everyone must get stoned

Anyone who got excited that we were going to talk about drugs, calm down. Yes, people will be getting stoned in today’s story but not in the traditional sort of way.  My story of getting stoned is a bit darker and potentially creepy depending on how you feel about cemeteries.  Remember this is the socio version of getting stoned. Please read on if you dare. Kidding, this is not a scary story.

I like cemeteries.  Are you surprised?  Socio and all! I never really plan it, but whenever I have traveled, I somehow have found my way to a cemetery in the town I am visiting. Not always, it depends on how long I am away from home and if I can find a good cemetery to visit.  Somehow the quiet, solace of a cemetery is comforting to my socio soul.  No one is talking at me, there are not a lot of people (live ones)  and the ones that are there are resting peacefully, at least in my socio mind.  They have stories and I can make them up as I please.  Rows and rows of family members resting with their loved ones. Maybe they want to be near their family, maybe they don’t.  No choice really, at this point they don’t get to decide. I like to think that they are where they are supposed to be.

My parents are buried in a Jewish cemetery not too far from my house near a Walmart. It’s kind of a busy area, near two major streets just outside of Chicago. There is a Portillos on one corner, near the Walmart and a car dealer across the street. A 7/11 gas station on the 3^rd corner with the cemetery on the last.  Lots and lots of cars, people shopping and traffic noise.  It’s a very lively area, ironically.  The cemetery is very old with many graves from the late 1880’s and early 1900’s. When I go to visit my parents, I always almost miss the cemetery gate to go in. It’s narrow and my car barely fits. The road is not paved; it is rough and bumpy with lots of stones and holes.  I have to drive slowly so I don’t damage my car.  There are a few spots where the makeshift road is so close to the graves you could almost drive over them. I am careful not to do this. It would be bad. I don’t know why but it feels wrong.

This is a humble place, there are no fancy roads or benches, no pretty flowers or beautiful trees.  This cemetery feels old and well worn.   The trees are ancient; some are uprooted a bit. Some of the graves are topsy-turvy or falling down.  It feels like a cemetery should feel, calm.  I don’t hear the traffic, the cars, the people, they all fade away. In this cemetery, time stops for a moment, and I can catch my breath.  Breathe in, breathe out, think deep thoughts.  So peaceful.

When I finally get to the row where my parents are, I park. My parents are not buried next to each other.  But remember, I think people are where they are meant to be.  LOL.  My dad died a long time ago, more than 40 years ago when I was a teen.  My mom has only been gone about 6 years, when she died the space next to my dad wasn’t available. At least she is in the same row as my dad. There are 3 people between them, the buffer zone. This feels very intentional. I giggle when I think about it. Even in death my Dad doesn’t have to listen to her complaining.  

It is a Jewish tradition to place stones on graves as a gesture of respect and to honor the deceased’s memory.  It is a visual way to know that someone has visited a grave.  I find myself picking up stones, as I have done for many years, and placing them on my parents’ graves.  I pick a few extra for later. I talk to my dad first, we were close.  I tell him about my kids that he never met and my grandson, who is the cutest little guy but at the same time so much trouble. I love my grandson so much, but he makes lots of demands, causes a lot of destruction and cannot be negotiated with, like a tiny terrorist.  I ask Dad how he’s doing and if he has anything he wants me to tell Mom, after all they are a few people away.  He’s not much of a talker. It’s ok, we understand each other. I laugh and I always tell him, “I bet you are glad that you don’t have to listen to Mom all the time.”  Then I go over to Mom, say hi, tell her Dad says hi, repeat some of the things I told Dad and leave a stone for her too.

Before I go, I wander, looking for long lost graves that haven’t had visitors for years or maybe decades. I make my way between the graves, looking for the oldest and most neglected.  Someone needs to let them know they are not forgotten. I gather more stones and speak the names of people that I will never know. Some of the graves have pictures on them of the person sleeping endlessly below. When the picture was taken, did they know where it would end up?  Would they have picked that photo for eternity? I think to myself that there were no filters to make them look cuter. Was that their good side?  Too late and no choice anyway. Now I wish I was stoned in the traditional druggy way. LOL. I guess it’s time to go.

It’s odd to me that graves before a certain decade don’t always show when the person was born, only when they passed and how old they were. I wonder why, but not really. As I make my way back to my car, I pass a tiny monument with Baby as the first name.  What’s this, I think? This tiny gravestone has the birthdate of February 19, 1942, and the death date of February 24, 1942. Huh, sad. Short life lived or really not lived. I think about it as I drop my last stone to let the Baby know someone visited them.  You are remembered.

Loving moms, dads, grandparents, even you Baby Rafelson, everyone must get stoned.