I don’t do cemeteries
A while ago when I was writing a post about Mr. French I made a comment that I don’t do cemeteries, I prefer the memories instead.
I was curious why I had such strong feelings and I’m pretty sure it dates back to my senior year in high-school when my great-aunt Dot died.
She was my grandmother’s older sister. Kind of mean to everyone but me. Truth, I swear. Accused everyone of thievery, except me and would only share her special vodka with one other person.
That would be me.
I don’t do open caskets
I’m not sure if it was my 18 year old self sipping vodka with his great-aunt or me being the only she liked. Whatever it was the day of her funeral when my grandmother reached inside the casket and placed her sister’s hand on mine my attitude towards cemeteries took a huge nose dive.
Not to mention it really creeped me out.
I grew up in a home where cemeteries were a big deal. All of my relatives bought plots long before they were sick.
There would be battles over prime spots. A section near the oak tree, a spot near the little hill overlooking a beautiful meadow and anywhere far away from mean old Irv.
Trust me. The guy was a head case.
When I was little the arguments made sense. As far as I was concerned we didn’t actually die, we just lived underground.
But I grew a little older and a little wiser and it didn’t take long for me to realize that cemetery plot preparation just wasn’t my thing.
Money Well Spent
When I entered my 20’s and my debt increased I couldn’t believe my eyes when I discovered the cash I could receive if I sold my plot. In one swift move my plot was sold, my debt erased and my grandmother and I were not on speaking terms.
On rare occasions I will go to a cemetery. I will stand straight and listen to the good words spoken. If the occasion arises I will say a kind word or two and by no means will my shoes ever touch the stones.
An old rule hammered down that I obey to this day.
My grandparents graves are far away but I know someday I will travel north and pay my respect. Even in heaven Grandma’s guilt speaks volumes.
As you can tell I prefer the memories. If given the choice of remembering my great-aunt Dot’s cold dead hand or her caring smile as I sip her special vodka, memories will win every time.
Now you know why I don’t do cemeteries.
Happy Friday Everyone!!!