Living Next to Cemeteries

When I was in my growing up phase of life (read: still living with my parents) I lived in a nice two-story house in a rather nice neighborhood in a rather nice small town. The problem is that this town I lived in had cemeteries. In fact...

...I lived next door to a cemetery. The cemetery was old and me and my brothers used to play in it from time to time. Who wouldn't? It was a war dead cemetery in part and so I would also spend time there reading the names on the headstones and marvelling at the dates, ages of the people when they died, and the names of the people who were buried under the earth in that place. The following is from the hometown webpage:

Pioneer Boatman Memorial Cemetery was begun in the late 1700's and was dedicated in 1976 to Barnerd Boatman, a Revolutionary War soldier, who served with General George Washington. It was formerly known as "The Old Cemetery, Quaker Cemetery, Old East Palestine Cemetery or The Presbyterian Cemetery". It had been abandoned for many years when Barnerd Boatman's grave was found. Boatman Cemetery was once the grave yard of the first church of East Palestine, "The Calvanistic Meeting House." In 1838-1839 that was probably the only beauty spot in the hamlet with it's new frame church. There were many graves in the area, unfortunately many unmarked.

There are about 194 known burials in the cemetery which are listed on one side of a permanent memorial marker. On the other side are names of 21 veterans of 4 wars, Revolutionary War, War of 1812, Mexican and Civil Wars. Burial records have not been found…The earliest marked grave is that of Robert Scott Hamilton, 1836. By 1881 the cemetery was completely filled.

When I was a kid, I had no idea the place was so special. To me it was a place to be afraid of after I saw ‘Night of the Living Dead,’ or a place to play ‘ghost in the graveyard’ with neighborhood kids, or a shortcut on the way to the park. When I was a kid, no one cared about it at all. It sat behind a small manufacturing company building and was ignored by all but me and my brothers and some of the neighborhood kids. We were never vandals and in fact many times took it upon ourselves to stand up fallen headstones.

* * * *

I don’t live in that small town any longer. I’m no longer a child either. I have my own family and my own town and we are in the process of creating our own memories. We do not live next door to a cemetery. There’s no ‘ghost in the graveyard’ or fear of zombies coming after us and devouring our flesh. It’s relatively calm. That does not mean that I have escaped cemeteries though.

If I look out my front window I can see a cemetery. It’s too far away for ‘ghost in the graveyard’ but if zombies ever did become real it would only be a matter of minutes before they discovered our house and came a knocking. Still, we might have enough time to get into the van and drive off before they actually realized there was fresh meat in our direction. Hopefully, the wind would blow the opposite direction if that happens.

So, I’ve moved a little further away from the cemetery, the ‘necropolis’, but I can still see it. It’s in my line of sight every time I pull out of my driveway or look out my front window. It’s a constant reminder, a sort of living prophecy, a harbinger, constantly reminding me of something I'd rather forget: my childhood or my end. I cannot tell which one. I don’t necessarily fear the cemetery. Still, I’ve only ever noticed that no one there complains—at least in my hearing they don’t. Plus, someone else always takes care of the grass and there is a stone with everyone’s name etched into it. A cemetery is not all that bad of a place to be. I hope someday for a place with a view.

* * * *

I can say this much is true: The older I have gotten, the further away from the cemetery I have moved. I’m happy that I now live next door to a church building instead of a cemetery. I’m glad that I don’t have to live in fear of cemeteries and zombies or of other children hiding behind a headstone waiting to shout ‘boo’ when I walk by. I think I can fairly say that cemeteries are now, sort of, merely plots of land with nicely decorated stones pocking the land. Cemeteries have a pleasing, calming, serene feeling about them. As I said, no one there complains.

One of my goals as I age is to move further and further away from cemeteries. I’d like to live in a town where there are no cemeteries at all. I’d like to live in a town with no funeral homes either. I suppose there is not really all that much I can do about that though. There are no towns where people do not die. Honestly, I am not interested in living in a cemetery any more than I am interested in living next to one. I do not want to be chased by zombies, but worse, I do not want to be a zombie. It is rather ironic that my work sometimes requires me to commit people to the very place where I do not want to be at myself.

For now I will have to be content to live in such a place where, at least, the cemetery is off in the distance just within the limits of my distance vision. If I take off my glasses I cannot see it at all, but, you know, I cannot go through life blind either. So until I am willing to let go of my vision I will live in a land where cemeteries are very real, very seen, and very close.

* * * *

"When he had said this, Jesus called in a loud voice, ‘Lazarus, come out!’ The dead man came out, his hands and feet wrapped with strips of linen, and a cloth around his face. Jesus said to them, ‘Take off the grave clothes and let him go.’" (John 11:43-44)

I suspect that, when it is all said and done, the grave will wear out before I will. That's the hope I'm clinging to.

(Photos & excerpt are from the hometown webpage: http://www.eastpalestineohio.org/)

DG

Throwing Away Gifts

I went to the Half-Price bookstore today. It is one of my most favorite places to go. I cannot always buy a new book, or a used book, but sometimes going there and perusing the shelves just looking for a new or used book is enough. For me walking through the bookstore is like walking through the woods. Taking a book off the shelf and turning its new or old pages is like turning over a rock—finding a sentence worth remembering is like finding a salamander or a snake. I love going up and down the rows and rows of books neatly shelved, alphabetically, and lined like a platoon of soldiers at the edge of the shelf as opposed to being pushed back against the back of the case. I prefer the nice neat, smooth line of book covers rising and falling vertically as opposed to a jagged line of books rising and falling horizontally.

One book stood out on the shelves today and I scooped it up with all the enthusiasm of a 10 year old scooping up a salamander from under a rock beside a stream. It’s a book, surprisingly, that I did not even know existed. It’s the sequel to a book titled Fearfully and Wonderfully Made by Paul Brand and Philip Yancey. The book is titled In His Image. Currently, the prequel I own is on loan to a friend. It will be nice to have the set and I’m rather anxious to read this new volume I purchased for a mere $7.98. But there was something bittersweet about the purchase. Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad to have the book, in fairly good condition, and at a fraction of the price of a pristine copy. I’m not at all above or below adopting a book that has been ‘put up’ (as in, ‘put up on a shelf’) for adoption. I’m glad I can provide it with a home where it will be well cared for, where it will enjoy adequate ventilation in a temperature controlled environment, and where, every now and again, it will be taken out for a walk and have its ‘dog-ears’ scratched. Still there was something that made me sad about purchasing the book.

Inside the front cover were written these words: With Love from Mrs. O****, June 11, 1995. What this means is that someone was given this book as a gift, with love!, and that they, less than 12 years after receiving the gift, gave it away—even at a small price—to the Half-Price Bookstore—where it would sit neatly on a shelf (a bottom shelf) until someone happened to notice it. I’m thrilled to be the proud new owner, but I can’t help but wonder what precipitated the desire to give the book up for adoption. Were they short on cash? Were they no longer interested in the subject matter? Did it take up unnecessary space on a shelf? Did they get a new copy of the book? Did they have a falling out with the person who gave them the gift in the first place? Did the person who owned it die and leave it as a part of an estate that was sold by someone who didn’t like to read? Just why did this book end up on an anonymous shelf, with other anonymous books that this book has never met or shared space with before, where someone can come along, buy it, and take it home? How could someone receive a gift and so callously throw it away? How can a gift be so meaningless, so cheap, so easily let go of? There are a lot of reasons to get rid of gifts. I’m not sure I understand any of them.

I’m rather the opposite when I receive gifts. I have gifts that I have received more than 12 years ago. I cling to them—and, when appropriate, I use them with enthusiasm, and I cherish them with delight. That someone would think so highly of me as to give me a gift and what’s more, the gift of a book! I have never received a gift-book that I have not used (or at least read) or that I have decided to give away later. I even have a book from some folks that did not like me, nor I particularly they, that I will not part with (and they signed it too!). Furthermore, when it comes to gift-books, I’m more than willing to look them straight in the mouth! That’s just me though.

I suppose everyone is different. Everyone has reasons for holding on to gifts and reasons for discarding them. If you happen to read this and realize that I am writing about your copy of In His Image, the one that was a gift from Mrs. O**** on June 11, 1995, would you please leave a note and let me know why you parted with it? I will be more than happy to return it to you if you want it, if you had to sell it for money reasons, or if it was accidentally sold by someone you did not authorize to sell it. Just let me know. If you don’t want it back please know that I will give this book a great home with a view. I will walk it, talk it to it, listen to it, and scratch it dog-ears. We will be best friends.