Located on 30 acres just northwest of the Merrimack River, Elmwood Cemetery was established in 1700 and still records more than 250 burials each year. The history of places like Methuen is contained in their cemeteries: the thin weathered stones of the local souls who marched to Concord and Bunker Hill in 1775; who fell at Spotsylvania, Belleau Wood, Guadalcanal, and Cu Chi. There are other stories here, too, of lives that stretched the better part of the Industrial Revolution, people who worked in the Ayer and Wood mills of Lawrence, delivered coal, or fought fires, grinding out a modest living, dollar by dollar.

Although Glenn and I have both seen a good part of the world, we chose to raise our own families here, in the Merrimack Valley. We wanted to give our kids the opportunity to grow up like we did.

Our slog across the muddy lawn at Elmwood included brief, silent visits to each of our father’s graves. They were simple, hard-working men we’ve modeled ourselves after. Cliff Gallant and my father, Jim, barely knew each other; running into the dad of their son’s friend on the Fourth of July or at the supermarket was a reason to stop and shake hands, nothing more. But they shared a number of traits. They both managed to be serious yet good-humored; thrifty at home, yet generous to their neighbors; close-mouthed on subjects like how much money they made or their faith in God, though candid about how much they loved their families, their hometown, and their country.

We also stopped by the final resting place of Roland Schelling, our old hockey teammate Kenny’s father, who used to attend our Methuen High games, shouting “Boys in blue – go, go, go!” (Glenn texted a photo of the grave to Kenny; Kenny’s wife texted back: “I’m sure Roland enjoyed your visit.”) A short distance away was Mike Ewing’s father, Al, an Air Force veteran who became a cop for the Massachusetts Registry of Motor Vehicles and, like my own father, died young. Nearby was Jeff Ness’s dad, Bill, a quiet, steady man who always made you feel at home when you dropped by. For Memorial Day, volunteers will decorate each of these graves with a small American flag.

As Glenn and I ambled along, a common portrait began to emerge. The fathers of all our friends had served in the military, typically in wartime, when they were needed most. Early in life they worked with their hands; even after they took “indoor jobs,” they built sheds, repaired windows, and painted their houses. They coached Little League, volunteered at their children’s schools, at church, and with the Boy Scouts. They helped without any fanfare and then went home and had a beer.

My father’s nickname was the Big Guy: He was a broad-shouldered, genial man who tipped the scales at 250 pounds. Although I’m a writer and teacher, not an insurance broker like he was, I certainly share his ease with people, his persistence, and his love of the outdoors. He regularly took me, Glenn, and my other teenage pals on camping trips with our family. So when he died unexpectedly at 52, my mother gave Glenn his favorite pair of hiking boots and a jacket he always wore cross-country skiing. It was both a practical and a symbolic gesture: I’m 170 pounds and none of my father’s things would have fit me, while Glenn is a strapping firefighter with big feet. But the gifts also demonstrated that fathers affect sons, their own and other men’s, by how they choose to live.

As Glenn and I drove out through the gates of Elmwood, the rain began to fall in earnest. Although the Big Guy had a huge influence on me, I realized that the time I spent with my friends’ dads, at their kitchen tables, their backyard barbecues, and in the chilly hockey rinks of my youth, had also shaped the man I’ve become. Someday, I hope my own boy will feel the same way about the fathers of his friends.

Jay Atkinson, who teaches writing at Boston University, is the author of six books, including the short story collection Tauvernier Street. Send comments to magazine@globe.com.