“A Special Place”

a true story by by Janice Locke

“Be careful!” I shouted to my three-year-old grandson as he dodged the gravestones and launched himself into my son’s outstretched arms. My son laughed as he swung Andrew around, tossing him into the air before hugging him.

I glanced around the cemetery, instinctively wondering if the laughter was inappropriate in this place of stillness. “I love you, Daddy!” he shouted. Immediately I relaxed and thought this was exactly the right place.

My son, grandson and I were visiting the gravesite of my parents. My parents had died within days of each other 25 years ago. Holding Andrew’s hand, my son pointed out the gravestone in front of us. Andrew reached out and etched the markings with his fingers as my son explained that his own Grandma and Grandpa were “sleeping” here.

“Sleeping?” asked my grandson. “But Grandma is here” he argued, pointing at me. “Not sleeping.”

I smiled as I listened to my son explain the generational differences between Great Grandmas and actual Grandmas. I reached for Andrews’s hand and gave if a squeeze as I inwardly offered thanks that indeed I was not sleeping and was “right here.”

Andrew freed himself from my hand and ducked behind another gravestone. “You can’t catch me” he taunted, giggling and hiding.

Glancing quickly around to ensure that we were not interrupting any mourners, my son joined in the play. “Where is Andrew?” he called back and made an exaggerated pretense of looking behind the nearby stones.

My grandson leapt out of his hiding spot and threw an armful of fallen leaves at my son, who threw an armful back, and in his gestures, I saw my father. My son has the same natural athleticism, the same patience and the same willingness to be present in the moment: my son, with his son, my father with me.

This site had been our family gravesite for five generations. Strange as it might sound, as a little girl I enjoyed the seasonal outings centered around caring for the family plot. I loved cleaning the fall flowers and tidying the area for the winter.

My father would make me feel special as he let me hold the spade and turn up the soil while telling stories of our ancestors in Ireland and Scotland and of his family growing up in West Hamilton in the Depression. My mother was happy to have some quiet time, so it was just Dad and me. I treasured each visit.

I hesitate to tell people about our family plot. I know cemeteries are out of favour among some people and I understand the arguments: we need the land for housing; coffins are not environmentally friendly; people move around too much; it’s just creepy.

In our family, though, the act of visiting past generations of family members became a much-cherished tradition filled with storytelling and a sense of being part of something larger than ourselves.

When I had children of my own, our visits included my father, my son and myself. The cemetery abutted the Royal Botanical Gardens in Burlington, Ont. An old wooden bridge affectionately called “Ole Rickety” spanned a shallow portion of Hamilton Bay.

After tending to the plot, we would visit a local diner for French fries. The diner was popular, listing dozens of combinations of toppings for foot long hot dogs. It was decorated with ancient wooden tables full of carvings of hearts and the names of young couples who had visited over the decades.

After eating, my father, fully embracing the role of Grandpa, would make a homemade “fishing pole” consisting of a stick, string, pin, and a single French Fry as bait. We would sit on the bridge as we lowered the French fry bait into the Bay. It never seemed to matter that in all the years of “fishing,” we never once had a bite.

With the passing of my parents and my son growing up, the visits to the gravesite changed. I went by myself and tending the flowers became a lonely chore. Eventually I visited less frequently.

Incredibly 25 years passed. It was my son who had suggested this visit to mark the anniversary of their passing. “Let’s take Andrew,“ he said with enthusiasm. We can tell him about Grandma and Grandpa and our fishing trips to Ole Rickety.

Now my son and grandson and I visit the family site often. The maple tree is showing its age and the cemetery is being encroached by housing developments, but the tending of the family plot has regained its special feeling of connection to past loved ones and a place of storytelling.

Yes, we could simply go to a park or other public place for our outings. But there is something special about a place that exists solely for the reason of remembering family. It grounds us to the past. It forces us to think of the mortality of life. It gives us a reason to share common stories and feel connected to others. Don’t we all need more of this?

If you don’t already have a piece of real estate to lay your own bones, maybe look into it. Someday your children may thank you for it - not to mention your grandchildren and great-grandchildren.

Janice Locke writes personal stories and non-fiction based on experiences as a Grandmother and as a CEO and Senior Executive of public and private companies in Canada. Janice lives in Ancaster with her husband and enjoys hiking the beautiful Dundas Valley with her Sheltie, Callie.

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