Final Resting Places
One Kid's Weird Fascination With a Cemetery
Fascination probably isn't a word you typically associate with cemeteries, and yes, I was that kid.
But, it wasn't just any cemetery; it's where my Mom's family is buried, and I loved spending time there.Â
I would accompany my Grandma, who cleaned headstones and watered the flowers on our loved ones' graves. They were always potted red geraniums (which apparently aren't true geraniums but pelargoniums), something I discovered through a Google search. Anyway, I'm reminded of those days and my Grandmother whenever I see these lovely crimson flowers.
We also attended the yearly Memorial Day services at the cemetery, which included prayer, speeches by local dignitaries, a 21-gun salute, and the bugle version of Taps. Afterward, we gathered at the gravesites with extended family. The grownups would visit together while we kids played hide and seek among the many trees and headstones.
Despite being a cemetery and all that implies, it's lovely, with fifty acres of a picturesque rolling landscape. Countless majestic trees filter the sunlight while flowering shrubs and plants contrast beautifully with the green backdrop.
But what impressed me as a kid was the number of gravestones. The cemetery opened in 1866, and they line the hills in neat rows. There's a variety of shapes, sizes, and styles that add visual interest to the scenery.
The oldest ones are mainly white and so worn from the elements that they're barely readable. Extremely plain, they contain only names, birth, and death dates. Many are crumbling or have fallen over.
Newer models offer various colors with photos of the dearly departed. Some have engraved quotes and figures sitting atop, like angels or animals.
I enjoyed reading the headstones and imagining what the person was like. First, I checked the dates to see their age at death. I noticed that people didn't live as long on the older graves. When I mentioned this to my Mom, she explained that it was due to ‘modern medicine.’
I then tried to picture them dressed in the fashion of their day according to the books and movies I'd seen.
The newer headstones gave more information about the person lying beneath them. "Beloved Mother, Father, Daughter," etc. A cross or Bible verse told me they were religious, and an animal or tennis racquet hinted at what was important in their lives.
One, in particular, made me terribly sad. It was a three-year-old girl who died about 20 years before I was born. There was a small black and white photo on the stone, contained inside an ornate frame with a heavy lid to protect and seal the contents. She was pretty with a cherubic face framed by ringlets.
I always saved her for last. Something about the death of a child not much younger than myself affected me a lot. I didn't know the details of her short life, but intuition told me she was sick. I remember feeling sorry that modern medicine wasn't invented in time to save her life.
During one of those past Memorial Day gatherings at the family 'plot,' as one uncle called it, my older cousin Kathy complained about the annual tradition. She thought socializing in a cemetery was creepy.
The adults, some of whom didn't see each other but once or twice a year, laughed and talked, catching up on each other's lives.
"Look at them, standing right on their Grandpa and joking about the way he wore his pants," she said with disgust.
Up until that time, I hadn't thought about the fact that I was literally walking over dead bodies. After that, I couldn’t unhear it.
Slowly sidestepping off my great-aunt's grave, I quietly replied,
"I don't think they'd mind."
Kathy rolled her eyes at me. She was fourteen, and Mom said she acted "too big for her britches."
Then her expression changed.
"Do you know that ghosts come out of these graves at night and haunt the houses across that street?"
She pointed to the neighborhood that bordered one side of the cemetery.
I hadn't yet reached the age where I watched scary movies on the Saturday late show. So, my knowledge about ghosts was limited to elementary school-age Halloween stuff, which seemed unrelated to the folks lying in the family plot.
I considered her words, but only for a moment.
"I don't believe you," I said before walking away to join another cousin, closer in age, who I liked a whole lot more.
When you're a kid, death is implausible. The future appears so vast that growing old and dying seems light years away and damn near incomprehensible.
I dreamt about growing up and going to college, getting a job, becoming a mother, and doing all the things adults do. But, I never saw myself as old. So old as in gray hair, wrinkles, hearing aids, and canes; basically somebody's Grandma. And dying? Nope, not on MY to-do list!
It is said that death is a part of life, disguised in children's stories as the part where everyone lives happily ever after. ~Robert Brault
Fast-forward 50 years. The gray hair has arrived but remains hidden under 'medium-rich brown' dye. Not too many wrinkles, but plenty of sagging skin. No hearing aids or canes (thank goodness), and absolutely thrilled now to be a Grandma.
My visits to the cemetery took a long hiatus once I became a teenager. I didn't return until I had my own children and again attended the Memorial Day parades. Even then, we only went for a few years.
There was another long absence until my parents passed away. They now reside near the rest of the family, but I only go a couple of times a year.Â
Mom used to joke that I wouldn't carry on the tradition of visiting weekly to water the flowers on her grave. I was honest, saying she'd have artificial ones so I wouldn't have to go as often. Then I reminded her that she’d always be with me…with or without flowers.
The cemetery is still beautiful, and I enjoy my infrequent time there. But most noticeable now is how peaceful it is. Devoid of traffic and, well, people. Living people and all the noise we make.
The most prominent sound is the birdsongs against the quiet backdrop. The cool shaded areas are still dappled with sunlight peeking through the now taller trees. Those light summer breezes continue to caress with a warm, familiar touch.
All this creates tranquility not readily available in other places. It's always been there but went unnoticed when I was a child. However, now it’s not the individual stories of those who rest there but the collective serenity and peace of the place that fascinates this adult.
Maybe because what was once implausible no longer is.
(Note: This article is an End-of-Life [EOL] Doula's advice on how to cherish every day of living. It's often uncomfortable talking and/or thinking about death, but she offers valuable, practical advice. If interested, check it out.)
Do you have a favorite childhood memory of doing and/or liking something ‘quirky’ that others might consider odd? If so, let us know in the comments; weirdness LOVES company!
This is such a beautiful post. Thank you.