We have always lived near cemeteries. First near Graceland and now Cavalry, not too far from Rosehill. In fact, part of my graduate thesis was about the necropolis at Rosehill being such a perfect reflection of the living metropolis of Chicago in the late 19th, early 2oth centuries.
My step-daughter and son both learned to ride their bikes in cemeteries. No traffic. Nice wide paved roads. Safe from strangers.
There’s a lot of history in cemeteries. Not only who is buried there, but how—- a Sears metal marker, ordered out of a catalogue, made to look like carved stone; soft marble disintegrating angels, crosses, portraits, crosses, obelisks; mausoleums with stained glass windows, simple flat markers; sometimes exuberant creativity– train cars, tree trunks, canon, glass enclosed sculptures.
When one strolls through the cemetery, one reads the carved dates, sometimes commemorating very short lives, once in a while very long. One thinks about the time these people spent alive in the 1830s, the 1920s, the 1890s.
Today was a beautiful fall day. JB and I took a stroll through the cemetery four blocks from our house just before we made dinner. It was quiet. Cool air but the sun was warming. Soft sounds of the city nearby. Geese munching the greenery while strolling between the stones. Scattered bouquets of flowers here and there. Smell of freshly cut grass. Buried and entombed bodies as far as the eye can see. All the way to the lake.