Me and a friend stopped by the family cemetery the other day. It is easy to cover the distance required. Once there, depending on which way you enter to park, it is one hundred and three feet to reach our destination. This is according to Google Earth. My friend’s path was shorter, since her door opened closest to the step. That was by design. A simple and generally unnoticeable gesture but the company of another was deeply appreciated on this day. It was the least I could do even though I would have done the same most days. Though readily and easily covered, few I know would have agreed, much less offered, to traverse the few steps and slight grade of the path required, particularly for reasons neither of us were sure of.
My initial desire to make this trip was one of curiosity. I am not sure where this curiosity was supposed to lead. I am sure she knew not what to expect; she just offered to go. It was a beautiful day and with the midafternoon time, we were ensured that Granny’s and Rob’s arguing would not intrude. My confidence in this was because these tit for tat episodes had only previously occurred under the cover of darkness. No one truly deserved to become part of those episodes, in particular Granny, but it is what it was.
In earlier times, when the kids were young, I have more than once either stopped or slowed my vehicle, and with windows down, I would enquire of the kids if they could hear the arguing. I would demand silence and once this was achieved, it was immediately broken by the laughter of us all. In reflection now, I think the kids probably heard the arguing. Not in real time mind you but more as an echo from a time before. Those were fun times.
Some would say these actions were disrespectful. I would counter that they were celebratory. How do you get to know someone you will never meet? It surely is not from a marker on the ground. These bending of the imaginations would have been in 1991, Holley would have been six and Adam four, and their first introduction to someone they would never know was from the rear seat of a Honda Accord. Of all the lessons and stories I have shared with them since about Granny or Rob, those early moments set the tone. Hook em with a good opening and you have a good chance to keep em for the remaining, or so I have always been told. Yet, neither Granny nor Rob are rarely discussed anymore.
This may have been my last trip there. Who knows? I cannot predict the future fate of others, but I have made it abundantly clear that I do not want to become food for worms. I will not be subjected to the bickering for an eternity. Instead I want to go out with a “bang and not a whimper”. Of this quote, I am not sure whether to credit T.S Elliot or The Big Chill. Elliot said it one way, the movie the other. Regardless, the aim is clear, and my plan is simple. I want to be cremated and once done, the biggest firework that is legally and affordably available would need to be purchased. With both my ashes and firework in hand, a date will be set and sometime after night fall, I want to be strapped to that rocket and have it explode over the skies of The Burg, in the process spreading my ashes as far as physics will allow. Going out with a bang and not a whimper.
This concept is simple. No muss or fuss. No markers that relay anything but spans of time. No hideous and awkward containers full of ashes left behind. It will be at night of course and will be scheduled based on the wants of others. It can be immediate or later. Either way it must be done. There will be song and drink and food, and a good time will be had by all.
The current song for the actual launch is Won’t Get Fooled Again by The Who. There is an obvious moment in that song when the fuse needs to be lit. Timing will be everything.For years I wanted a simple service where the entirety was nothing but a playing of Leonard Bernstein’s conducting the New York Philharmonic in a cover of Appalachian Spring. Twenty-four minutes and twenty-four seconds of nothing but silent reflections of one’s own choosing, accompanied by my favorite piece of music. Ahh, but that was before I thought of the firework thingy. Things have changed dramatically since and now, with this tangent out of the way, I am hoping this writing will begin to seam into where I hope to go with it. At this time, writing as I am, I cannot be sure.
Me and my travel mate made it to headstones. These were hard to read because of the grime. Only one of the several markers do I know the beginning and ending dates with certainty. The others? I am not as sure in an instants recall, but with thought and calculation I could probably get close. I suppose that speaks ill of me in a way but if I cared I would have easily memorized the others by now. Besides, the markers only provide the years noting birth and death. Even back then no thought was given to going the extra step. A birth date is pretty basic stuff. Maybe my reason for not remembering mirror those that were made back when? If it was not important then, is it important now?
My friend remarked as to the conditions of the markers; marking with words of her own that her view of such things were obviously, much different than mine. Drawing a line of sorts as these things go. The look in her eyes as she said this provided me a momentary pause as they reinforced with conviction and certainty that it was her belief that this was a damning affront to their memory. I could not in all truthfulness agree but I dared not disagree.
Anyway, time passed quick. Too quick perhaps because we were there for much longer than I anticipated. When the setting is right, the weather wonderful and there is a lot of engaged conversation and laughter, time moving rapidly becomes the norm. I have always maintained that if you want to write an interesting play, simply record interactions during moments of extremes, involving family or friends, and then put it to paper. Seeing “Whatever Happened to Virginia Woolf” at a young age shaped this opinion of mine. Real life imitating art? I just wish I had carried a recorder on this day. This was an extremely happy day.
Unless I am offering guidance, I rarely tell a story or relive a memory that is not meant to provide levity. I do not think this is a defensive deflection, as other have often noted. Instead, I think it is the laughter I seek, even though in my continuing moments of confession, I believe both are probably true. Regardless, I just enjoy laughing as much as I can and moments like today open the flood gates to explore and share more than one lifetime of memories and all of the good that is found in recalling both the best and worst of times.
With the right company and even with perfect strangers often, I am not at all bashful about talking about anything that will provide the impetus for engaged interaction. Her presence distracted me from the curiosity which first compelled me to visit this spot and not fulfilling this curiosity, has naturally led this story in a direction of her making. I would not have written this had I gone alone.
Tonight, because of her, I am fixated on the markers that serve as reminder to remember. Do we blame the grime? In my time I have seen all sorts of these markers. Massive statues, pile of rocks, simple headstones providing name and date or temporary markers that, through the trials of time, have become permanent. The last is my least favorite as they seemingly show an indifference, change of heart or even worse, a forgetting, yet serve the purpose they do.
In my time I have also come across a couple of “grave houses”. I am not sure if this is a proper term, but it describes exactly what they are: A little house looking structure built over a grave. The first one I encountered, and the only one I will ever enter, was on a ridge high on the mountain and as I recall, was not chosen for the view. There was a reason for the choosing of this spot that I will never come to know.
I cannot imagine the labor it took to develop this grave. Located on a ridge, there would have been much rock encountered and with no machinery, a lot of hard work and effort would have been spent, driven, I like to believe, by a form of respect and appreciation. Some may call this love, but I prefer the former. The house was a simple rectangular structure, not more than two feet high. The little door would not accommodate many but once inside, the single, paned window, provided ample light. There was room for one.
Inside there were plastic flowers, photos, writings, personal items, burned candles and a pillow. It was eerie and I felt extremely uncomfortable; trespassing as I was and violating the privacy of more than one. I did not stay long and made sure my trespassing to go unnoticed. I was extremely careful of this. The few items I did look at provided me more than just a glimpse into a life; it provided an understanding far beyond that of what simple dates on a slab of concrete can and, as much as markers attempt to memorialize, few have done so as completely as this tiny house and the contents contained therein.
Not only did I learn of the lady on who I was probably laying, I also got a glimpse into the impact on someone left behind. Maybe more than one someone. This was not an easy spot to reach even if driven by a desire to do so. It was far removed from any houses that I was aware of and it was long trek, regardless of direction. My work at the time required me to pass this spot; my curiosity invited me in. Undoubtably, with much objection had it been known.
Though the forest had grown around it, the structure was well kept; unlike the markers of this day’s journey that is producing this writing now. There will be no confusion with my “marker” as you will either see it or you don’t. Some that do witness will not even know it as such. But what about the others yet to be marked? Particularly those whose memories are soon to be lost to time, marker or no. This has been the case for countless others and for many others yet to come, remains inevitable.
I shared a thought with my friend: Given that you can get tombstones engraved with most anything or for that matter with complete writings, why not go the extra mile? Of course, this would be expensive, and I suspect most often the determining factor in why more is not done. No doubt tradition created from habit comes into play as well but even the evilest among us had someone that loved them and most have markers.
On the other hand, a weatherproof box, filled with personal recollections, written or otherwise, would provide a basis of familiarity for all that would stumble upon a site, whether by purpose or accident. This would be easy on the purse and would speak louder than just names and dates. Contents could be added to or replenished as needed. A gesture akin to mowing the grass every year ahead of Memorial Day. Either would be far more inviting than crawling into a makeshift tomb where you were not welcomed, though neither perhaps would tell as much of a story. An engineered solution to something I had never thought about until today.
However, my companion on this day was not an engineer and her solution was more to the point. She agreed to the formality of what I proposed but in addition offered that the easiest way to remember is not to forget. Memories are only temporary, and they become varied over time and with person. It is far better to engage with another, to share the realness and impact of the memories kept, via deed and action. It may take the form of a reminder placed so that memories are sparked upon sight and given proper company, passed on, or it could be something as spontaneous as a heartfelt playfulness during a moment in a Honda.
So, capture every moment as best you can. Take these moments and plant them in a manner of which they will be assured to grow, if so you choose. A life will speak for itself unless everyone left behind fails to remember.
Feel the Burg 