My fascination with graveyards and places of rest
Good morning once again journal,the time is 7:22am,and I am risen from a sleep that was both peaceful,and health restoring.I am in some pain,but compared to yesterday, it reaches the strength level of"mosquito bite"on the agony scale.I enjoyed yesterday despite my pain levels fluctuating between," I feel you, I know your there",to,"dear God,let's end this now",along with a vocabulary of silent oaths and mutterings that would have made my dear old mother blush.I even managed to remain civil and courteous to my wife;and I recall smiling once or twice,without the need to mentally hand crank my jaw muscles into life.We both enjoyed the company of the other,occasionally acknowledging their presence with a gentle touch in passing,or a smile for no reason except to say,"I see you,glad you're there";All in all,not too shabby a day.
And so to this morning;the title of my entry may seem a tad morbid to some,but to me,it is simply a subject that fascinates me,and has provided me with many memories,not to mention numerous, pleasant afternoons spent wandering through their respective boundaries.Graveyards present me with a window to the past,another subject which enthralls me,and sometimes,even an education in how people lived at that particular time.The other thing that I find fascinating about graveyards is,no matter how close to a busy road they might be situated,there always seems to be a silence within them that you could hear a pin being dropped in.Perhaps that's why they call them places of rest?just a thought.My affinity with such places began many years ago,after my daughter passed away,and my alcoholism took hold;my friend in a bottle,both insidious and seductive,and a tranquilizer I welcomed with open arms.I started with the graveyard near my home in Scotland,it was perched on a hill above my village,and a perfect vantage point,where one could simply sit without interruption,and be at peace with one's own thoughts.I used to go there on sunny days,(suitably armed with pockets full of tranquilizers)and walk slowly among the tombstones reading the various epitaphs.I remember being stopped in my tracks by one such inscription which read,"stop awhile as you pass me by,for as you are now so once was I,as I am now so you will be,prepare thyself to follow me";the resident beneath the weathered stone was one Joshua Ezekiel Winters,a master mariner,who departed this life on October 2nd 1843 aged 46,not a bad score given the life expectancy at the time I suppose.I have never forgotten that tombstone,or that epitaph,and I remain grateful to Mister Winters to this day,both for his wisdom,and for the interest he provoked in me that has led to many happy meanderings through assorted graveyards,and multiple tombstones since.
As my interest in these places of solitude grew,some tombstones became more than mere means of identifying the occupant,or occupants,beneath;indeed,in time,some of the dearly departed became close acquaintances and treasured drinking chums,and I spent many blissful,undisturbed hours in their company putting the problems of the Universe to rights.To a passer by,it may have appeared that I was engaged in a one sided conversation with myself;but unbeknown to them,I was conversing with doctors,judges,seamen and scholars; both the educated and the illiterate;and enjoying much more stimulating discussion than I ever did with the living.Then,with the invention of photography,came a new way of bonding even closer with my friends gone to meet their Maker;I not only could converse with them,I could see them as well,a whole new scintillating body of friends were now available," to join the club",if one may coin a phrase.The only down side of my otherwise ,most enjoyable,and oft times rewarding pastime,was when I came upon tombstones erected in memory of a child or children;it was at these times that I would find myself spiritually,and mentally,draping my arms around the shoulders of their grief stricken parents,to signify to them that I mourned with them,and understood only too well,the sheer magnitude and devastation of their loss.We would then sit in silence for a time,while unspoken words of comfort bathed our wounds of hurt,anger and helplessness.
Indeed,so close a friendship did I form with some of my "dust to dust" brothers and sisters,that on one occasion I recall with some shameful amusement,I even used one individual as an alibi with which to deflect the suspicions and accusations of wife number one.I had disappeared for a few hours on a task which should have taken no more than forty five minutes at best;but the discovery of enough disposable income in my pocket for a bottle,dictated that I should visit my graveyard bar room for some much needed rest and relaxation with my associates of the soil.Anyway,one loses track of time when in a place where time has no importance or significance anymore,but at some point I made my way homeward,suitably warmed by my alcoholic embrocation,(yes I know it means for external use,I just applied it internally for scientific purposes),and my recent rhetoric with my disembodied companions, to the welcoming arms of my grateful,and loving wife.My wife however,displayed neither gratitude nor a loving disposition towards me,and I was left somewhat miffed by her reaction to my return,so I explained that I had chanced to meet an old army comrade in town and we had reminisced over a drink or two.Furthermore,I informed her,she had indeed chanced to meet the gentleman in question three weeks before whilst in my company,and had remarked on what a nice man he had been.My wife hesitated in her tirade,and I seized upon the opportunity to tell her the name on the tombstone,and describe the photograph set within,whereupon a mental light bulb was illuminated in the room in her brain marked memories,(real or induced),and she confirmed that he had indeed been a lovely individual,and perhaps I might invite him for dinner;a somewhat difficult task,as the gentleman in question had expired in 1959;but I remain indebted to my friend Thomas Browne to this day,for stepping in and defusing,what could have developed into a dangerous,and for all I know,fatal,situation.
Well journal,sadly it is time to depart this romp through the various graveyards of my memory,save to say that I am still addicted to them and their surrounding perimeters,and I suppose I shall always be inexplicably,and irresistibly,drawn to visit and make new friends,until the day comes when my visits are not sufficient,and I take up residence within the confines of their walls.Till tomorrow then,my little mood face will remain,quite remarkably in my opinion,a sickly hue of good for the third day in succession.
And so to this morning;the title of my entry may seem a tad morbid to some,but to me,it is simply a subject that fascinates me,and has provided me with many memories,not to mention numerous, pleasant afternoons spent wandering through their respective boundaries.Graveyards present me with a window to the past,another subject which enthralls me,and sometimes,even an education in how people lived at that particular time.The other thing that I find fascinating about graveyards is,no matter how close to a busy road they might be situated,there always seems to be a silence within them that you could hear a pin being dropped in.Perhaps that's why they call them places of rest?just a thought.My affinity with such places began many years ago,after my daughter passed away,and my alcoholism took hold;my friend in a bottle,both insidious and seductive,and a tranquilizer I welcomed with open arms.I started with the graveyard near my home in Scotland,it was perched on a hill above my village,and a perfect vantage point,where one could simply sit without interruption,and be at peace with one's own thoughts.I used to go there on sunny days,(suitably armed with pockets full of tranquilizers)and walk slowly among the tombstones reading the various epitaphs.I remember being stopped in my tracks by one such inscription which read,"stop awhile as you pass me by,for as you are now so once was I,as I am now so you will be,prepare thyself to follow me";the resident beneath the weathered stone was one Joshua Ezekiel Winters,a master mariner,who departed this life on October 2nd 1843 aged 46,not a bad score given the life expectancy at the time I suppose.I have never forgotten that tombstone,or that epitaph,and I remain grateful to Mister Winters to this day,both for his wisdom,and for the interest he provoked in me that has led to many happy meanderings through assorted graveyards,and multiple tombstones since.
As my interest in these places of solitude grew,some tombstones became more than mere means of identifying the occupant,or occupants,beneath;indeed,in time,some of the dearly departed became close acquaintances and treasured drinking chums,and I spent many blissful,undisturbed hours in their company putting the problems of the Universe to rights.To a passer by,it may have appeared that I was engaged in a one sided conversation with myself;but unbeknown to them,I was conversing with doctors,judges,seamen and scholars; both the educated and the illiterate;and enjoying much more stimulating discussion than I ever did with the living.Then,with the invention of photography,came a new way of bonding even closer with my friends gone to meet their Maker;I not only could converse with them,I could see them as well,a whole new scintillating body of friends were now available," to join the club",if one may coin a phrase.The only down side of my otherwise ,most enjoyable,and oft times rewarding pastime,was when I came upon tombstones erected in memory of a child or children;it was at these times that I would find myself spiritually,and mentally,draping my arms around the shoulders of their grief stricken parents,to signify to them that I mourned with them,and understood only too well,the sheer magnitude and devastation of their loss.We would then sit in silence for a time,while unspoken words of comfort bathed our wounds of hurt,anger and helplessness.
Indeed,so close a friendship did I form with some of my "dust to dust" brothers and sisters,that on one occasion I recall with some shameful amusement,I even used one individual as an alibi with which to deflect the suspicions and accusations of wife number one.I had disappeared for a few hours on a task which should have taken no more than forty five minutes at best;but the discovery of enough disposable income in my pocket for a bottle,dictated that I should visit my graveyard bar room for some much needed rest and relaxation with my associates of the soil.Anyway,one loses track of time when in a place where time has no importance or significance anymore,but at some point I made my way homeward,suitably warmed by my alcoholic embrocation,(yes I know it means for external use,I just applied it internally for scientific purposes),and my recent rhetoric with my disembodied companions, to the welcoming arms of my grateful,and loving wife.My wife however,displayed neither gratitude nor a loving disposition towards me,and I was left somewhat miffed by her reaction to my return,so I explained that I had chanced to meet an old army comrade in town and we had reminisced over a drink or two.Furthermore,I informed her,she had indeed chanced to meet the gentleman in question three weeks before whilst in my company,and had remarked on what a nice man he had been.My wife hesitated in her tirade,and I seized upon the opportunity to tell her the name on the tombstone,and describe the photograph set within,whereupon a mental light bulb was illuminated in the room in her brain marked memories,(real or induced),and she confirmed that he had indeed been a lovely individual,and perhaps I might invite him for dinner;a somewhat difficult task,as the gentleman in question had expired in 1959;but I remain indebted to my friend Thomas Browne to this day,for stepping in and defusing,what could have developed into a dangerous,and for all I know,fatal,situation.
Well journal,sadly it is time to depart this romp through the various graveyards of my memory,save to say that I am still addicted to them and their surrounding perimeters,and I suppose I shall always be inexplicably,and irresistibly,drawn to visit and make new friends,until the day comes when my visits are not sufficient,and I take up residence within the confines of their walls.Till tomorrow then,my little mood face will remain,quite remarkably in my opinion,a sickly hue of good for the third day in succession.
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