Memorial Day

Memorial Day weekend kicks off summer on the New Jersey shore, perhaps all around the country. Those lacking the luxury of living near the beach, breeze into coastal towns, like Long Branch, where I grew up, to enjoy the sun, sand and surf. Traffic slows to a crawl along Joline Avenue and Broadway, frustrating permanent residents who curse the visitors, labeling them Bennies. They seem oblivious to the irritation and inconvenience of their presence.

Supermarket shelves empty in anticipation of visiting friends and family. Outdoor furniture is pulled from storage, hosed down and set to dry in the sun. The aroma from smoking grills rides the ocean breeze, carrying the faint scent of charcoal and accelerant to those without grills. Radios, set to oldies stations, count down classic summer jams over the buzz of lawnmowers and weed wackers. Children in the street toss kick and dodge balls, retreating to the curb at the sight of approaching cars. Everyone is ready to begin a new season. Most begin celebrating on Friday, even Thursday, and are in full swing by Saturday. When I was a kid, I didn't know it was a holiday until Monday. Our regular routine remained unchanged until then.

Formerly known as Decoration Day, the holiday actually commemorates U.S. men and women who died while in the military service. Many Americans also use Memorial Day to honor other family members who have died. Nearly everyone knows I love cemeteries. Many think it a morbid fascination; disturbed by what they perceive is preoccupation with death. Nothing could be further from truth, but I understand their unease. Most people never set foot in a cemetery until someone dies, resulting in their association with, not only death, but also sorrow and grief. In addition, cemeteries are glaring reminders of our mortality, with which few are completely comfortable.

My initial cemetery visits occurred on Memorial Day and carry no attachment of grief or sorrow. They are actually among my most pleasant childhood recollections. When passing by a cemetery I am not consumed with thoughts of death. The idea of crossing a New York street on foot causes greater anxiety. I regard cemeteries as places of peace and reflection where we can honor those who have passed on. They contain a wealth of information and have the capacity to enlighten us about our individual and collective histories.

As far back as I can recall Daddy was up at the crack of dawn. It was usually too early to tell the kind of day it would be. Sometimes a warm sun appeared, but more often clouds threatened a wash. Rain or shine, we'd climb in the car; pick up my cousin, Big Junie, and maybe some other random relatives for a two-hour journey to Beverly National Cemetery in Burlington County where my great-uncles are buried. There was usually silence during the ride as most everyone napped, but I always loved a road trip and sat alert next to my grandfather. At seven I could navigate the entire trip.

I still clearly recall my initial reaction upon entering the gates. The visual was awesome. Thousands of miniature American flags waved in front of gleaming, white granite markers, resting atop a verdant carpet of soft, thick grass. Though grand and majestic, it was also tranquil and serene. I fought an urge to run and play knowing, without being told, it was not the place. Before learning each plot was numbered, Daddy's ability to always find the exact location amazed me. He'd place flowers, bought at some Route 130 roadside vendor, beside the tiny flag, step back and look at the marker like he was seeing it for the first time. He might smoke a cigarette and chat with whoever might have come for the ride.

I always wandered the rows, examining markers before I could read, marveling at the uniformity and impeccable maintenance of the grounds. Over the years I came to realize that each marker represented a life and when I walked those rows, finally able to read, I learned of fallen heroes; when they were born, died and served the country. I became fascinated with military history and read anything I could about America at war. Though our visits seldom lasted more than 30 minutes, they inspired years of research.

The trips to Beverly occurred early to avoid holiday traffic and get us back home before noon. Daddy might light a grill or Willie-rig some long-neglected, home improvement project. I accompanied my great aunts to their sister's grave, where my fondness really took form. Monmouth Memorial Park is relatively new, maybe just over a century old. Before completion of the mausoleum in 1985, all interments were in-ground and bronze plates marked graves at ground level. Most of those buried had lived locally. My aunts would walk among the graves, telling stories about people with great detail and no discretion. At an early age, I had access to a wealth of information about people in my community, including Petunia.

Once I learned you could go any day of the year, I went everywhere in biking distance. White Ridge Cemetery in Eatontown became my favorite. Overgrown and neglected with sinking markers and a mean grass that grows best in sand, it remains an African American necrology of the area. Originally established as a burial ground for Black troops in the Civil War, it later served as the primary site for African American interments. Burials declined with the civil rights movement as Blacks sought options previously unavailable. Even some with family plots went elsewhere. A preservation movement in the 1980s led to a restoration of the historic sections and new interments increased. In addition to some relatives and family friends, the founding members of our church rest there.

The acquisition of a driver's license expanded my boundaries and exploration. It was soon ritual, anywhere I went, to visit a cemetery, especially Georgia where my family originates. Starlight Baptist Church in Glenwood has an adjacent graveyard in which my great-grandfather, his mother and several siblings are buried. In Ailey's Live Oak Baptist Churchyard another great-grandfather rests with his parents. Between both churchyards I can trace my lineage. On these grounds people gather annually, first Monday in August, to clean family graves and visit with old friends. Many travel great distances to the annual homecoming. My grandfather hardly ever missed a year.

Of all Georgia's cemeteries, I love Savannah's Bonaventure most. Its natural beauty and grandeur, described in the pages of Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil, piqued my curiosity and compelled a visit. Stately oaks, branches heavy with thick moss, stand sentinel, casting shadows upon graves of such notable Georgians as composer, Johnny Mercer and poet, Conrad Aiken. Another favorite is Atlanta's Southview, final resting place of golf legend, Bobby Jones and Gone With The Wind author, Margaret Mitchell. Both cemeteries, with lazy, winding paths and shady corners are perfect for a morning stroll or midday nap.

Twice, my exploration has gone international, each time to Cimetière du Père-Lachaise. At more than 100 acres, what Parisians affectionately call la cite des morts – city of the dead, is the largest cemetery in Paris and reputed to be the world's most visited. Each year hundreds upon thousands visit graves of great figures who have enhanced french life over the past 200 years. Resting with Chopin, Molière, Balzac, Sarah Bernhardt, Edith Piaf and other nationals are Irish playwright, Oscar Wilde, American singer, Jim Morrison and African American author, Richard Wright; a few of many who preferred Paris over home. Perhaps more impressive than the list of celebrity burials are the elaborate monuments and museum-quality statuary, marking a significant number of graves. Some areas look more like a sculpture garden than cemetery.

While a student in Boston, I stumbled upon Mount Auburn in nearby Cambridge. Established in 1831, its founders believed that burying the dead was best done in an attractive natural setting and insisted the cemetery be a place for the living. Thought influenced by Père-Lachaise are the ornamental plantings, monuments, fences, fountains and chapels enhancing the natural landscape. Within a few years of opening, legions of visitors prompted cemetery developers to carefully regulate the grounds. The rising popularity is credited with starting the American public parks movement. After nearly 180 years and more than 80,000 burials Mount Auburn remains an attraction. Horticulturalists especially, appreciate the almost 700 varieties of more than 5,500 trees and thousands of shrubs and plants that thrive in the natural landscape.

New Orleans celebrates and preserves a cultural connection to France. Influences are evident throughout the city, even in burial practices. Like Père-Lachaise, the aboveground tombs in New Orleans cemeteries are often referred to as cities of the dead. At Lafayette, set location for such feature films as Double Jeopardy and Interview With A Vampire, decorative, rusty ironwork, stone crosses and magnificent statuary adorn sun-bleached tombs. The high water table necessitated aboveground interments for most of the city. After a rainstorm, airtight coffins would literally pop out of the ground. Early settlers experimented unsuccessfully with different burial methods. Eventually, following the Spanish custom of using vaults, graves were kept above ground. Providence Memorial Park, one of several newer cemeteries just outside the city limits, offers in-ground burials. The single aboveground interment, separate from the mausoleum, is that of gospel singer, Mahalia Jackson.

During the last two years, living in New York, I logged virtually no cemetery hours, despite opportunity in the area. My dry spell ended last month at historic Green-Wood, where composer, Leonard Bernstein rests at the highest point in Brooklyn. A spectacular view of Lady Liberty and lower Manhattan, superb landscaping and striking architecture come together in, what may be, the borough's most attractive location. Equally lovely and pristine is Woodlawn in the Bronx. There I recently happened upon musicians; Duke Ellington and Miles Davis, singer, Celia Cruz and poet, Countee Cullen. The Secret City: Woodlawn Cemetery and the Buried History of New York provides a unique glimpse of the grounds and those resting therein. The work of author, Fred Goodman is informative and revealing. He identifies and celebrates the notable and notorious, including many for whom city parks and monuments are named.

As the weather improves, the ground calls me. Plans include a journey St. Raymond's in the Bronx, where Billie Holiday is buried, Ferncliff in Westchester, final resting place of Moms Mabley, Joan Crawford, Adolph Caesar and Aaliyah and perhaps Sleepy Hollow Cemetery where Washington Irving, author of the legend, lies. If I get back to Chicago this summer I hope to visit historic Oakwoods and Burr Oak Cemeteries. Though on these grounds rest the celebrated; Jesse Owens, Emmett Till, Dinah Washington and LeRoy Whitfield, the unsung also slumber. I hope to learn something of them as well.

One day I will die. With no other alternative I am completely comfortable in the knowledge. I am told that among the first things examined when studying a culture is how they treat their dead. Sometimes I wonder how, or even if, I will be remembered, but recognize my deeds will determine the outcome. I pray my bones rest in a fine old cemetery, like Woodlawn or even White Ridge; certainly not the Arneytown golf course where my parents rest. Everything is regulated right down to a schedule for the placement and removal of flowers, which is far too stringent. Place me in a bone yard where a floral tribute might sit in the same spot for a lifetime or eternity.

Perhaps on Memorial Day, a hundred or even fifty years from now, an ancient holiday wreath is moved to reveal a modest marker, bearing my name. Hopefully recognition is stirred and something kind or scandalous is said.

Photo credits

Beverly National Cemetery: Historical Passion, Findagrave.com

Père-Lachaise: Naoma Foreman

Mount Auburn Cemetery: Courtney Filer-Dougal

The Secret City: Follett Higher Education Group