Cemetery Stones

Day 264

Ian, the boy who believes we’ll be arrested for sneaking in candy to the movies, worries jumping the fence into the cemetery might not be my best idea. 

“No one will see us if we hurry,” I say.  “Now, go.”  The other two boys scurry over quickly and continue the hunt. 

I should clarify.  We’re geocaching not robbing graves. Today’s adventure leads us to the Jewish Cemetery in Montgomery.  It’s a lush, leafy oasis I hadn’t realized existed.  Tucked behind Hopewell Cemetery (and separated by a chain link fence), it’s a lovely, tranquil spot to explore.   

The boys take turns (albeit it reluctantly) with my IPhone using the downloaded geocache app.  Like a compass, it helps direct us to the treasure.  One step left.  Two steps right.  We wander with purpose until we find the loot. 

Unlike the Catholic cemetery we left that’s littered with an array of artificial flowers and empty vases, this resting spot is pristine.  Headstones dot the well-manicured lawn.  Instead of flowers, visitors leave piles of neatly stacked stones that serve as quiet markers of respect.     

“Why do people leave stones?” I. asks.

“To remember someone they love.  To honor their memory.  To celebrate that they lived.”

“How come some people don’t have any stones?” I. asks.  He’s my sensitive one.  It’s exactly like him to worry about the hurt feelings of those in the afterlife.  

Lots of reasons, I tell him.  No stones doesn’t mean no one remembers, I assure him.  It only means that a visit isn’t possible.  I think of all the visits I haven’t made to my grandmother’s stone in Kentucky.  I’ve been planning to take a day and make the 90 minute-drive since we moved to Cincinnati.  This month marks seven years since we moved to Montgomery.  I have yet to make the trip. 

“Can I put a stone here?” I. asks, walking towards a headstone clean of pebbles.  “You know, so they have one?”     

“Yes, I think that’s very nice.”  Everyone’s life should be celebrated and honored.   

Not to be left out, A. grabs three stones and plunks them down on a grave he finds.   “See?  I can do it too!”  Call it a gut feeling but I don’t think he’s feeling it like I. is.   

Sticky Sweet

Day 263

When I was twelve, I volunteered at a nursing home.  Like all new candy stripers, I started as a transporter.  My job consisted of picking up and delivering residents to the in-house beauty parlor for their weekly appointments to perm and set their hair. 

A few times, I mistakenly brought the wrong ladies to the parlor.  They’d tell me they didn’t remember having an appointment and I’d insist that they did.  By the time I wheeled them downstairs they were giddy with excitement about a new hairdo.  The beauticians couldn’t turn them away at that point.  As you can imagine, this caused a bit of a problem.  Days I worked ladies lined the walls waiting for their turn in the chair.  

Not long after that, the volunteer coordinator reassigned me to floater.  My entire shift I visited patients.  If I saw someone who looked lonely, I stopped in and stayed awhile.  For a talkative type, it was a dream job. 

I quickly learned that it didn’t matter what I did or didn’t say but only that I came.  Everyone’s got a little lonely tucked deep inside.  Everyone wants to know that someone cared enough to show up.  I’ve tried to remember the lesson my 12-year-old self taught me. 

Which brings me to today. 

I’m at the Hyde Park Center for Older Adults teaching a cookie decorating class.  We’re at capacity with twenty-three seniors signed up. 

“If you make a mistake,” I start my usual spiel, “eat it before anyone notices.”  That always gets a few giggles.  I explain how we’ll be working with a corn syrup-based icing I’ve filled into clear plastic ketchup bottles.  “It’s much more forgiving,” I explain, “but much, much stickier.” 

For the next hour, we talk about favorite recipes and holiday baking traditions as we decorate.  The time passes quickly.  We eat as much as we laugh.   

As the aides return to wheel many seniors back to their rooms, I notice one woman with wrinkled, brown speckled hands who waits patiently in her wheelchair.  As I come around the table toward her I notice the icing that covers her fingers and palms.     

“May I wash your hands?” I ask, turning to the sink to wet a thick paper towel.  I take her hands in mine and gently wipe the red-tinted corn syrup from their creases.  She smiles and begins to talk.  I kneel beside her chair, hold her hands and listen.  I’m here and I’m in no rush to leave.    

Conspiracy Theory

Day 262

F. and I load up the shopping cart and wheel it towards the door. 

“Stop,” I call out.  F.’s a few steps in front of me racing towards the parking lot.  I dig through our plastic bags and pull out a package of markers. 

“Will you put that in there?” I point towards a large cardboard box labeled “School Supply Collection Box.” 

F. skips back to me, grabs the markers and drops them into the box. 

“What if the store just does that and really puts them back on the shelves?” he asks.

“I like to think that they don’t,” I start.  “I like to think the store makes sure kids who need school supplies get them.” 

“But they might not,” he counters.  Ah, my cynic.  

“Maybe,” I concede.  “But here’s the thing.  Most people in the world are good people with good intentions.”  I pause to see if he’s listening.  “Give people the benefit of the doubt until they prove you wrong.” 

He considers this and slowly nods his head before saying, “OK.”  

For a boy who finds fault and unfairness around every corner, I consider his admission a victory.