Some people like old cemeteries. Can be a little creepy, little traffic which makes them safe to walk the older roads and gain some needed exercise. I like them too. I like the old gravestones and old surnames of the area from so long ago. I like my neighborhood’s Elmwood Cemetery for a different reason as well.
This past winter made me realize why as I turned right and squeezed between the two granite supports that have been here long before the modern-day automobile. This blacktopped road has seen better days and it appears the plow attempted but one pass this day. I take a couple turns and travel down into a little hollow like I have so many times before. I look to my left and there about seven disorganized rows back sit side by side the two identical gravestones upon a little hill. When her mom died in 1934 Annie wanted the same gravestone as she, so she bought two. Who knew it would be 56 years before she used it. It’s a cold grey early December day as I get out of the car. The new-fallen snow has formed a light crust from a cold overnight. I crunch through the crust and feel the fluffy white snow underneath. I make my way to the grave, my breath clearly visible in the cold air. My mind races with memories of so long ago…
Shaking hands create a response “Stevie I don’t think I will be able to write the Christmas cards any longer”. I look at hands that are weathered and worn. Hands that spent a lifetime of work in shoe factories, hands that worked the dirt, and have grown countless flowers and vegetables in beautiful gardens. Hands that taught me how to make a wreath out of pine, hemlock, princess pine, and fir. From that Christmas forward we wrote the cards together. Fifty years later I still remember the names, I still remember the
addresses…
Now, I place the wreath made of pine, hemlock, princess pine, and fir upon her stone. I reflect for a moment as to why I am here. I turn and head back to the car with each foot retracing my steps in the snow. Annie always said it was easier to walk that way, but today only one set of footprints guide my way. As I start the car I look to my left and before I leave this little hollow, I glance at the graves. I realize that in years past the wreath was always on the grave to the left, but not today. “One last look before we go Stevie” I hear her say. The snow crunches as I slowly pull away and on this day My heart is warmed by holiday memories of an old friend. Yes, this ole Elmwood Cemetery tucked neatly into my neighborhood is a nice place to visit.
