I do appreciate good use of the Subject Line in e-mails, but this one caught me off guard.
I was taken aback, even though I had indeed been corresponding with the General Manager of the cemetery where a number of family members are buried. Most significantly: my parents are there. When these four words popped into view on my computer screen, awareness of previous communications failed to sustain me.
The cemetery had generated anxiety in the past. My father was buried there over thirty-five years ago; my mother's ashes interred in the mid-1990's. My mother's ashes, I should say, were partially buried there, as other family members had, to my dismay, requested small portions of ash for transfer (at their discretion) to other sites. Anyway, the anxiety to which I refer had been triggered by difficulties in acquiring a new headstone for the plot which had originally been occupied by Dad alone. When Mom died, and it was decided to have her join Dad underground, it seemed appropriate to order a new headstone which they would also share, rather than add a second marker for her which could either match or clash with the marker already there for him. A design with text was eventually agreed upon and the order placed. No one involved in ordering the new marker lived nearby, so the cemetery Management promised to send a photo when the marker was ready.
A picture was indeed eventually sent by the mason, depicting the new marker in place on the plot, surrounded by the older stones of Grandparents and Great-Aunts and -Uncles who had departed this earth long before our times. The problem was: the stone set in place bore other names entirely, not ours at all, so that our parents were identified as "Mr. and Mrs. Byrd" or some such thing.
I welcomed the hilarity, imagining laughter from them both in the great beyond. The mason, however, was an elderly Italian man who took great pride in his work, and he was hugely ashamed of his error in placement. We reassured him and asked him to please not worry about the mistake. In no time, the correct marker was in place. From time to time, I pass by to share a few moments on that hill. At some point I left my e-mail address with the Manager's office, in case 'anything came up.' I had once inquired about the term 'perpetual care' which applies to family plots like this, confirming my suspicion that this implied little more than lawn-mowing and general up-keep of the grounds. I wondered about stone cleaning and maintenance, and was told that most people preferred the ‘old look’ and that virtually no marker scrubbing was carried out. After that, a long silence ensued.
So when a 'Question from the Cemetery' appeared, my eyebrows remained on high for several long moments. The question was not at all what I expected: in anticipation of my next visit to the cemetery, the General Manager was hoping I might be willing to bring special stockings for a ‘lady friend.’ To be honest, I really did not want to build up this type of relationship with his office. I imagined an infinite number of Subject Lines in the future, injecting, without warning, the shock of a 'Question from The Cemetery' on my screen.
I sent a reply: "Your request ... is indeed unique. If this is an item which is easily identified (size, color, material, quality, strength, price limit) then I am willing to look if I find myself in appropriate stores before travelling..., but without details to simplify the search, I'm afraid it cannot be done. I am not a 'shopper' and do not spend time comparing goods."
I was taken aback, even though I had indeed been corresponding with the General Manager of the cemetery where a number of family members are buried. Most significantly: my parents are there. When these four words popped into view on my computer screen, awareness of previous communications failed to sustain me.
The cemetery had generated anxiety in the past. My father was buried there over thirty-five years ago; my mother's ashes interred in the mid-1990's. My mother's ashes, I should say, were partially buried there, as other family members had, to my dismay, requested small portions of ash for transfer (at their discretion) to other sites. Anyway, the anxiety to which I refer had been triggered by difficulties in acquiring a new headstone for the plot which had originally been occupied by Dad alone. When Mom died, and it was decided to have her join Dad underground, it seemed appropriate to order a new headstone which they would also share, rather than add a second marker for her which could either match or clash with the marker already there for him. A design with text was eventually agreed upon and the order placed. No one involved in ordering the new marker lived nearby, so the cemetery Management promised to send a photo when the marker was ready.
A picture was indeed eventually sent by the mason, depicting the new marker in place on the plot, surrounded by the older stones of Grandparents and Great-Aunts and -Uncles who had departed this earth long before our times. The problem was: the stone set in place bore other names entirely, not ours at all, so that our parents were identified as "Mr. and Mrs. Byrd" or some such thing.
I welcomed the hilarity, imagining laughter from them both in the great beyond. The mason, however, was an elderly Italian man who took great pride in his work, and he was hugely ashamed of his error in placement. We reassured him and asked him to please not worry about the mistake. In no time, the correct marker was in place. From time to time, I pass by to share a few moments on that hill. At some point I left my e-mail address with the Manager's office, in case 'anything came up.' I had once inquired about the term 'perpetual care' which applies to family plots like this, confirming my suspicion that this implied little more than lawn-mowing and general up-keep of the grounds. I wondered about stone cleaning and maintenance, and was told that most people preferred the ‘old look’ and that virtually no marker scrubbing was carried out. After that, a long silence ensued.
So when a 'Question from the Cemetery' appeared, my eyebrows remained on high for several long moments. The question was not at all what I expected: in anticipation of my next visit to the cemetery, the General Manager was hoping I might be willing to bring special stockings for a ‘lady friend.’ To be honest, I really did not want to build up this type of relationship with his office. I imagined an infinite number of Subject Lines in the future, injecting, without warning, the shock of a 'Question from The Cemetery' on my screen.
I sent a reply: "Your request ... is indeed unique. If this is an item which is easily identified (size, color, material, quality, strength, price limit) then I am willing to look if I find myself in appropriate stores before travelling..., but without details to simplify the search, I'm afraid it cannot be done. I am not a 'shopper' and do not spend time comparing goods."
The Manager eventually replied, thanking me for my response and informing me that he anticipated visiting Amsterdam (with his ‘lady friend’) and would take care of the matter himself. I shuddered, alarmed at the prospect of seeing 'Visit from The Cemetery' in e-mails to come, but so far no such bulletins have materialized.
Eventually I visited the family plot again, intending to pass by the Manager's office to clarify the issue of perpetual care, but as I started down the green burial slopes on that afternoon in May, I saw his car moving slowly down the flat driveway to the exit gate. The gleam of afternoon sunlight on the car’s black surface was extraordinary.
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