Monday - Resthaven, revisited
Nov. 6th, 2006 03:56 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ninanevermoreToday on my drive into work, I was thinking about my visit to Resthaven Cemetery on this day last month, to visit my mother's grave. I hadn't been in almost 2 years, so it was about time. I missed Mother's Day, and I missed her birthday, so her Death Day was the next opportunity to bring her flowers. While I was there, I decided to look at some of the graves I talked about the last time I wrote about the cemetery, and take some pictures to document them.
First, that day, I had to buy flowers. Live flowers in a cemetery are rare these days, unless the funeral was recent. To honor those who are no longer alive, most people bring flowers that were never alive. They withstand the elements better and are not subject to the seasons; whenever I drive by a cemetery, even in the bleakest part of winter, it always looks like spingtime among the graves. I was no different; as seldom as I make this trip, these flowers needed to last.
I always buy my mother whatever suitable flowers are on sale. She admired thrift, and would appreciate this rather than considering it cheap. It's hard to explain to people who did not know her. She would feel offended it I spent a lot of money on flowers when an equally nice arrangement was available in the same store for 50% off.
I had trouble lifting the bronze vase on her marker from it's upside down position in the earth for when it's not in use. Mud had filled the space meant to hold it in the time I'd been away. I only spend a few minutes at her grave. I tossed an I miss you on top of all of the 22 years worth of I miss yous that lay in a pile over her grave. I even walked through them, so I could clean off her marker with my fingers and remove the dirt and mowed grass that clung to it. The I miss yous are like piles of autumn leaves on top the graves. You can walk through a mound of them without noticing, causing them to fly up and then settle back down in your wake, always back atop the grave they belong on.
Then I took my camera to find the other graves I wrote about before. I couldn't find "Pandora, murdered by unknown assailants." I hope that the stone is being reworked and that she has finally found justice, but I doubt it. More likely, I mis-remembered where she lies. I also couldn't find The Little Cowboy or the Magician, though I'm certain they are close together and if I'd found one I would have found the other. Two years is a long time away to remember the exact layout of a place as big and as crowded as Resthaven.
I did find a lot of them, though, and rediscovered some I'd forgotten.
* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ # ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *
The Lovers
The lovers are next to Babyland, where they have lain next to each other for two decades. Shortly after I learned about their story, I saw a program on my local PBS station that interviewed their killer, now serving a life sentence. He told the story casually, with as much emotion as you might use to describe about a trip to the grocery store. He owed David Lopez $200 for marijuana he'd purchased but didn't want to pay for. He planned ahead of time to kill David when he showed up for his money. He didn't know David's girl was waiting in the car, watching the whole thing, until he heard her scream. He shot her becuase he didn't feel he had an option, considering what she'd witnessed.
I'd forgotten about the rosaries engraved above each name. They were two Catholic kids from a bad part of town, shot by another Catholic kid they'd know all of their lives. The girl who told me about them grew up in their neighborhood. She said that Raynell Muskwinsky's mother still says rosaries for her all the time, but that David's family never even mention his name.
* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ # ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *
Babyland
Somehow documenting Babyland made it possible for me to visit it again without feeling sick. I could distance myself from it by standing behind my camera. The graves are small and close together, and the flowers, toys and balloon on them make it looked even more crowded. The toys make you want to cry. I trip over identical toys in my own living room at home. Without the toys, it's easy to forget that there are children in these graves.
I had to look at dozens of them searching for the one I always seek out. At last, I found The Golden Child.
with her poem by Robert Frost.
I have never seen flowers on this grave. The little flower next to her picture fell off of a grave next to her own, and I tucked it into her frame just so she could have a little something to show off. I get the feeling this little girl was so sick for so long that her parents may have begun their grieving process long before she came to rest here. The white spot you see on her neck is not a flaw in the photo or a reflection of my flash; it is a tube in her neck where she had a tracheotomy. Then again, flowers on her grave would be redundant. The lines to the poem are the flowers that her parents gave her, and they never have to be replaced. They will stay beautiful forever.
I also discovered a new grave that I found poignant, that of The Three Sisters.
They are new since I last visited. Someone had left a single Barbie doll for them all to share. I wish I knew the rest of the story. All I can tell is that on March 14, 2005, the world came unraveled for the Page family, and my heart aches for them.
Maybe it's not normal to study the markers like I do, but I can't not look at them. Someone needs to, and when I walk among them I am usually alone, so the task falls to me. Someone needs to stop and admire at the photos, to ooh and ah over these pretty babies,
to look at their artwork,
and at all the angels and lambs and Barney the Dinosaurs that decorate their markers.
Someone needs to feel sad for the rain soaked teddy bears and blow on the pinwheels to make them spin.
I don't think it's morbid; I think it's necessary. Grief is the price of love, and these families have paid dearly. Someone needs to acknowledge their children, and when I walk through graveyards I try to do just that.
* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ # ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *
Tokens of Grief
I always look at the tokens and gifts that people leave here. Sometimes, they tell you something about the departed, like the baseball left on this grave:
Sometimes they are simple, like the carnations covering this grave from the top of the stone to the foot of the grave, or the flag on the grave next to it.
Sometimes they are extravagant, if only in the sheer number of them, like those of the grave of this young woman:
Often, the tokens tell you more about the mourner than the person being mourned. The dead feel no pain, but they remind you that a living soul is in anguish, or that they are coping, or sometimes that they are finally getting used to the flavor of bittersweetness that has permeated their lives.
* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ # ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *
Diversity
Another thing that struck me was how diverse the population of this City of the Dead was, which reflects the diversity of the city around it. People of different races, socioeconomic class, and stations in life all rest together in peace.
Large parts of the cemetery are Catholic, many of them Vietnamese:
If you walk through the Catholic Vietnamese section on a Sunday, sticks of incense burn on many of the graves. When the weather is pleasant, the effect is that you find yourself feeling meditative despite yourself.
There are plenty of other religions, here, too, though.
The faiths are different, but I suspect the grief they left behind is pretty much the same. It's a uniting factor shared by humanity.
* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ # ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *
The Sweethearts
At last, as I walked back toward my car, I noticed one last marker just to the north of Babyland. I'd forgotten about this grave, but every time I see I think that it's my favorite one here. It's different in that it's neither tragic or poignant. In fact, it's empty.
The future occupants paid for this so it will be ready when the time comes. They are old, and they want to be remembered as they were in their prime, as they were when they met. He, as a soldier fighting in the Pacific theater during World War II, and her with her curls pinned back and dressed to the nines in all the taylored splendor of 1940's fashion. He declares his love for her on her stone, so that no one walking by will ever forget it.
A cemetery is like a library filled with the back covers of books, leaving you to guess at the story that came before them. Any story that ends in a death is interesting, almost by definition. A lot of them are tragic, but this grave gives me hope. It tells me that sometimes, while the story may be over, it was happy and fulfilling - a long read that was time well spent.
* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ # ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *
First, that day, I had to buy flowers. Live flowers in a cemetery are rare these days, unless the funeral was recent. To honor those who are no longer alive, most people bring flowers that were never alive. They withstand the elements better and are not subject to the seasons; whenever I drive by a cemetery, even in the bleakest part of winter, it always looks like spingtime among the graves. I was no different; as seldom as I make this trip, these flowers needed to last.
I always buy my mother whatever suitable flowers are on sale. She admired thrift, and would appreciate this rather than considering it cheap. It's hard to explain to people who did not know her. She would feel offended it I spent a lot of money on flowers when an equally nice arrangement was available in the same store for 50% off.
I had trouble lifting the bronze vase on her marker from it's upside down position in the earth for when it's not in use. Mud had filled the space meant to hold it in the time I'd been away. I only spend a few minutes at her grave. I tossed an I miss you on top of all of the 22 years worth of I miss yous that lay in a pile over her grave. I even walked through them, so I could clean off her marker with my fingers and remove the dirt and mowed grass that clung to it. The I miss yous are like piles of autumn leaves on top the graves. You can walk through a mound of them without noticing, causing them to fly up and then settle back down in your wake, always back atop the grave they belong on.
Then I took my camera to find the other graves I wrote about before. I couldn't find "Pandora, murdered by unknown assailants." I hope that the stone is being reworked and that she has finally found justice, but I doubt it. More likely, I mis-remembered where she lies. I also couldn't find The Little Cowboy or the Magician, though I'm certain they are close together and if I'd found one I would have found the other. Two years is a long time away to remember the exact layout of a place as big and as crowded as Resthaven.
I did find a lot of them, though, and rediscovered some I'd forgotten.
The Lovers
The lovers are next to Babyland, where they have lain next to each other for two decades. Shortly after I learned about their story, I saw a program on my local PBS station that interviewed their killer, now serving a life sentence. He told the story casually, with as much emotion as you might use to describe about a trip to the grocery store. He owed David Lopez $200 for marijuana he'd purchased but didn't want to pay for. He planned ahead of time to kill David when he showed up for his money. He didn't know David's girl was waiting in the car, watching the whole thing, until he heard her scream. He shot her becuase he didn't feel he had an option, considering what she'd witnessed.
I'd forgotten about the rosaries engraved above each name. They were two Catholic kids from a bad part of town, shot by another Catholic kid they'd know all of their lives. The girl who told me about them grew up in their neighborhood. She said that Raynell Muskwinsky's mother still says rosaries for her all the time, but that David's family never even mention his name.
Babyland
Somehow documenting Babyland made it possible for me to visit it again without feeling sick. I could distance myself from it by standing behind my camera. The graves are small and close together, and the flowers, toys and balloon on them make it looked even more crowded. The toys make you want to cry. I trip over identical toys in my own living room at home. Without the toys, it's easy to forget that there are children in these graves.
I had to look at dozens of them searching for the one I always seek out. At last, I found The Golden Child.
with her poem by Robert Frost.
I have never seen flowers on this grave. The little flower next to her picture fell off of a grave next to her own, and I tucked it into her frame just so she could have a little something to show off. I get the feeling this little girl was so sick for so long that her parents may have begun their grieving process long before she came to rest here. The white spot you see on her neck is not a flaw in the photo or a reflection of my flash; it is a tube in her neck where she had a tracheotomy. Then again, flowers on her grave would be redundant. The lines to the poem are the flowers that her parents gave her, and they never have to be replaced. They will stay beautiful forever.
I also discovered a new grave that I found poignant, that of The Three Sisters.
They are new since I last visited. Someone had left a single Barbie doll for them all to share. I wish I knew the rest of the story. All I can tell is that on March 14, 2005, the world came unraveled for the Page family, and my heart aches for them.
Maybe it's not normal to study the markers like I do, but I can't not look at them. Someone needs to, and when I walk among them I am usually alone, so the task falls to me. Someone needs to stop and admire at the photos, to ooh and ah over these pretty babies,
to look at their artwork,
and at all the angels and lambs and Barney the Dinosaurs that decorate their markers.
Someone needs to feel sad for the rain soaked teddy bears and blow on the pinwheels to make them spin.
I don't think it's morbid; I think it's necessary. Grief is the price of love, and these families have paid dearly. Someone needs to acknowledge their children, and when I walk through graveyards I try to do just that.
Tokens of Grief
I always look at the tokens and gifts that people leave here. Sometimes, they tell you something about the departed, like the baseball left on this grave:
Sometimes they are simple, like the carnations covering this grave from the top of the stone to the foot of the grave, or the flag on the grave next to it.
Sometimes they are extravagant, if only in the sheer number of them, like those of the grave of this young woman:
Often, the tokens tell you more about the mourner than the person being mourned. The dead feel no pain, but they remind you that a living soul is in anguish, or that they are coping, or sometimes that they are finally getting used to the flavor of bittersweetness that has permeated their lives.
Diversity
Another thing that struck me was how diverse the population of this City of the Dead was, which reflects the diversity of the city around it. People of different races, socioeconomic class, and stations in life all rest together in peace.
Large parts of the cemetery are Catholic, many of them Vietnamese:
If you walk through the Catholic Vietnamese section on a Sunday, sticks of incense burn on many of the graves. When the weather is pleasant, the effect is that you find yourself feeling meditative despite yourself.
There are plenty of other religions, here, too, though.
The faiths are different, but I suspect the grief they left behind is pretty much the same. It's a uniting factor shared by humanity.
The Sweethearts
At last, as I walked back toward my car, I noticed one last marker just to the north of Babyland. I'd forgotten about this grave, but every time I see I think that it's my favorite one here. It's different in that it's neither tragic or poignant. In fact, it's empty.
The future occupants paid for this so it will be ready when the time comes. They are old, and they want to be remembered as they were in their prime, as they were when they met. He, as a soldier fighting in the Pacific theater during World War II, and her with her curls pinned back and dressed to the nines in all the taylored splendor of 1940's fashion. He declares his love for her on her stone, so that no one walking by will ever forget it.
A cemetery is like a library filled with the back covers of books, leaving you to guess at the story that came before them. Any story that ends in a death is interesting, almost by definition. A lot of them are tragic, but this grave gives me hope. It tells me that sometimes, while the story may be over, it was happy and fulfilling - a long read that was time well spent.
