My mama had several entertaining talents. She was a great dancer, whether in a dance hall or in sock feet on our linoleum floor. She loved music and gardening, and sometimes combined the two as she sang to her moss roses while weeding in our front lawn. And the woman could pop gum and blow a bubble to rival any teenager in any locker room in the nation. But she had one interest that simply confounded me.
Cemetery hopping.
My mama was involved in genealogy. That alone I really didn't understand. Why on earth we needed to know that my great-great-great uncle twice removed was a lumberjack who died in the War of Northern Aggression was beyond me. I settled on the fact the folks we knew in our family couldn't possibly be the cream of the crop, so looking to find someone we could relate to gave me an ounce of appreciation for her quest.
A favorite pastime for her was to pack a lunch, a roll of unprinted newspaper and her only child and head out for a day of driving back roads to old cemeteries looking for ancestors. It was dusty and hot and mosquito-infested and I was not the most willing participant. But when your age is either single-digits or over 90, your choices for the day are pretty much made for you. So after a while of baking in our gold 1976 Plymouth Fury, I'd slide out and start strolling around the graves.
Like many things in life, I didn't realize how much I learned from these moments until much later. I learned of old churches in the South, how to take stone rubbings and why so many roses at old cemeteries are red with yellow centers (the grafted rose died and the root stock survived). Maybe you have to have lived long enough to be closer to the tomb than the womb to appreciate some things.
Since living in downtown Bentonville, I often snatch Baxter and head out for a long walk around town. Now and then, we end up at the Bentonville cemetery. Tall pines tower over the older section of the grounds while the rest basks in a garden of plastic flowers. I like the older section best and I've found a spot I rather enjoy to sit a spell before finishing our walk. I keep an eye on Bax as he strolls the graves, no doubt learning more from the 150 years of smells to be had than I can merely from the face of the stones.
The stones are worn, but cared for. Some are heavily engraved, even with information of how the person died, while others are barren with only a name and year of death. But nearly all are very personal.
Most read nothing of the departed's occupation, be he doctor, lawyer, preacher, teacher, thief or scoundrel. Few list interests or hobbies. None list a bank balance. High society lies beside steerage. While these folks may not have mingled above ground, here, they all get the same billing.
Instead, chiseled in stone is their relationship to those left behind. Dear Wife. Beloved Husband. Darling Daughter. Our connections and love to one another continue. Maybe mama was onto something.
But I still don't want to pack a lunch and eat here.
NAN Our Town on 06/18/2015