Life should not be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in a pretty and well preserved body, but rather to skid in broadside in a cloud of smoke, thoroughly used up, totally worn out, and loudly proclaiming “Wow! What a Ride!”

― Hunter S. Thompson, The Proud Highway: Saga of a Desperate Southern Gentleman, 1955-1967

I walked around the local cemetery yesterday, camera in hand, heart on my sleeve.

Growing up, I was always a bit of a loner, partially through choice and partially due to the cliquish bullshit of my catholic grade school. So I threw myself into escaping that life through books, through music, and through time alone with my thoughts.

Our home was only about a ten minute walk from the local cemetery, so there were times when I would go there to hide from my parents, to hide from my troubles. Something about the silence, something about the monuments was soothing. I would read the stones and wonder at the stories they held; what happened here? What was this person like…what dreams did they have…what did the love…who loved them?

There were very few times when I was not the only one at the cemetery; we inter our dead there, our loved ones - but we don’t want to spend time there ourselves. The land of the dead is for the dead, apparently…

The local cemetery is small, and butts up against a 4 lane road. Blink and you’ll miss it. I’ve yet to ever see anyone there, so I took the time yesterday to explore and photograph and to think of the people buried there.

As always, I find myself wondering as to the stories behind the graves, knowing that behind that simple monument there are tears and pain and love…and hopefully acceptance and healing.

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The picture that leads off this post was from the grave of a teenager, and was one of the saddest things that I’ve seen in quite a long time.

There are veterans buried here; men from both World Wars. Men from the Grand Army of the Republic.

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Men who fought in the War of 1812, and men who fought to create the country we live in.

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As I approach these graves, my hat comes off and I spend a silent moment in remembrance and thanks. Soldiers are not perfect, but those who answered the call and fought have my respect for their service.

I spend the rest of the time fixing flags, adjusting service stars, and watering the plants on the graves. It’s quiet and contemplative work; despite the cars streaming by on the state route thirty feet away, I remain in my own little world.

Mysteries abound…I wonder about the graves that bear only a simple button marker, or the ones where a name is crudely written into the stone…

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…or chiseled simply and inexpertly.

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The weathered stones without names - some still standing, some fallen and stood against a convenient tree or bush - they show us the ultimate answer to our quest to be remembered.

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As I get ready to leave, I start to pack up the camera and I notice one last arrangement to shoot. I find the words “Grandfather” and “Frank” aligned, an American Flag between them. I take the shot, and smile as I think of my Grandfather chuckling.

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I sit in the Jeep a good twenty minutes before I drive off, my mind uncharacteristically blank, just being in the moment there with all those departed. Whereas some may be depressed, I’m strangely uplifted. I’ve taken time to celebrate their lives, to question after them, to wonder about them. In doing so, my life is enriched with not only the memories of all that came before me, but also by the understanding that one must live in the here and now.

To quote from Whitman, “O me! O life!… of the questions of these recurring; of the endless trains of the faithless… of cities filled with the foolish; what good amid these, O me, O life?”

Answer. That you are here - that life exists, and identity; that the powerful play goes on and you may contribute a verse. That the powerful play goes on and you may contribute a verse. What will your verse be?

-- John Keating, Dead Poet’s Society