Thoughts on a Cemetery

Living across from a cemetery, and on the upper floor of a high-rise, keeps one in constant awareness of death. This is not a morbid kind of awareness, especially after a time, but an awareness that we are mortal—truly mortal. After the initial gravity of this situation, and after some time of observation, the rhythms and patterns of death rituals become familiar. There comes a realization that there are folks who deal with these matters on a very daily basis. For them it may be just a job or a career or it might be a service to the community.

The comings and goings of friends and family are as varied as each individual demonstration of grief—bowed heads, hasty or weary walks into the chapel, lingering in the cold or heat near the mausoleums, racing to exit the cemetery, parking by the curb near the headstones, slow walks behind caskets. One day nearly all of the roads were lined with the colorful and shiny cabs of big rigs gleaming in the sunlight—uncharacteristically cheerful in the plain place of expiry. Upon departure, each cab in turn let out a blast of horn as they exited the wide garden of eternal rest. All of these things are the human stuff of death rituals.

But what of the tools, the processes, the requirements to prepare for such occasions? A crisp winter’s day drew particular attention to this in a new process that was observed. A rather large flatbed truck, with a gray lawn crypt strapped onto it, rolled heavily into the cemetery. The bulk of the crypt was a plain, deep box, but on top was a more ornate beveled cover. The backhoe man had already done his work of the precision cut into the earth, leaving the deep, gaping rectangle open to the air. The driver of the flatbed truck rolled out of his truck and slowly walked over to the hole. He walked around it once and then returned to his truck. Over a period of two hours he methodically unloaded all the tools required of his work—long planks of wood, blankets of bright green Astroturf, thick poles, two coils of cable, shiny chrome standards, equally gleaming beams to lay into those standards, a winch and a can of gray spray paint. He meticulously built around the top of the hole an attractive structure on which the crypt could sit. Constantly checking that the parts were laid out correctly, he adjusted and readjusted the standards and cables until he was ready to winch them tightly. He then attached two beams of steel that jutted out over the neighboring grave. When he appeared to be satisfied that all was ready, he set two ramps off the side of the truck, climbed up on the flatbed and mobilized an electric cart that jettisoned the crypt down onto the grass. It rocked forward under his guidance to the edge of the standards and then he pushed the crypt onto the platform, an unusually easy process because of the poles he had placed on the boards. Now it looked like a formal funeral platform rather than a gathering of parts. All the pieces, so deliberately unloaded and constructed, had become a shining launching pad into eternal rest. The man pushed the lid onto the outstretched arms of steel. He pulled out the central wooden plank from underneath the crypt and in a spectacularly brief moment the crypt disappeared into the hole. It was so sudden it was if it had always been part of the earth. He carefully studied the cover and shook the can of spray paint. He dodged the spray over a few spots and then loaded the plank onto the electric cart. Once the cart was on the flatbed, the man got into the cab of his truck and sat there for some time.

During the final half hour of this process, cars were pulling in near the chapel. A hearse backed up to the chapel and the casket was rolled in through the back door. Everything went still for some time. With the same deliberation of the construction, and in perfect timing to near the end of the service, the man drove his flatbed truck to one of the back roads of the cemetery, a respectful distance from the site. It stood there still and quiet as the family gathered around the gravesite, the minister making the final declarations over the casket as it was lowered into the grave. The family quickly dispersed to their cars to get out of the bitter, winter wind.

When the last car drove out of the cemetery, the flatbed truck came to life and was driven to the same spot near the grave. The man walked to the grave site, pushed the cover of the crypt over the grave and let it down. In no hurry as before, he deliberately undid his work, loaded it onto his truck and drove out the same way he had come in, not blowing a salutatory horn blast.

Living across from a cemetery new things can be learned, and in observing rituals, one can find a new appreciation for those who help us daily through the rituals of grief.

Tools of the Grave Trade

Lumbering, rocking backhoe

Gaping, cavernous rectangle

Carved in the sod

Diminutive tractor pulling

Planks to lay over

Freshly pulled earth

Chairs cloaked in black

Beneath a peaked tarp

Shiny black hearse

Drawing the dead further away

Casket-sized trucks

Sliding into metal barn

Hidden behind a tall,

Inconspicuous fence

Narrow smoke stack

Tiny non-human-sized

Boxes return

With ashes and memories

Of the dead wisped in fire

~M.R. Hyde

Copyright 2020