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Robert Kirby took the day off to observe Memorial Day. This is a reprint of an earlier column.

Wandering through Mount Olivet Cemetery in Salt Lake City last month, I spotted a small granite headstone. Lillian Louise Cole, born March 13, 1907, died Feb. 17, 1926.

Only the dates indicated that Lillian's death was unusual. Nineteen is young to die. There were no other Coles nearby. She was buried, probably unexpectedly, among strangers by people who loved her and then moved on.

I can't remember when I didn't love cemeteries. I'm drawn to them the way some people are to churches.

Our reasons are similar. Churches teach that life and love go on in a better fashion after we die. But I'm also simple enough to take comfort in the mere fact that most of life's worries come down to a hole in the ground.

Most people see graveyards as repositories of sorrow. The wind through the trees is a muted choir of weeping. I'm more inclined to hear laughter. If the dead regard us at all, it's probably with derision over the things we fuss about.

You can't escape the tragedy of cemeteries though, or the stories. To the indifferent eye, cemeteries are a collection of stone blocks. I see books with dust-jacket inscriptions. For me, a cemetery is a library

You have to know where to look. The military cemeteries of Gettysburg, Antietam and Shiloh would be meaningless if I didn't know that the young men buried there rushed our nation's future and their lives into the mouths of cannons.

Walk through Salt Lake City Cemetery, and any headstone you see with a death date of 1918 is likely courtesy of the Spanish Flu epidemic that killed at least 50 million people worldwide.

Some graves tease their stories through simple numbers, like the pioneer-era plots with parents and a string of children dead before the age of 2.

Twenty years ago, I stumbled about a coastal forest in Washington State, looking for a tiny cemetery marked on a map. I think I found it, but it was hard to tell. Even the foundations of the homes were gone from the place where people once laid the treasures of their hearts.

A visit to the Utah State Archives tells Lillian's story. A bride of a few weeks, she was young, happy and probably still in her nightclothes when death found her.

On the morning of Feb. 17, 1926, a massive avalanche roared through Sap Gulch in Bingham Canyon, smashing 20 buildings into kindling and sledgehammering 40 people, including Lillian, to death. Her husband escaped because he was at work in a mine.

I have no idea why I find this interesting. I only know that when I pass by Lillian's headstone now, I feel like I know her.

I have a soft spot for people who risk their lives on behalf of others – soldiers, cops, firefighters, emergency personnel. When tragedy stalks us, they're the ones who put themselves between us and it.

Every Memorial Day, I make a paltry effort to show some appreciation to those for whom the risk required everything. I head off to the cemetery and tidy a half- dozen graves.

I don't do it entirely for them. They're dead. They might not even care that I drop by and pull a few weeds and trim the grass around their headstones.

What I do there I do for me, to remind myself that whatever I have in life comes to me courtesy of someone else's blood.

On Saturday, I tidied the graves of fallen police officers and soldiers in Salt Lake Valley cemeteries. Some I've done before. Others are new to me. None are people I ever met, but deserve to be remembered nonetheless.

In Mount Calvary is SLCPD Sgt. John Henry Johnston. In 1911, Henry was shot investigating a domestic dispute in a West Temple hotel. When he stepped between the armed man and his wife, the man shot him in the stomach.

Henry lived for three days before dying of peritonitis. His killer went to prison for seven years, was paroled, and later became a silent-screen movie actor. There's nothing fair about heroism.

Up the road from Henry is Salt Lake County Sheriff's Deputy Nephi Jensen, who was shot in 1913 while attempting to arrest a murder suspect. Nephi lived for an hour knowing that he would die, and wishing he could live for his family's sake.

Not far from Nephi is U.S. Navy Capt. Mervyn S. Bennion, skipper of the USS West Virginia when he was killed at Pearl Harbor.

In Mount Calvary, Army Sgt. Phillip J. Krek Jr. is buried. Krek was just 21 years old when he was killed in action in Vietnam in 1968. More than 350 of his fallen comrades are scattered throughout Utah.

In Sandy City Cemetery is PFC Donald L. Waddoups, one of more than 150 Utahns killed in the Korean conflict.

Salt Lake City Firefighter Theron Johnson rests in Salt Lake City Cemetery. Johnson and fellow firefighters Lt. Melvin Hatch and Harry Christensen were crushed to death in the Victory Theater fire May 19, 1943.

Those who risk their lives for others don't always belong to organizations that remember to honor them on days like today. The quiet stone gardens of Utah cemeteries are the resting places of ordinary people who were willing to risk everything when it mattered.

In Redwood Memorial Cemetery is buried Justin Taufer. The 67-year-old retired sheet-metal worker and LDS bishop was shot and killed May 10, 1977, when he went to the aid of a young woman being assaulted in Mill Creek Canyon.

Today is special. But so is every day when you remember that you have it because of people like these.

Robert Kirby can be reached at rkirby@sltrib.com or facebook.com/stillnotpatbagley. Find his past columns at http://www.sltrib.com/lifestyle/kirby