In my family, it is common practice to think and speak of those who have gone before us as very much present. They are part of the continuum, they are not forgotten. And just as we visit friends and family amongst the living, so too do we visit those amongst the dead. And so cemetery visits were commonplace from as far back as I can remember. We would go, we would brush off the stones, plant some flowers, perhaps. It was often my job to walk over to the spigot and bring back a bucket of water for those flowers. We would spend some time, utter a few prayers, say goodbye, and move on to the next visit.
In the summertime, the cemeteries we visited were usually lush and green with big trees. I’d read the stones, wondering about the people whose lives they memorialized, wondering also about their families amongst the living who brought things to their graves: flowers, trinkets, flags, coins––the small gifts we leave for the dead. I loved the old stones best, the weathered ones, the ones with lichen and moss. Back home in Lake Worth and West Palm Beach, the old weathered ones are from the 1800s. Here in northern New England, they are from the 1700s and earlier, carved with angels and skulls, crooked in the ground after all these years.
I know people who would be content to never set foot in a cemetery, and perhaps that is you. And I understand that. But that is not me. Me, I’ve been known to visit cemeteries, even if I know not a soul in them, just to walk through on a pondering ramble. And it is not my cousin Marietta. When I suggested I drive down to New York to visit her while on this summer vacation in Maine, she got so excited. And when I suggested we make the cemetery rounds during that visit, she responded, “You are so me.” It’s a rare cousin indeed who you can invite to join you on a trip to visit cemeteries and who will agree with excitement and enthusiasm. This may be why we get along so well.
Here in Maine, while on this summer vacation, we have visited family and friends most every day. We sit, we talk, we laugh, we eat, we talk and laugh some more. But we have visited, too, the ones we visit quietly: Seth’s grandparents, the great grandparents he never met, great aunts and uncles, even his great aunt Mary, who died in the 1918 influenza epidemic, just a girl, who in a way I probably know best, only because her parents were so grief stricken at her passing that they erected a large stone that even has her photograph on it. The photo, now almost a hundred years old, is still clear as day, while lichen covers more of the stone with each passing year. Beneath her photo, the words engraved are rapita dagli angeli––stolen by angels. She was 15. No one left amongst the living has ever met her, and yet she is a presence we know well. I see her picture and I think of an old neighbor on Victor Street, where I lived as a boy. I don’t even remember her name, but I do remember her telling me once that her sister had died in 1918 in that same epidemic. I think of Mary’s sisters, the ones who lived to be old women, the ones that I did know before they left this world, the ones whose living rooms Seth and I sat in on visits past. The lines between the living and the dead get blurred at times, and this is, I think, a good thing. The dead are here in their way. We are the richer for their presence.
“With loves, and hates / And passions just like mine.”
Thank you Chris!!!
‘Cause there’s always someone, somewhere
With a big nose, who knows
Smiths fans!
By far one of my favorite posts to-date. I share in your feeling that our ancestors are here, in their way, and we are the richer for it. I have made several pilgrimages to visit my departed ancestors – many of whom I only know from stories and photos. My husband, who does not share my appreciation for this sort of thing has been a trooper and indulged me while I walked for hours in the Old Hebrew Cemetery in Greenwich, Connecticut seeking my dearly departed. There are thousands buried there going back to the early 1700s. While the headstones are mostly in tact there are no markers in the cemetery and no map available. A challenging, but rewarding journey to connect with those, as you so aptly describe, have no contemporaries left. Just us from their future to call upon them.
You and I and my cousin would get along well, Jacqui!
John Larry Cutrone. You use a Smiths song and don’t even cite them?! Sir.
Oh I just figure those who know will know. Kim and Chris, obviously!
Visiting cemeteries is an important part of my travels: you learn the history of small places quite quickly by reading the grave markers: a world war starting in 1914, an influenza epidemic in 1918, women dead in childbirth, women dead at menopause, men dead from their work in the mines, men dead from a war.
I always find cemeteries quite peaceful and welcoming. The dead do not threaten us, merely leave their stories for us to remember.
Beautifully said, Cathryn. Thank you.
Whenever I return to my home state, I visit my relatives and friends….those living and those who are not. They are dear to me and always will be. I love my memories. A cemetery is a good place to sit still and remember.
Agreed! Thanks Dee.
Johnny.
So apropos for tomorrow ‘s venture. I’m going with Edie to historic Greeneood Cemetery in Brooklyn to help locate her grandfather’s relatives.
The older the cemetery, the better it is for me!
I Remember visiting quite an old cemetery in Cooperstown a while back and being fascinated by the sereneness and the richness of the history that was surrounding me at that moment. Thanks for sharing one of my passions!
I guess we are birds of a feather. Do you suppose it goes back to our moms taking us to visit cemeteries when we were little kids? I don’t think of it at all as dark. Just… part of living.