It may seem odd to the reader that a blog entry is about the end of life. However, if one deals with their end, it is easier to get a grasp on the speed with which life moves and to make the best of it while it is speeding along.
Our town had a population of only 2,000 but its cemetery has five thousand of its former citizens resting within its black iron fences. The cemetery dominates Church Street, halfway between the hundred-year old brick Presbyterian Church and the Nickel Plate Railroad. The main funeral home is just north of the cemetery, so funeral processions are short and don’t obstruct the traffic up on Main Street.
Back when we were children we used the cemetery as if it were a unique park. We were always respectful while playing there, avoiding stepping on the mounds that marked final resting places. We knew where all the unusual monuments were located. One huge, white monument was made of marble and was hollow. The young and the brave would shout through the small grate on the end and feign terror as they heard Satan echo back from Hades. Near the main gate was a cast memorial of a beagle. The hound sat in a captain’s chair, his head worn smooth from the pats of children’s hands.
The old folks in town still say Decoration Day when referring to Memorial Day. And decorate they do! Small flags are placed on the veterans’ graves, while cut flowers and geraniums are used as remembrances for family or friend. The town’s holiday parades always terminated at the pointed monolith erected by the wealthy Culbertson family. Here some politician would deliver a short, but rousing, speech. Ten old vets from the American Legion would fire a salute with their M-1 rifles. The roar of the rifles and the pungent odor of gun smoke sent visions through our heads of John Wayne charging up Iwo Jima beach. Respectfully we would listen to the haunting bugler, sounding taps for those resting beneath the flags. Then we would scramble for the empty cartridges.
The cemetery was landscaped with a variety of ancient trees, but was dominated by tall, old hemlocks. Some of those erect and proud trees reminded me of the guards at Arlington. These green soldiers performed their guard duty well during the Halloween season. The wind moaned when it passed through their branches, and the moon cast ominous and eerie shadows on the ground beneath their limbs. This kept vandalism at a minimum.
Autumn was the kid’s favorite season. Back in the older section were a number of horse chestnut trees. Their inedible brown nuts were fashioned into long necklaces to be worn on Halloween. Early winter would soon roll around and the cemetery would be abandoned to the squirrels for a short time. When snow fell, however, the gang was back because the best hill in town for sledding rose in back of the cemetery. We whooshed bright eyed and bushytailed close to those icy white marble monuments in our winter playground. We were usually silent when passing through in winter. The ominous silence of a forest of stone markers and the snowy whiteness of death overcame our exuberance as we headed for an afternoon of merriment.
So I will be satisfied with a nice pine box here, since it will be empty on That Day anyhow. But on returning to this earlier playground, I received a new message from those trees and monuments. They now seemed to whisper, “We watched you laugh and play here; we’ve observed you grieve beneath our ancient arms. We’ll guard you someday when you rest here.” Then the pines and maples arched their backs as though having a good laugh. The granite and marble teeth grinned at me like a Chesire cat, mocking and hissing, “Mortal, mortal, mortal.” The old cemetery was teaching another lesson.
Brad: I enjoy reading your blogs … they are always interesting.
Sheryl