Headstone Chronicles

Once we get past Labor Day, the tourist season pretty much comes to an end. The beaches and boardwalk clear, the ice cream shop shutters its windows, and residents take a deep breath and take back their lake community.

Since my retirement, I, too, acknowledge the changes of seasons and look forward to the quieter days and the nearly traffic-free streets. Walking two or three miles a day, I take to the hiking paths through the beauty of the wooded hollows and up the rolling dunes. But the dark lake and the weather it influences only allow so many weeks of autumnal free fall before the early snows and accompanying ice arrive and remain as guests long after the “oohs” and “aahs” of the first snow flakes of weeks and weeks before. The roads and the beach parks become pretty much impassable as western or Canadian storm fronts help pile up tons and tons of snow, which sticks around right up to and, sometimes, beyond the thaws of late March. Too much white stuff and too much slick ice really cut into my outdoor walking treks, leaving me way too much boring time on my Sears treadmill.

This year, purely by accident, I located the only place in town where the roads were plowed and salted even after highway clogging blizzards. Ironically, it was an area with the least amount of vehicle or foot traffic…the municipal cemetery. Located right in the center of the old village, the cemetery dates back to the early 1800’s with a myriad of pathways. The roads there, no wider than a single car’s width, snake through the dune and hardwood sections with varying elevations making the perfect setting for walking no matter the winter-crippling weather elsewhere.

Over a period of time, I created a routine and became familiar with the names on the headstones. Unusual names and old dates would pop into my daydreaming menus. One day I read the marker of a Thomas Dunst who was born in 1909. Anna L., his wife, was born in 1911 and died in 1946. On that stone there was no end date for Thomas. However, an immediately adjacent marker also had Thomas Dunst name engraved, born 1909 and died 1996 and his wife, Emily, born 1922 and died 1987! I began to imagine this Tom Dunst as quite a man, married to two younger women and outliving them both. What was he like? He must have been good with women and women must have found him charming. I picture him with thick, wavy hair, a little gray on the sides and staying that way. Did he end up with a third after ’87 or did he spend his last years alone? I don’t think alone. I want to believe that Tom hooked up with a 60’s something widow who was with him at dinners, parties, and movies right up to his last days. I’m sure the striking widow found Tom funny, manly, and the perfect companion. She loved him and would’ve married him had he asked. I wish I had known him. I bet he was a lively man who would’ve been enjoyable to be around.

A woman walking her very active dog broke into my imaginings. She introduced herself and her dog to me. “I’ve seen you here before, it’s a great, quiet place to walk,” she said. I agreed. With that she and Butchy moved on their way.

On another cold day, I stopped to reread a headstone that didn’t make a lot of sense. Underneath the engraved surname Lowe, it read: Robert J. and his wife, Lizzy Lowe. Both were born in 1904. I hadn’t seen many nicknames on markers as I presumed Lizzy’s was. Most couples’ headstones list the husband’s first and middle name or initial and the wife’s first and, occasionally, her middle name. After repeated passings, the mystery slowly unfolded itself. Lizzy’s maiden name was also Lowe, totally unrelated to Robert Lowe’s family. Most likely she and Robert met in the early school years where teachers often arranged their classroom rows in alphabetical order putting the then Elizabeth Lowe in the desk right in front of Robert. He never called her anything other than Lizzy and, perhaps, had given her the name. He teased her and did the usual things boys do to girls they liked. Lizzy never went to the teacher with complaints, never tattled. She liked Bobby with his bright eyes and his easy smile and, on occasions, would help when he asked for math answers or correct spelling words.

After the years of alphabetical connections, the two of them became inseparable. By high school they were a pair. Wherever you saw Lizzy, you saw Bob. He sat through many of her piano recitals. She went to all of his football games and wore his varsity sweater in their senior year. Another date on their marker noted that they were married in August of 1921, which would’ve been the same year they should have graduated. But it was the end dates at the very bottom of the marker which told me so much more than any obituary could ever recount… the date, 1985, the year they both turned 81 and the year they both died.

One of the more curious headstones that I had walked past so many times on those blustery days had nothing to do with old dates or unique names. In fact it was an engraved inscription, easily seen from the cleared road, on the backside of a headstone that caught my eye. The first line boldly stated: “Dad, you were our sunshine.” Now that alone would not have stirred my musings too much. However, the second line caused me to stop dead in my tracks to read on. I walked into calf-deep snow to be sure that what I thought I read was indeed what was engraved. I wiped away some snow that had distorted the letters a bit and read the second line: “and Mom, you were our moonshine.” Wow! I wished I had known Mom. What could the children have meant when they added those lines to the backside of their parents’ marker? So many of the family-added inscriptions are biblical quotes or famous, poetic lines. A moonshine reference isn’t often found along side RIP.

Back home I checked the dictionary for some help. As I thought, moonshine was defined as illegal whiskey; but the entry also listed another definition: “Silly language or actions.” There it was. Dad brought insight, intelligence, and clarity to the family. He was the center, he was the substance. He was the light. Mom, on the other hand brought life to the party. She ripped trouble to shreds, teased tears into laughter, and found ways to distill good cheer into the household’s routine. She was the life. God, you’ve got to love that kind of woman. I made myself a promise that on another day’s walk through I’d clear the ice and snow incrusted headstone front and find her name and place it in my memory bank. She’s someone to remember.

The mid-March warmth helped clear the sidewalks making old routes passable once again. I returned to my routes through the soon-to-be leafing hardwoods and beech trees and along the boardwalk and beach trails. The slowly warming days would take me to the town’s shops, post office, library, and to a favorite breakfast spot. But one thing was sure, no more treadmill days for me during the frozen months. No way. I located my winter haven.

I’ll be returning to the cemetery and looking forward to the stories that I hear in that narrative silence. Come those icy, windy days of winter, I’ll be retracing my steps to my hideaway paths where my stone-faced friends, names, dates, and inscriptions will await my walks and tease me once again from and with their cemetery plots and stories.Headstone Chronicles
Once we get past Labor Day, the tourist season pretty much comes to an end. The beaches and boardwalk clear, the ice cream shop shutters its windows, and residents take a deep breath and take back their lake community.

Since my retirement, I, too, acknowledge the changes of seasons and look forward to the quieter days and the nearly traffic-free streets. Walking two or three miles a day, I take to the hiking paths through the beauty of the wooded hollows and up the rolling dunes. But the dark lake and the weather it influences only allow so many weeks of autumnal free fall before the early snows and accompanying ice arrive and remain as guests long after the “oohs” and “aahs” of the first snow flakes of weeks and weeks before. The roads and the beach parks become pretty much impassable as western or Canadian storm fronts help pile up tons and tons of snow, which sticks around right up to and, sometimes, beyond the thaws of late March. Too much white stuff and too much slick ice really cut into my outdoor walking treks, leaving me way too much boring time on my Sears treadmill.

This year, purely by accident, I located the only place in town where the roads were plowed and salted even after highway clogging blizzards. Ironically, it was an area with the least amount of vehicle or foot traffic…the municipal cemetery. Located right in the center of the old village, the cemetery dates back to the early 1800’s with a myriad of pathways. The roads there, no wider than a single car’s width, snake through the dune and hardwood sections with varying elevations making the perfect setting for walking no matter the winter-crippling weather elsewhere.

Over a period of time, I created a routine and became familiar with the names on the headstones. Unusual names and old dates would pop into my daydreaming menus. One day I read the marker of a Thomas Dunst who was born in 1909. Anna L., his wife, was born in 1911 and died in 1946. On that stone there was no end date for Thomas. However, an immediately adjacent marker also had Thomas Dunst name engraved, born 1909 and died 1996 and his wife, Emily, born 1922 and died 1987! I began to imagine this Tom Dunst as quite a man, married to two younger women and outliving them both. What was he like? He must have been good with women and women must have found him charming. I picture him with thick, wavy hair, a little gray on the sides and staying that way. Did he end up with a third after ’87 or did he spend his last years alone? I don’t think alone. I want to believe that Tom hooked up with a 60’s something widow who was with him at dinners, parties, and movies right up to his last days. I’m sure the striking widow found Tom funny, manly, and the perfect companion. She loved him and would’ve married him had he asked. I wish I had known him. I bet he was a lively man who would’ve been enjoyable to be around.

A woman walking her very active dog broke into my imaginings. She introduced herself and her dog to me. “I’ve seen you here before, it’s a great, quiet place to walk,” she said. I agreed. With that she and Butchy moved on their way.

On another cold day, I stopped to reread a headstone that didn’t make a lot of sense. Underneath the engraved surname Lowe, it read: Robert J. and his wife, Lizzy Lowe. Both were born in 1904. I hadn’t seen many nicknames on markers as I presumed Lizzy’s was. Most couples’ headstones list the husband’s first and middle name or initial and the wife’s first and, occasionally, her middle name. After repeated passings, the mystery slowly unfolded itself. Lizzy’s maiden name was also Lowe, totally unrelated to Robert Lowe’s family. Most likely she and Robert met in the early school years where teachers often arranged their classroom rows in alphabetical order putting the then Elizabeth Lowe in the desk right in front of Robert. He never called her anything other than Lizzy and, perhaps, had given her the name. He teased her and did the usual things boys do to girls they liked. Lizzy never went to the teacher with complaints, never tattled. She liked Bobby with his bright eyes and his easy smile and, on occasions, would help when he asked for math answers or correct spelling words.

After the years of alphabetical connections, the two of them became inseparable. By high school they were a pair. Wherever you saw Lizzy, you saw Bob. He sat through many of her piano recitals. She went to all of his football games and wore his varsity sweater in their senior year. Another date on their marker noted that they were married in August of 1921, which would’ve been the same year they should have graduated. But it was the end dates at the very bottom of the marker which told me so much more than any obituary could ever recount… the date, 1985, the year they both turned 81 and the year they both died.

One of the more curious headstones that I had walked past so many times on those blustery days had nothing to do with old dates or unique names. In fact it was an engraved inscription, easily seen from the cleared road, on the backside of a headstone that caught my eye. The first line boldly stated: “Dad, you were our sunshine.” Now that alone would not have stirred my musings too much. However, the second line caused me to stop dead in my tracks to read on. I walked into calf-deep snow to be sure that what I thought I read was indeed what was engraved. I wiped away some snow that had distorted the letters a bit and read the second line: “and Mom, you were our moonshine.” Wow! I wished I had known Mom. What could the children have meant when they added those lines to the backside of their parents’ marker? So many of the family-added inscriptions are biblical quotes or famous, poetic lines. A moonshine reference isn’t often found along side RIP.

Back home I checked the dictionary for some help. As I thought, moonshine was defined as illegal whiskey; but the entry also listed another definition: “Silly language or actions.” There it was. Dad brought insight, intelligence, and clarity to the family. He was the center, he was the substance. He was the light. Mom, on the other hand brought life to the party. She ripped trouble to shreds, teased tears into laughter, and found ways to distill good cheer into the household’s routine. She was the life. God, you’ve got to love that kind of woman. I made myself a promise that on another day’s walk through I’d clear the ice and snow incrusted headstone front and find her name and place it in my memory bank. She’s someone to remember.

The mid-March warmth helped clear the sidewalks making old routes passable once again. I returned to my routes through the soon-to-be leafing hardwoods and beech trees and along the boardwalk and beach trails. The slowly warming days would take me to the town’s shops, post office, library, and to a favorite breakfast spot. But one thing was sure, no more treadmill days for me during the frozen months. No way. I located my winter haven.

I’ll be returning to the cemetery and looking forward to the stories that I hear in that narrative silence. Come those icy, windy days of winter, I’ll be retracing my steps to my hideaway paths where my stone-faced friends, names, dates, and inscriptions will await my walks and tease me once again from and with their cemetery plots and stories.