever there was a song that tells a heartbreaking tale, it is that one. Just moments before, my daughter and I had been reading inscriptions on weathered stones, and once again my imagination filled with sorrow, gratitude, and all the unnamed emotions that loss conjures. I didn’t know any of these people. But I know loss and fear—and I imagine that for veterans, and for their families, those are familiar and agonizing companions.

The woman leading the ceremony promised to remember the names and to continue to speak them aloud. She promised to honor the veterans still with us so that those who remain might only have to die once. Tears welled in my eyes, and a couple slipped freely down my cheeks.

My daughter tightened her hold on my hand and gave me a somber nod. She didn’t fully grasp everything happening—not at nine years old—but she understood enough to know it was meaningful.

Warmly colored oak and maple leaves fluttered down in the soft breeze, settling gently among the fallen as if commemorating their own kind of remembrance. And in that moment, she and I realized something quietly profound: this is our torch to carry as Americans. May we do so with the same bravery and resilience as those we seek to honor.