Me and the graveyard ghost
Easy Does It
Usually it’s a long time before this sentimental chore is done, a labor of love and remembrance when all the family is together. Many people do it around a holiday, the trip to the cemetery to place flowers on the family grave.
Laden with plants and flowers, I made the journey to Crosswicks Cemetery solo. My wife had an appointment she couldn’t skip so I ran with the ball. Make that flower pots. And plants, carefully placed in the car’s trunk.
My bonus was seeing a ghost. One cemetery, one ghost. Get it?
Taking flowers to the cemetery is the easy part, accomplished quickly if you leave out the sentimentality part. The real goodbyes were all said years ago at the funeral, this time it’s in and out.
All I was doing, really, was returning to the same cemetery where I knew someday I would have a much longer visit. Try eternity. But I’d be again with the people I loved.
No, it’s not really a bad place to be. I’d get personal service. You might say the personal touch. The graves are still dug by hand in this old country graveyard.
It’s a calm, quiet, rural place, made even more peaceful by ageless shade trees reaching for the sky. A sprinkler swings this way, then that, a distinct clicking sound, and an oriole chirps from a sturdy oak tree branch, then another bird answers its call.
It’s hard to think of anything going wrong, like getting a visitor I didn’t hear coming.
In the trunk of the car parked just off the sandy country road were a few flower pots filled with brightly blooming plants and flowers. Enough to go around, I even counted to make sure before leaving home.
A simple trowel and a watering can, nothing spilled or forgotten. I was ready to rock. And roll. The memories flooded back. My grandparents Joe and Florence, and parents Will and Isabel.
And nearby the small grave of the fiveyear-old girl who every day waited by the side of the two-lane dirt country road for the mailman because he would hand her the bundle of letters and ads. But there was that day when an impatient driver of a car slowing behind the stopped mail truck suddenly gunned the motor and raced blindly around the mail truck.
After carrying the potted flowers from the car, I dug small round holes in the rich earth and planted them next to the stone marker.
I stood up, my joints creaking, and paused to read the other grave markers, many dating from the 1800s, spread across the expanse of smooth green grass.
“You gotta admit that’s some view,” interrupted a voice from behind me, adding, “been here a long time and ain’t seen anything anywhere more beautiful.”
I remember my reply from some movie I’d seen. “You talkin’ to me?”
Turning around, I was surprised by my visitor who was too close to me. The elderly man was dressed in a neat dark suit, plain wide gray necktie, and black shoes.
“You are much too early for my funeral, but howdy anyway,” he said in a voice that sounded tired.
Then he reminded me in an afterthought, “My graveside service is at two, and it’s only one-fifteen now. If I may say, more people should visit and respect the dead as you are doing. That would please me greatly.”
I found my voice, replied nervously, “Thank you. I try. Do you live around here?” I felt I made a mistake. Should I have said, “died around here?”
“Well, getting late,” he answered. “The guests to my funeral are due anytime now, and I must welcome them.”
As he turned to leave, I saw the funeral home’s name stitched on the back of his suit coat. He was in charge of planning this funeral. Somebody else’s. I must make a note to return someday. It’s been fun.