Hey, thanks everybody who took my poll last week. Who knew there were so many of us taking our lunches to the grave?
One’s in town and one’s out of town, but I can grab a sandwich and get to both of them in time to have a leisurely meal and get back to work within an hour. Yes, they’re both cemeteries. Does that make me weird?
I picnic, sitting in my car, about once a week rain or shine. 
I usually have an audio book to listen to, but sometimes I just mellow out to the patter of rain or birds singing, bees buzzing.
It’s perfectly legal to picnic in most cemeteries, basket, blanket and all. Mexican Day of the Dead traditions include partying with your departed loved ones and sharing a full meal right there around the headstone.
Respect is the only rule, for the living and the dead. And, of course, clean up before you leave.
I’ve got to say, that kind of lunch hour gives you a little perspective. It really makes you feel like you’ve gotten away from work!
Just for fun, let’s take a poll.
He’s the first person I ever met who shared my love of cemeteries. When I sheepishly admitted to my grave addiction on a hike up West Willow Canyon with most of the acting company, the others looked at me like I’d grown an extra nose, Brownie’s eyes lit up. “Me too,” he said, “I’m thinking about writing a book.”
Fourteen years later, Soul in the Stone: Cemetery Art from America’s Heartland was published by the University Press of Kansas.
Both in photography and words, Brownie articulates everything I love about wandering through graveyards. But, where I look at stones and wonder about their history, Brownie goes out and finds the stories. I’m not talking genealogy. He’s an artist – one of my ambitions in life is to own a Brownie painting.
He tells the real human story, the wealth, poverty, culture, history, often weird and funny tales that give each monument its unique significance. He sees the artist or artisan’s point of view too and reveals things about techniques, styles and types of stone that I’d never think of.
I love that.
His photos truly evoke the soul in each stone. I wish I could give you a few samples, but I didn’t want to infringe on Brownie’s copy rights. You’ll just have to go to your library or book store and order the book.
Use it as a travel guide. I guarantee Brownie will lead you to sites Michelin and Frommer never could. As he says in his introduction,
I wish to introduce the reader to a fairly comprehensive sampling of monuments, found and photographed in the course of travel and exploration… Artistic expression and the role of the cemetery in the history of art are especially emphasized in the choice of material. I hope that this book will encourage others to explore, enjoy and perhaps document outstanding Heartland cemeteries.
I love graveyards for all that they tell us, for the lives they hint at and the peace they promise every single denizen. I suppose part of it’s that prurient fascination we all have with tragedy. The reason Old Yeller’s a classic; why people love to read Nicolas Sparks or Jodi Piccoult and listen to sad country songs; sometimes you just want to cry.
Every tombstone’s a sculpture with a story. Some speak more artfully than others, but it’s often the most crudely carved that tell the best tales.
I like the colors and patterns of lichen on white marble. I like pictures of the deceased embedded in the stones. I like glossy new markers with sharp edges and old ones with quaint, old fashioned names.
What sparks my imagination in new and old are the hints they tell about the relationships left behind. What happened to the family of a row of children who all died in the same year? How much must a man have loved his wife when she died three decades before him, but he still chose to be buried beside her?
I ran across one way out in the country the other day. It was a small cemetery on a hill thrust up from among soybean and corn fields. There were about a hundred people buried there. The most recent grave was less than a decade old, a double stone. A boy, 13 years old, was buried on the right, “beloved son.” On the left was his “loving father.” The father’s name was there, his birth date, but no death date. No mom. Toy race cars and new silk flowers lay on the boy’s side. Dad’s side was clean, empty. Somewhere, here in my world, Dad was waiting for the day he’d see his son again.
Doesn’t that make you wonder? It’s amazing how much a few words, a trinket or two and couple of dates in stone can convey about a life, and a death.
I Dig Graves! 