The sign at the cemetery entrance reads: Dead End

One of my favorite walks is around the cemetery that is adjacent to our parking lot. I have made no secret as to my opinion of this tiny apartment with the puppy-poop brown walls and dog-caca station out our 'picture' window but at least the neighbors are quiet!

When I told my class (in Russian) that I like walking around the cemetery, my teacher was horrified. She told us that in Russia no one would even build a dwelling next to a cemetery because no one would buy it. They are considered very depressing places. I can see that, certainly. But I see more.

When I walk I see how many gifts are left at the gravestones. I have seen a tiny toy fire truck and race car on one, an empty box of cigars on another (there's a story behind THAT one I'll tell in a minute), on others a rosary, spent candles, burning candles in lanterns at night, folded notes that I have resisted reading, pictures, flags and fields of flowers. That is not depressing to me; it is uplifting. To think that I may be remembered long after I die with items that remind the visitor of me or that have a special meaning to them is heart warming - not to mention the time and thought spent coming to the graveside.

When I last walked there management had posted a sign that they were going to begin enforcing rules regarding what can be placed or planted near the gravesites. There are many, many people who are going to be disappointed to lose their little shrines.

I'll pursue the tacky for a moment. There is a grave that has been outlined (against the rules) in painted rocks. It has a solar powered lantern by it. There are several solar powered lanterns scattered about the cemetery which, if you think about it, is a little unsettling. This grave holds the record for ceramic figures. The most prominent is of a cherub making bunny-ears and face at a rabbit. The others include a few frogs, birds and other animals and angels. This is right next to another grave that has faded, cracked plastic Easter eggs hanging on a dead rosebush.

This is when I can understand management stepping in and enforcing the rules. Note to everyone who wants to grace someone's grave with something: give it a little thought. Remember that unless the wind blows it away or someone takes it, it will be there for a long time.

There are the ubiquitous flowers at many of the graves. Some real and some made from anything under the sun. I've seen beaded flowers, "silk" flowers in the most brazen colors not found in nature, fabric (or leather - I don't know; I didn't touch them) flowers and plastic flowers. I guess whoever puts them there figure they'll look better longer than real ones. True, it you like the look of fake flowers. However when they are past their prime they don't disintegrate nicely into the earth like those real ones. Seeing the old, faded, splitting plastic flowers near a flowering tree or shrub is, to me, like seeing a bones scattered about the graves among the living.

The shrines are interesting, though. One grave has a small basket with the following items: a garlic press, softball, 3 baseballs (one sealed and signed), a pizza slicer, spoon and a shell. Leaning on the headstone are a couple of newpaper articles, bottles of various spirits (no pun intended), small, polished stones engraved with names of herbs, a lantern and a fairy. The entire plot is otherwise covered with flowers - real, planted flowers. The rule is nothing outside of one foot distance from the headstone.

One more. There is a native-American looking wreath on one grave that has a dream catcher on it, feathers, a carved wooden flute and a glitter-covered "I love Dad" sign. Okay, but is it art? Mixed media, I guess.

I like reading the names on the headstones. Persis Proudfit is one of my favorites. Who hears names like that any more? Another is Icey Lucille Johnson. Icey Lucille. If ever there was a name begging for a ghost story, this is it. Icey lived to be only 19. Some more interesting names: Talmadge Thorne, Dicey Rhodes, Gladys Bean Sasscer, Minnie Munger, Hattie Shreve and Luttie O. Tapp. I noticed one name for the first time yesterday. It is carved on a narrow headstone, one with not much room for proper spacing. It reads: Albert L. Ives which, at a glance looks like Albert Lives!

I've saved the best for last - the party plot. This belongs to a Hispanic family that loves each other - those still alive and those passed. They gather regularly at the grave and it looks like a tailgate party complete with lawn furniture, barbeque, food, ice chests, liquor and cigars to party with the deceased. They leave the empties (one bottle of nice Scotch and carved wooden cigar box) behind not as trash but as a gesture of love and remembrance. I'll bet some of that scotch was poured into the ground. Next to this same grave is a Christmas tree with tiny pool balls hanging as ornaments. It has had balloons flying from it and still has a plaque and blue #1 Dad ribbon. Tacky? Yes. Loving? Oh, yes. They are always happy and greet me when I pass them. One day I'll stop to talk to them; since they don't strike me as the reverent type I don't think they'd mind.

I have a great uncle - Uncle Max - who doesn't want a sad, depressing funeral. My Uncle Max has a handle bar mustache and laughing eyes. He loves to sing Danny Boy. He wants to be buried with on eye open and a smirk on his face. He has left instructions that there will be no crying and no dirges at his wake or funeral; people are to laugh, tell jokes, jump up, click their heels together and fart. Now that's celebrating life.