This week, Chris and I spent a very hot afternoon snapping photos in Friendship Cemetery, and perhaps expecting to meet a ghost. We revisited some old favorites. I love the Munro Mausoleum. It is crumbling, the roof covered with vines and saplings. But the crypt remains elegant, an exquisite whitewashed edifice, retaining its grace in spite of fractured walls and a weedy interior.
I do not know anyone named “Munro.” I wonder if there are any family members still around?
The Teasdale Angel may be the most recognized and photographed sculpture on the grounds. There are many other lesser known and unnamed angels that are just as lovely. They stand over tombs, keeping vigil forever. Their stone wings are motionless, never to take to the sky.
I spent a lot of time searching for one of my favorites. It is a tiny lamb curled up on top of an infant’s grave. Alas, we drove all around and just could not locate it. Maybe the figures get up sometimes and stroll around to stretch their legs.
Memorial Day has recently past. Because of this, small American flags are scattered on the graves of soldiers. What a lovely picture they made, fluttering in the breeze.
It can be shocking to read the dates of birth and death. People from earlier times seem to have died so young. These days, most of us expect to approach 80 and beyond.
Although the temperature was almost unbearable, trees splattered inviting patches of shade across the paved lanes and quiet graves.
I suspect that everyone in our area has visited Friendship more than a few times. It had probably been a year or two since I had entered the old iron gates. Still, there is so much to see that I recommend revisiting this lovely cemetery often.
The day after the election Chris pulled the political signs from our front yard. They reminded me a bit of headstones, signs of dreams that have died.
I suppose our lives are punctuated with markers of time passing, changes and deaths. We become slowly grayer. Joints creak and ache. These things progress at a dawdling pace.
Dramatic events can create symbols that are abrupt, unexpected, often painful. Natural disasters, accidents, traumatic incidents can alter our lives in seconds. I will never forget Hurricane Katrina. My life changed forever with that one storm. Moore, Oklahoma, and a hundred other places will never be the same because of tornadoes that devastated them in minutes. The dates of those angry winds will always haunt us. They scar our psyches with memories divided into “before” and “after.”
Chris and I did not encounter any spirits in Friendship Cemetery. That may have been a good thing. My capacity for drama has diminished greatly with the years.
My current plan is to continue to grow older, with, I hope, some poise and grace. I have a great many plans, none of which include having a tombstone with my name on it any time soon. My friends in the cemetery will just have to wait.
Adele Elliott, a New Orleans native, moved to Columbus after Hurricane Katrina.
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