"Diary of a Cemeterian".

"...Great is Life, real and mystical, wherever and whoever;
Great is Death—sure as life holds all parts together, Death holds all parts together. Has Life much purport?—Ah, Death has the greatest purport."

- from Walt Whitman's "Great are the Myths"

One chapter completed in my book. There's a sort of calm associated with writing about death.

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cupcake.

If you found this "cupcake" in your trick or treat bag, you're outta luck. More like a rock. (See "Charlie Brown") And it's not the sort of cupcake you want any part of. Any guesses what this "cupcake" really is?

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A true "Halloween" story.

 

This really happened - trust me. I know the people involved...

A family decides to disinter their mother who had been deceased for 30 years and move her body to another state. After all the paperwork had been filed, the family is gathered at the cemetery for the disinterment - a breezy Spring day. Once "mother's" vault is raised out of the ground, the family decides they now want to see their "mother". A very unusual request. The family is dissuaded from doing so but they stand their ground. The vault lid is removed and the casket is opened. To the family’s surprise, “mother” is remarkably preserved, so much so that she looks as though she had been recently buried. “Oh how wonderful Mother looks!”, the family exclaims. Hair, nails, pink blouse, Mother-of-Pearls necklace, hands crossed holding a crucifix – all as it should be. The only thing that had changed was “mother’s” skin - it was dark brown, resembling a Native American Indian. As the family takes in "mother's" miraculous beauty after 30 years deceased, a sudden, light breeze blows up and instantly wipes away "mother’s" face and hands down to the skull and bones, scattering dust into the air. The family is aghast – and the lid to the coffin is quickly shut by the funeral director.

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For Urban...

For the first time, I buried someone I knew. When I say "buried", I mean that I helped dig the hole, set it up for the ceremony, lower the casket, and put dirt in the hole. You see, this is the third summer I've worked at my cousin's cemetery as part of the grounds crew.

Funerals - the passing of a loved one - is a very private matter. I suppose I wouldn't normally blog about this but how often does one actually bury a friend or family member, right?

Urban's mother ("Aunt" Hano) was my Grama Datka's (mom's mother) best friend since they were 13 and Aunt Hano, Uncle Roy and Urban were close to the Datka family. I'm close in age to Urban's son, Brett, so we spent many occasions at my grandparent's farm in Hales Corners or Aunt Hano & Uncle Roy's home.

As the year's passed, I saw less of Urban and his family. 6 years in Iowa then 12 years in Los Angeles was quite the time away for me. Brett and I reconnected on Facebook and it was through emails that I found out of Urban's passing.

Urban's obituary is listed here. There are many things Urban was known for...he still owned his first car, a 1930 Model A and his love of model railroading and photography (both passed down from his father). Uncle Roy's railroad in the basement was something legends are made of and kept us entertained for hours. But what stood out most about Urban was that he was one of the kindest, most affable people I've ever known. If he was around and we were visiting Aunt Hano, Urban (who lived next door) would always come over and say "hello". Always. He was engaging - he didn't talk down to you - he looked you straight in the eyes and smiled and conversed like he was fascinated with everything you said. And that's because he WAS.

Again, my deepest sympathies to Urban's wife, Marilyn, his children, Wendy and Brett, their spouses and the rest of the family. I took great care of Urban, Marilyn, as you requested. ;)

You are missed, Urban.

Love,
The Ircink's

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11 a.m. & 2nd Breakfast!

Above - Left to right: Pimpernel Bramble of Willbottom, East Farthing (me) and Todo Bracegirdle of Hardbottle (Brian).

So, in celebration of the 75th anniversary of the 1st printing of JRR Tolkien's masterpiece, The Hobbit (Sept. 21, 1937), there was a world-wide 2nd Breakfast held this past Friday at 11am. Hobbits love to eat - and they frequently have a 2nd breakfast. I organized this and Brian, my co-worker - was a willing participant. Green tea, cherry scones and wild honeycombs! It was a thing of beauty!

If you've never heard of Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings Trilogy, or The Hobbit, read here, friend.

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Ezra the Juvenile.

 

Monday's are the shittiest day of the week. Mine was even shittier. We have a family of red-tailed hawks that live at the cemetery where I work during the summer. Beautiful, regal birds. They've lived there for a few years, nesting atop an evergreen tree. The male and female mate for life and as far as we know, Ezra (above) was their only offspring. Ezra was born in the spring, a "juvenile" -  meaning it hasn't reached sexual maturity - which in Ezra's case would be two years. We don't know Ezra's sex so we'll just say he's a "he".

Monday morning, Bryan and I found Ezra on the ground below the nest, lying on its back. As far as we could determine, Ezra's back had been broken. We have no idea how. Perhaps a flying miscalculation? Who knows.

We kept an eye on Ezra all morning, turning him on his stomach to see if that helped. However, he slowed down as the morning passed. We called a vet, the DNR, Human Society, shelter - no one would come out to the cemetery. There was nothing they could do for him.

- - - - - - -

The hawks were untypically quiet all day. Do you suppose they knew their Ezra had passed? Were they looking for him? Later on in the afternoon, I saw mom and dad hawk soaring above, riding those thermal drafts - floating, wing-to-wing. At one point, I saw one of the hawks roosting in a tree I had never seen them roost in - a tree overlooking the baby section of the cemetery.

And Bryan and I were quieter than usual that day. Ezra was a part of our daily life and I can't stop thinking about him. So, writer-Jeff composed this haiku, in memory of Ezra the Juvenile:

ezra

look yonder, young hawk!
soar! cry! kree-eee-ar! kree-eee-ar! search the sky!
silence. listen...kree-eee-ar!

Before giving Ezra a proper burial (as only we would know how to do), Bryan and I each took one of Ezra's tail feathers, held sacred to many American Indian tribes - our way of honoring our friend. Take a look at this video - an up-close look at a trained red-tailed hawk...much like Ezra the Juvenile.

Goodbye, Ezra...may you soar in peace for a thousand years. You will be missed.

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TGIF! presents...Johnny Cash's "The Caretaker"!

For Bryan, Bernie & myself.

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...just another day at the office.

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Why seek thee the living among the dead?

Fresh mulberries from the cemetery. Thanks, Bernie!

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Det serbisk blakk din flagg.

If you're name is "Olson" and you have family buried in Good Hope Cemetery in Greenfield, WI, I have your flag.

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Lot Marker 10.

An old post marker identifying a section in Good Hope Cemetery. Its resting quietly in my mother's garden until I move out this fall. Thought it would make an interesting knick knack it my house.

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