My family does not have a well-established tradition
when it comes to cemeteries. This differs from my wife’s side of the family –
Japanese are really into the honoring of ancestors – they have traditions squared
when it comes to the departed.
I have two family-related cemetery memories. Years
ago my sister Carol shared with me a shocking photograph of our Grandmother
Burr (my mom’s mother). My memory of my
grandmother was of a very proper ancient woman whose hair was permanently configured
into a grey bun. She was
grandmother-friendly, but she had been a schoolteacher for about seventy years
and even as a little boy I knew she was a serious person.
The photograph my sister showed me was of a
teenage girl, with flowing dark hair smiling provocatively as she leaned
against the Burr family gravestone. Carol claimed that was our grandmother at
sixteen. I had my doubts, but it was a
really cool photo.
My other memory is from when I attended the funeral of my
Aunt Beulah a few years ago. When they
had buried her husband Walter in 1956 in the family plot, they must have
decided they could save some money by adding Beulah’s name to the gravestone,
giving her birth date and then her death as 19_ _. But Beulah lived well into the 21st
century and we all had a good laugh at that cost saving measure.
I am in Skaneateles for the week – we flew out here
to attend my 45th high school reunion and to visit my mom. The bed
and breakfast where we are staying on this trip is just a couple blocks from the
cemetery where my dad is buried. I had
not been to the gravesite since the funeral, but with typical male confidence I
was certain I could find his grave.
The cemetery was larger than I remembered and it turns out that a lot of gravestones look alike. I had to admit to myself that I wasn’t
even sure what year my dad died. Some days it feels like he has been gone just
a year or two and other times it seems much longer. My guess was five years and I
started walking through a section where most of the deaths were in the 2006 to
2008 range.
I finally decided this was one of those situations where it
was okay to ask for directions so I called my sister Kendra who lives in town.
She didn’t answer. I hung up the phone and started to walk down the hill and
out of the cemetery when I spotted Dad’s monument.
My dad had a good life – grew up on a farm, serve
his country as a pilot in World War II, had a good marriage, raised four
remarkable children. He always told me he wanted to live his three score and
ten so he exceeded his own goal by twenty one years.
According to his gravestone Dad died on October 5,
2008 – six years and one day ago. If I had visited yesterday it would have made
for a better story. But I’m glad I visited today. This was a perfect fall day: bright blue sky, the air cool, but the sun
warm, the leaves still on the trees, and just starting to turn orange and red
and yellow.
It was the kind of day that
makes you glad to be alive.
