I love cemeteries. Old ones are my favorites, the stories and lives contained in the few words chiseled into stone. Some are funny, some will break your heart. Seeing a line of four or five tiny stones with the same last name, or seeing a stone so covered in decorations that you know the person is still being mourned even now.
Yesterday, we saw a fresh grave, for a lady named Lucille. She was 80 and her foot stone was covered in music notes and said 'Miss Lucy'. Two ladies arrived and started fussing over her gravesite, fiddling with the fresh Alabama red clay and trying to put out some Christmas ornamentation. One had given up staying clean and was on her knees in the clay poking flowers in a vase. She stood up and they both whacked at her stained knees and looked at the grave. The other kicked at the clay, trying to cover the obvious knee-dents.
They laughed and one said to the other, "Are you gonna come do all this for me?" Her friend replied, "Only if you go first."
There is something about the matronly older woman, especially the church-going ones. They are women in their 60's who were my age when I was born. But, they are exactly like the women in the churches I attended as a child. Large, wide women with fussy hair and lipstick that's the wrong shade. They wear flower-printed dresses with big patterns. Their breasts like the prow of a ship, capable of opening any door. Their shoes are black and flat, their purses match. They keep nic-nacs on a shelf, cookies in a jar and always have cake on hand. Their bathrooms smell of potpourri, they have plastic runners down the hall. The guest room has a white duvet.
They clean and cook as acts of love, they go out in the world and do things-they bring food to the sick, they take their older relatives and friends to the doctor, they know the names and ages and every detail of at least 14 grandchildren-but only have 4 of their own. They have friends who have been their friends since they were all just married, who bolstered one another through lay-offs, child rearing, empty nest syndrome and mid-life crises. Women who call each other with questions about a little one's runny nose, news of a sale at the local store, about their mothers, their gardens, how to get Jell-o out of carpet, a bag of clothes passed to them that have now been outgrown and are ready to pass along again. Lives that flash in a whirl of holiday meals, first days of school, birthday parties, children who had scabbed knees suddenly dating, engaged, married, which scab-knees kids of their own.
These women steer through life, folded rain bonnet in their purse, a Bible on the night stand and a pair of comfortable shoes to wear around the house.
I love cemeteries, they have so many stories, so many memories.
