Note to self: next funeral you attend look around for visual markers. How far is the burial plot from the granite bench? The mausoleum, the white structure—anything? If you do not, I promise you will not go back in the rain, carrying an umbrella and the deceased’s favorite yellow roses and find her in less than half an hour. I know, I know, you aren’t thinking about that when you are burying your friend, but location will become important later. Trust me.
In the old days, stones were creative, artistic, monumental, or just small and respectful, but they were unique and easier to spot than flat granite and bronze plaques. You can’t stand in one spot and scour the horizon for a name or shape. No, you must walk in the wet grass clippings, and dare I say it, walk on graves. You try not to, but the head and foot of the gravesite become merged into the next occupant. Finally, I’m ashamed to admit, you just wander without regard to tradition.
You are so clever at first. You look for two stones, one for her, one for her husband. When that is fruitless, you look for a spot missing a stone by an older plaque because there has not been long enough to put a new one for your friend. Finally, moist and hot from the misty rain, you just wander. You even call your friend’s name and say, “Damn, it Gloria, where are you?” Then you see a wide stone with her last name spread across, her husband’s name on one side with dates and hers on the other without. One large stone was not even in your bag of tricks, but there it is. So you call the friend who came with you and the two of you finally plant the roses in a vase. You fuss at your deceased friend a bit for hiding and messing with your head as she was prone to do, wish her Happy Birthday and recall what a kooky, special person she was.
All the while, you are making a mental map for next time, where to stop, which tree to line up with, how far in to go – what you should have done at the funeral had you been thinking straight. So this is fair warning. Heed it or not. And if you do, you have my admiration. If not, I might see you wandering out there among the flat grave stones.
A N H I N G A 
I once spent 45 minutes looking for my brother’s grave. I was sure I knew where it was but hadn’t been there in several years (I live quite a distance from where he is buried). I knew it was one row past the water spigot where we could get water for plants and flowers. But I had picked the wrong spigot or they had put one in since I had been there so I was about five rows away…five long, long rows away. Now I line up with the long part of the T intersection and I’m good. My other brother is easier to find. He’s right by the exit (which is actually now closed because it’s too narrow for modern cars to go in and out) and right next to a huge pine tree that was just a twig when he was buried.
My sister and I had a similar experience when we took Mother’s ashes to scatter on my father and brother’s graves. A cemetery is a different landscape without the tent and mourners. It feels like a place you have never been before.
I would never have been able to find my mother’s grave without help from my father who has been out there often enough that he knows which trees and benches to use in a kind of grid system to find it. I just hope they don’t have to cut down a tree or move a bench. Mom is buried in a state military/veteran’s cemetery and all of the markers look the same. There are rules and regulations about that sort of thing. Even the flowers are ruled and regulated, and regularly (once or twice a week) swept from the grave sites. Other types of things are technically not allowed, although they sometimes put up with a few seashells or rocks or a piece of jewelry for a few days before it, too, is swept away.
The care of the cemetery is, I suppose, much like death itself… sweeping the gifts of life (or the living) away.
I think the one we went to today is strictly regulated, but they missed something. I noticed something under grass clippings scattered on a headstone and uncovered a child’s motorcycle. There must be a story there.
Ah, so true. The two cemeteries that I regularly visit hold my grandparents on my dad’s side and my grandparent’s on my mother’s side. I know where Dad’s parents are, because we go there every year. I only go to my Mom’s parents’ graves about once every five years. We stopped there last month on a trip back from Denver, and I couldn’t find them. Thankfully, my dad was with us and he found them. (He loved them so much, since they were like parents to him. He lost his own parents as a boy.) Great point about taking note. I can already think of one burial I went to earlier this year, and I was too distraught to even think about looking around to where we were relative to the small road in.
I love this post. While I have not had trouble visiting a grave myself (my loved ones are buried in a small town’s graveyard, easy to navigate), I could see this being a problem in bigger cities.
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Jacob Touchette
Thanks for stopping by. I assumed your post was clever spam, but checked you out anyway. Very, very interesting. I can recommend your post to those who feel open about planning for the inevitable and collecting bits of interesting facts and news related to death.
This was bittersweet. I’m glad you found your friend. Most people probably don’t think of these things very often. I do wish the gravesites of today were more like in the past. Old graveyards always have so much character.