Cemetery People

“Hey, my man. Is everything alright?”

“Things are good, I’m just checking in on the Chairman of the Board.”

“I’m feeling ok, best in months. I even drove myself out here.”

I could tell he was outdoors. The wind was blowing on his end. “Are you down the shore, Ron?” He took a few seconds. “No, Holy Cross Cemetery. I was just running some ideas by Michael.”

Michael was Ron’s first-born son. A smart kid with a big job in state government, he fought depression all his life, finally losing the battle a month before his wedding. Ron never got over it, how could he.

“I get it, Brother Ron, my family are cemetery people. My father always insisted on fresh flowers never plastic. I visit two, three times a year, I give my parents a state of the family. I talk to them like you are doing with Mikey. It’s cool, therapeutic even. There’s a quiet beauty there, so pristine, nice and orderly. I feel good when I leave.”

“Me, too. Some people think it’s strange, but I know he hears me. I wish to God I could hear him.”

To Cemetery or Not to Cemetery

Either you are, or you aren’t cemetery people. There’s no middle ground. The term ‘cemetery’ is derived from a Greek word meaning ‘sleeping place’. The implication being that there will be an awakening, unless, of course, you are of the ‘eternal sleep’ persuasion or an advocate for the ‘dead as a doornail’ school of thought.

Since medieval times in Christian Europe, churchyards had been used as burial sites, and the practice extended to the colonial Americas. In the 18th century, planned public gardens become popular in the States as cemeteries studded with gilded statues, mausoleums and headstones as final testimony to one’s wealth and status.

With the advent of the industrial revolution, followed by the mass immigration to the U.S. in the late 1800s, cemeteries began attracting the middle and lower classes, who visited on birthdays, anniversaries, and holidays. Families planned all-day outings. My own mother told of going to picnics at Holy Cross as a child in the 1920s.

Holy Cross is a Roman Catholic Cemetery outside of Philadelphia. Established in 1890, it occupies 225 acres and serves as the final resting place for hundreds of thousands of souls.

Watermelon

Allow me to introduce the following snippet in deference to the other side. Jane, my best friend and far smarter half does not come from cemetery people. On the first anniversary of her father’s death, together with her mother and two sisters, they ventured to Holy Cross Cemetery. Visiting a grave for visiting sake was obviously foreign to the sisters who had previously only gone to cemeteries for funerals.

“We forgot to bring something,” says their mother looking at her husband’s headstone.

“Why bring anything?” Asks Elaine, the oldest sister.

“It’s a sign of respect, we should’ve brought flowers.”

“Daddy didn’t like flowers,” says Eileen, the youngest sister.

 The four of them stood in deadly silence. “We could’ve gotten daddy a watermelon. He liked watermelon,” says Eileen.

The funny thing is, Eileen was not trying to be funny. Her heartfelt suggestion to get a watermelon for her daddy’s grave was sweet, and certainly, casts a unique spin on cemetery picnics as well as my father’s preference for fresh never plastic. The story is family legend.

This cemetery tale ends the only way it could. My good friend Ron,who I spoke of earlier, died in his sleep a month after our conversation. Now he and his son rest side by side. I never spoke to Ron again until Christmas when I visited his grave. He’s now on my regular rounds.