I’ve long been fascinated by cemeteries — not because I have a morbid fascination with death, but rather because of the history and the stories they hold. Walk through any cemetery and stop to read the old headstones, and you’ll be surprised but what you may see there.
When it’s clear that an infant or a child is buried in a plot, it saddens me, of course, but I’m grateful that they have that marker to show that they existed, no matter how short their time here was. To be buried in an unmarked grave, as though you never existed and your life didn’t matter, is something I wouldn’t wish on anyone, no matter that person’s age when he died. Those markers matter because the people whose names and dates they contain matter.
When I walk into a cemetery, I see stories — all the stories of the people who came before me — and I wish I could know them all. Cemeteries level the playing field, so to speak, because no matter how important or great you were in life, you’re now in the same position as everyone else in that cemetery. Markers and monuments may exist that are large in size to show off the importance you held in life, but there’s nothing else you can accomplish, despite how large your tombstone might be.
Personally, I want to be cremated and some of my ashes scattered at sea, but I still want a marker. In which cemetery, though? I don’t really know. I don’t want to end up like O. Henry, however, and be placed somewhere with no connection to who I was.
William Sydney Porter is better known by his pen name of O. Henry. He wrote many short stories, but his best-known one is “The Gift of the Magi.” He was only 48 when he died, penniless, in New York City, but his second wife, to whom he’d only been married a few years, had his body taken to Asheville, North Carolina, for burial. She is buried by him, but he’s not from Asheville, and he only spent a little of his life there, so there isn’t a valid reason for him to be buried there. He was born in North Carolina, though, near Greensboro, but Asheville was never his home.
When I visited Asheville a few years ago, I went to the cemetery in search of Thomas Wolfe’s grave (he’s the author of “Look Homeward, Angel”) because he is Asheville’s native literary giant. When I got to the cemetery, I was shocked to find out that O. Henry is buried there, too. I think of him as more of a literary giant than Wolfe, but there’s nothing significant about his grave marker as you can see in the above photo. People leave pennies to show they’ve visited, so it’s clear he still gets a lot of visitors.
By comparison, Wolfe’s grave marker is quite formidable and much more fitting for a literary giant. People leave pens to show they’ve visited Wolfe. The following photo is of the cemetery in Asheville where O. Henry and Wolfe are buried.
I would like a marker in the shape of a book, so it essentially reflects the story of my life, but I’m in no hurry to have that in place any time soon. I will share more cemetery reflections next week.
Due to my fascination with cemeteries, you’ll find that they play a part in many of my stories. If you’ve read “The Clearwater House,” there are a couple instances of cemeteries, and they have pivotal roles in my novella “Quitter” (which can be found in the story collection of “State of Georgia . . . and Other Writings”) as well as in the novel “State of Georgia.” Years ago, as in many years ago, I wrote a long ghost story called “The Girl in Purple.” I’ve been reworking and updating it and saving it in a better format. A cemetery is an important aspect of this story. Due to the story’s length, I will share part of in this post and the rest in the next one.
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Tammy Marshall
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