Mullis: Just another freelancer wandering the cemetery

I was standing alone in Mount Olivet Catholic Cemetery in Kalamazoo one fine October morning. I had just finished interviewing the sexton regarding a story I was hired to write.

Now I just needed a few pictures.

When I was a kid, my cousin told me to hold my breath whenever passing a cemetery or else I’d be the next to die. I thought about this as the warm autumn air tickled my nose. I didn’t want to hold my breath. Cemeteries don’t scare me. They fascinate me.

It might have something to do with what the sexton told me during the interview. His family had been taking care of the grounds for four generations. On his first day, his father told him there was one club we were all going to join, and that was the Death Club. Age and status don't matter. We are all equals here.

It might have something to do with my tendency to worry. I often feel burdened, yet walking among those who have laid their burdens down for eternity reminds me this is all temporary. Truths like that were hard to ignore in the cemetery.

Many headstones had “beloved” on them – beloved wife, husband, mother, father, daughter, son. I wondered if “beloved” would be on my stone, and if so, which of my many hats my survivors would pick.

Hopefully, it won’t be “Beloved Worrywart."

Some markers made me curious. I wondered what happened to the family who lost a couple of members in the same year. I wondered why a child’s grave had a stone but no name. I wondered about a husband who died several decades ago, while his wife’s side appeared unoccupied. Did she find eternal rest elsewhere?

Not my business, of course, but busy-bodying is harmless among the dead.

This cemetery tempted the storyteller in me, mostly because I didn’t know any of the stories. Every tombstone read like a writing prompt – a name, an era, a relationship. The possibilities were endless, which had me itching for a pen.

I can’t be in any cemetery without thinking of my father, who has two cemeteries he likes to walk in daily. He favors the older one by his house, which rolls down to a fat river. It has gnarled trees, a variety of stones, and even a crypt. The newer one has young trees, neat rows, and memorial plaques flush to the ground.

When my uncle was in hospice, my father had the sad task of making the final arrangements. He wanted to bury my uncle in the old cemetery, but no plots were available. Then, miraculously, someone turned in a plot, which was near my father’s favorite bench by the river. It comforted my father to have a standing stone engraved. It comforts him to visit his brother every day.

And it comforts me to think of him doing it.

Earlier, the sexton pointed out a place were the remains of miscarriages are buried. There were no names, just a weathered statue of the Blessed Mother, arms spread. At her feet were tokens – a stuffed cat, a toy car, a bubble wand. I found myself wandering back there alone, my mother’s heart breaking a little. It’s far too easy to forget how lucky I am.

Some of the stones were white, which reminded me of the one my grandparents share. My grandmother died first, which meant the stone needed to be updated when my grandfather died. The day of my grandfather’s funeral, I looked for her grave and found the stone lying in the grass, like a pulled tooth. Reading my grandmother’s name on that upended stone pained me.

The sexton said it takes about six years for someone to stop fastidiously tending a grave, which is when he steps in to continue the upkeep. That thought stayed with me – when we pass, our mourners will only come for a short spell. Then a stranger will tend our graves and folks will walk past our stones as they would trees in a park. We will be part of the quiet and the reverence.

The sexton shared that most people coming to cemeteries these days aren’t mourning but researching. They’re looking for their ancestors or the ancestors of a stranger. The sexton called the latter group “the freelancers” – people who take jobs through the Internet to photograph gravesites.

I thought about this as I took pictures of strangers’ gravesites for my story. I’m a different type of freelancer, but still…

My phone buzzed in my bag, reminding me of the many other things I had yet to do. Still, I lingered, taking the long way back to my car – feeling human, feeling connected, feeling present.

Nicole L.V. Mullis is the author of “A Teacher Named Faith.” You can reach her at nlvm.columns@gmail.com or www.NicoleLVMullis.com.

MOSAIC STORYTELLING

Hear Nicole L.V. Mullis share one of her stories for the Mosaic Storytelling Showcase at 7 p.m. Thursday. Tickets are $7 and are available online at tickets.battlecreekenquirer.com and at the Battle Creek Enquirer newsroom, 77 E. Michigan Ave. The show will be at First Congregational Church, 145 Capital Ave. N.E.