I live next door to a small country cemetery, and we share a common chain-link fence just to the south of my house. Over the years I've taken a lot of good-natured ribbing from co-workers about ghosts and zombies and vampires, and there have been a few serious questions from people unsettled by the thought of living next to a cemetery. I've always smiled and responded that I have no problem with it; they're the quietest, most courteous neighbors I've ever had. They never play their stereos too loudly or take my parking space, and they never complain if my dogs bark at the squirrels playing in the oak trees. If they've ever been offended that my cat occasionally suns on their granite tombstones, they've never said a word.
Living next to a cemetery does have its own peculiar etiquette, though. When there's a graveside service, I try to stay inside to give the mourners their privacy, although I'm not certain that most people would notice even if they saw me. Grief does funny things to the memory. For a few days after a death, reality can seem blurry, but the oddest things will stand out in sharp relief, and I don't want one of those stray clear memories to be of a large middle-aged woman in the next yard pulling weeds or making house repairs.
Sometimes, though, I've inadvertently contributed to those memories whether I wanted to or not. My parents live in the house just to the north of mine, and a section of their property runs behind my land in a sideways L-shape, so they, too, share that common fence with the cemetery. One year, my parents raised goats. They were big pets really, kept because their antics made my mother laugh. That morning, a bulldozer rumbled into the cemetery and dug a grave, so we knew there was a service scheduled. Sure enough, a few hours later, the funeral home advance team pulled in, unpacked a canopy and chairs and set out the flowers. When the hearse slipped slowly down the road followed by a stream of cars, we observed our self-imposed etiquette and retreated inside.
It was a fine spring day, and we had the windows to the house open. I was over at my parents' house, gossiping with my mother about the latest family news, and in a few minutes we heard something we'd never heard at a funeral before: laughter. Uproarious laughter, in fact. Curious, we peeked outside to see - to our utter mortification - our goats standing up, front hooves braced on the chain link, industriously eating the tops out of the colorful flower arrangements that an inexperienced funeral home employee had leaned against that common fence.
I ran outside and chased the goats away, but it was a losing battle. The goats considered those flowers the most delicious things they'd ever tasted, and they weren't giving them up without a struggle. Finally a funeral home employee and several mourners moved the flowers, but the damage was done, and the flowers were sadly bedraggled. One of the family members, a burly man in a dark blue suit, walked over to the fence where I was futilely shooing away goats. While I stammered out an apology and an offer to replace the flowers, he shook his head. "Granddad always hated going funerals," the man said, "and I think he would have laughed louder and harder than any of us over those goats eating his funeral flowers."
From what I've observed, there's a general pattern to people visiting the cemetery. Right after a funeral, people usually visit pretty often. They come to remember, to mourn, and I've seen more than one person settle down in a folding chair for a long talk with the person they've lost, but as time and life move on, the visits gradually lessen in frequency. That's as it should be, I think. Whether or not you believe in an immortal soul, the dead only exist in the most superficial way in the cemetery, and I believe it's far more important to keep them in our hearts and minds.
I know that ultimately all that separates me and mine from that cemetery are a common fence and a few heartbeats. My parents are aging, and life is uncertain. Soon enough that dividing line will be crossed, but today I will sit down to a good meal with my family and be thankful that we're still on this side of the common fence. Whether or not you celebrate Thanksgiving, I hope you have the chance to do the same.