Cemeteries

I’m not sure what this says about me, but I love cemeteries. I don’t like new, tidy ones. Cemeteries with too many rules and uniformity don’t interest me. I prefer old, dilapidated cemeteries with overgrown landscaping and half-buried headstones. I like it when families or the passage of time has put their stamp on the place. I walk around, read headstones, do math. I look for trends, ethnicities, unusual names. It’s an interesting puzzle, and a narrative forms in my head of these people I’ve never known. Their deaths make me wonder about their lives. Some of them so clearly loved by evidence of their elaborate graves.

Colonial cemeteries are among my favorites. If you follow the Freedom Trail through the streets of Boston, you’ll come across King’s Chapel Burying Ground. It’s the oldest in the city dating back to 1630. Mary Chilton, a passenger on the Mayflower, is among the buried. Another cemetery on the trail is Granary Burial Ground. Founding fathers like San Adams and John Hancock are buried here alongside Paul Revere and victims of the Boston Massacre.

Philadelphia, likewise, has its share of colonial-era cemeteries. Its most famous “resident” is Ben Franklin. People like to toss pennies onto his grave. “A penny saved, is a penny earned.” Apparently, tens of thousands of pennies are tossed every year which contributed to a significant crack. But restoration was completed a few years ago with the help of donations made by the public, the Philadelphia Eagles, and Jon Bon Jovi.

But my favorite cemetery in Philadelphia is Old Pine Street Church. I discovered this place while walking back from a deli. This cemetery dates back to 1764, and among others, hundreds of Revolutionary War soldiers are interred here. The grounds surround a church, and the setting is so idyllic, it looks like a Hollywood movie set. In fact, it was used in the filming of National Treasure starring Nicholas Cage. I discovered that bit of history later. At the time, I just thought it was a lovely spot to sit and eat my deli sandwich.

And on a layover in Charleston, I discovered this cemetery.

It looked like a cemetery inside of a secret garden. It was full of wildflowers, untamed shrubs, and Butterflies! I have never seen a garden with such a concentration of butterflies. It was like magic. I felt as though cavorting souls were gracing me with their presence. 

I’m also drawn to ghost town cemeteries, particularly in California’s former gold rush towns of Bodie and Columbia. 

Arguably, the most beautiful cemeteries are the above-ground cemeteries of Paris and New Orleans. Both share a similar aesthetic which is not surprising since New Orleans has French lineage. However, in Paris, the cemeteries are landscaped and park-like. Whereas the cemeteries in New Orleans are crowded and weathered. Family crypts fill New Orleans graveyards. And to me, the practice of burying generations of family members together is beautiful.   

But, of course, Paris has the most breathtaking tombs.

Even the insides of the Parisian tombs are artistic.

There are a few “newer” cemeteries that I admire. One is in San Juan Bautista, California, and the other is in my hometown of Pearsall, Texas. Both are colorful, unruly, and mostly Mexican. I love the coffee cans filled with faded plastic flowers. I love the garden statues standing witness. I love the chairs and benches haphazardly placed by the living for visiting with the dead. I don’t have to reach far back into history in these cemeteries to imagine the lives lost. Because in these cemeteries, their stories aren’t lost. They’re still being told because the loss is recent and still deeply felt. Grief and sorrow are present, but so is celebration and a sense of connection. It may sound strange, but there’s life in these two cemeteries.      

And in one of them, there’s family.

Funeral: a recorded memory for my children

There is a formula for funerals in my small southern town. Maybe the formula is different for Baptists. Maybe it’s different for the Anglos. But for the grieving Catholic Mexicans, there are no surprises.

My brother and I step off the airplane into a hot, sticky Texas night. Normally, I feel comforted by the humidity. Like I’m greeting an old friend, and he’s wrapping me up in a warm embrace. But tonight, it feels oppressive and heavy. We are here for a funeral. We were just here a few months ago for a funeral. Welcome home.

Three months ago, we held services for my father, and now we’re back burying my grandmother. Guadalupe Serrano Elizondo wasn’t at the last funeral. She wasn’t told that her eldest son, Julio, had died. But I think she knew. A mom must know those things. Besides, he was a faithful visitor. So, we’re back to repeat the formula, making it feel like deja vu, making it feel like I just lost my father all over again.

We drive an hour and a half toward the Mexican border, mostly in stunned silence. We are hardly ever together anymore, just the three of us. Even though the mood is somber, I can feel intense energy. The love is hanging thick inside of the car. But we don’t talk like that in our family. We’re all business. Michael asks what we should do with Dad’s ashes. Scott and I say that we thought it would be nice to scatter them at the farm. Michael points out that now that Grandma has died, the farm may be sold. 

A rickety old sign under a giant peanut welcomes travelers to Pearsall: “The Peanut Capital of the World.” My father was a farmer like his father, growing potatoes, watermelon, and peanuts. They say smells and tastes can hold powerful memories. They do. A raw peanut can stir up a lot of emotion in me. To me, they taste like clay, minerals, hard work, and history. 

Farming hasn’t been a booming industry for the small farmer for a long time, and “downtown” Pearsall looks like something out of the dustbowl. The stores are mostly closed, the buildings empty, and the street deserted. A perfect backdrop for a funeral. 

We arrive at the funeral hall for the rosary. My aunts and uncles are sitting in the first two rows: Estella, Diamantina, Alamar, Alicia, Maria, Maria Nieves, Desiderio, and Eddy. My uncle Juan is missing. My dad’s funeral was too hard on him, and he can’t bear to repeat the funeral formula. I understand.

But I don’t mind repeating the rosary. I love the tradition and the rhythm. “Hail Mary full of grace the Lord is with thee. Blessed are thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death. Amen. Hail Mary full of grace, the Lord is with thee…”  

Over and over, the chanting is like a balm. It deeply comforts me, and I feel peace.

After an hour of chanting, we file out. Most of us, but someone must be chosen to stay overnight because the dead can’t be left alone. Exhausted, we head for our beds because the mass and the burial are in the morning. I don’t remember who said it because I think we were all thinking it, but one of us suggested we bury Dad’s ashes with Grandma. Scott, Michael, and I really like the idea. But first, we have to get approval from my grandma’s nine surviving children.  

Turns out, the love for their brother is just as thick. My aunts and uncles all agree to bury their eldest brother with their mother. I feel overwhelmed by their generosity. 

The following day, Scott, Michael, and I drive out to the family farm, the farm my father was born on, and the land my father worked on his entire life. My brothers gather up a bucket of red dirt so we can mix Dad’s ashes with it. Full circle, ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Born out of the earth and returned to it. 

We race over to the burial site trying to outrun an on-coming storm. The clouds are gathering, but we’re one step ahead. As we lay the ash and dirt mixture over Grandma’s grave, the rain starts to gently fall. Big giant Texas-size raindrops. We work quickly as the rain turns heavy. We say one more quick goodbye to Dad and Grandma and drive back in the pouring rain to my aunt Alamar’s house.

Just as we walk through the door, the rain stops, the sun breaks through the clouds, and the birds break into song. The chorus of birds singing is so loud and layered it draws my attention to the window. There, looking up into the sky, I see the only double rainbow I have ever seen in my life, and I know it’s them. They’re together. And they approve.