I always visit at least one cemetery, graveyard, or burial site whenever I travel. I’m fascinated with cemeteries because, to borrow a phrase from Nandor in What We Do in the Shadows, they’re “so deliciously macabre.”1
Playing in “the Park”
My interest started at the ripe age of 4 or 5. I lived in an apartment across the street from a cemetery in Queens, New York. My grandmother Mima would take me and my sister Jo to the cemetery, but she always called it “the park.” I vividly remember happily frolicking between weathered gravestones and posing under colorful, towering trees for photos. The cemetery had the most vibrant blue, pink, and purple happy little trees in the springtime. It was a scene straight out of a Bob Ross painting.
Jo and I loved to collect flowers to make mini bouquets. I know what you’re thinking, and no, we did not pick the flowers from the gravestones. We plucked them from the garden-like spaces purposefully planted by cemetery workers. We were creepy little kids, I grant you, but not that creepy. Nonetheless, I do recall a cemetery worker reprimanding Mima one time.
“Lady, this isn’t a park, you can’t just pick the flowers!” he said.
But pick flowers we did.
My father was dismayed when he learned his mother had taken us to the cemetery to play.
He’d say in exasperation, “Stop telling them it’s a park – it’s the fucking cemetery!”
Insert the universally known Italian gesture of frustration. 🤌
He became used to the idea eventually, though. When asked what it was like to live next to a cemetery, he always delivered his famous line.
“It’s great, the neighbors are always so quiet.”
Spending Time with the Dead
Even though Jo and I called our cemetery the park, our young minds 100% comprehended it was a place of the dead. When it snowed, we would clear off the top of the gravestones and speak to the people buried there.
“Here you are, Mr. Smith, you’re all clean now!”
After finding a nice rock or flower, we’d offer it to Mrs. Jones or Mr. Connolly and tell them how pretty it looked on their grave. To be clear, we knew none of these people. We were on their turf, in their home, and we knew to be respectful.
When I was 6, we moved to a nice house on the other side of the cemetery. Thankfully, the cemetery was still close, just down the block this time. As I grew older and my friends discovered where I lived, they’d ask the same question.
“Aren’t you afraid to live near all those dead people?”
My honest answer?
“Nope.”
But isn’t it creepy?
“Nope.”
Aren’t you afraid their ghosts will come into your house and haunt you?
“Nah.”
Visiting Loved Ones in Cemeteries
I started going to cemeteries to visit deceased loved ones when I was 10 years old. First, it was my maternal abuelito.2 He’s buried in a cemetery on Long Island, New York. We’d visit him on weekends, and at first, it was sad. This time, I knew someone residing in the cemetery. It was never uncomfortable or unfamiliar, though. My siblings, cousins, and I played in a large expanse of grass, ensuring we didn’t step on the spots where people lay buried because we considered it disrespectful. My parents, aunts, uncles, and abuelita3 would stand around abuelito’s grave, chatting and praying. We spent quality time together in the cemetery, and it felt like abuelito was still with us.
As a teenager, I frequently visited Woodlawn Cemetery in the Bronx with Mima because her mother and husband are buried there. Woodlawn is a magnificent place, with amazing architecture, winding roads, and trees galore. My visits to Woodlawn continued into adulthood because we laid Mima to rest there when she died in 2005.
My experiences came full circle when I began visiting my father in the cemetery in Queens. As a little girl, I cleaned Mr. Smith’s grave, but now as a young woman, I cleaned my father’s. Instead of kissing my father’s cheek to say hello, I now greet him by transferring a kiss from my fingers to his gravestone.
Cemeteries are for the Living
My familiarity and, dare I say, comfort, with cemeteries has been present my entire life. To quote Buffy Summers, I describe myself as “She who hangs out a lot in cemeteries.”4 They may be cities of the dead, but I firmly believe cemeteries are meant for the living. They are places we go to be close to our loved ones and to honor and celebrate the lives of those who came before us. They are places where we reflect on mortality and the afterlife. We also admire the natural and man-made beauty around us, since so many cemeteries are visual feasts for our eyes. Most are arboretums and contain exquisite art and architecture. They are solemn and deliciously macabre because they combine death with nature and peace.
Image credit: Pixabay
Looking back, I believe Mima was right to take two little girls to the cemetery to play. Instead of being fearful, we see the beauty of these places. I hope that when you travel, you’ll take the time to visit some of the cemeteries featured on this blog to enjoy their solitude and power.
For a handy guide in your tombstone adventures, check out the book 199 Cemeteries to See Before You Die by Loren Rhoads. This is an Amazon affiliate link, which means I earn a commission if you make a purchase, at no cost to you.
Do you enjoy cemeteries or find them plain old creepy? If you do like them, do you have a favorite? Let me know in the comments.
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