I visited five cemeteries in one day.
Four of them would be called rural cemeteries, and the fifth one was in a city with a population inching past 300.
What was I doing in five cemeteries? Well, I wasn’t in all of them at the same time. That would be a weird superpower to have – the ability to be in five cemeteries at once. “Hold on, I’ll save you! I don’t know how, but I will!”
But I was in all five on the same day.
Was it because cemeteries have no lines?
That’s not a poor reason, but not all lines are bad.
I recall being in a line to get chocolate-covered potato chips at the State Fair. The line was exceedingly long, and I was the only male in that line. One kind woman initiated a conversation with me. She coaxed an admission out of me. I don’t care for chocolate-covered potato chips, and I was in line to get some of them for my mother-in-law. Many of the women in line were mothers-in-law. They flattered me and insisted I move ahead of them in line. I declined their kind offer because I enjoyed their company.
I’ve cried and smiled in cemeteries. I’ve carried cemetery urns and watered flowers marking graves. I’ve tried to find a grave without success and been a pallbearer. I’ve done many radio shows from cemeteries—they’re peaceful and the birds sing.
Was I looking for a dearly departed individual that had been misplaced? No, I was just visiting.
My brother Donald has a bench by his grave. He liked to visit. I enjoy sitting there and visiting with him. He’s an exceptionally good listener.
I walk in Bath. Bath is a Minnesota ghost town. It existed as a village from 1857 to 1963. The last resident of Bath read that most accidents occur within two miles of home, so he moved somewhere safer. Only the cemetery survives. The average age of Bath is dead. I walk at that cemetery – St. Aidan. The cemetery was established in 1858 after Barney Banks had frozen to death in a blizzard.
Photo by Al Batt
I stopped at the grave of William Shea, who was born in Dingle, County Kerry in Ireland in 1775. He died in 1882 without being confined to his bed for a single day. He wasn’t an organ donor but had lived 107 years at a time when human parts weren’t often replaced, and it wasn’t easy to keep someone going by the many miracles of medicine. He was likely one of the oldest in the state. Shea was a teamster in Wellington’s Army and was at the Battle of Waterloo in 1815. He immigrated to Minnesota, specifically to Berlin Township in Steele County, in 1855. He enjoyed living where a neighbor could be counted on. His mind was clear until the end. His son John saw him several days before he died. William told him he had plenty of care and John had better go back to town to attend to his own business, and to never trust his business to strangers.
Maybe it was easier to live long then. Bacon, doughnuts, smoking and the sun were all good for you. And not all the germs had been discovered yet.
Not all the St. Aidan tombstones are pristine. Many are lichen encrusted. The artistry of a carving craftsman had become obscured on many.
Kierkegaard, who sounds like someone who plays hockey for the Minnesota Wild, but doesn’t, said, “Life can only be understood backwards; but it must be lived forwards.”
Backwards and forwards? I decided living in the moment was the best for me, so I reminded my deceased friends and relatives of their goodness.
I was at another rural gravesite, when a couple approached and greeted me. They had inquiring minds.
“A relative?” she asked.
“No.”
“A friend?” he asked.
“No, I didn’t know him.”
If they’d asked me why I was paying my respects to a stranger, my answer would have been, “Why not?”
I left a penny on the headstone as a sign of enduring respect. A penny means I visited. It’s a simple gesture that says someone speaks the name carved in stone.
A penny for my thoughts.
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