Markers Demarcating The Remarkable

On a sunny, early spring day, Uncle Bubba drove the twisting two lane highways that snake between the farmland and pastures of Pennsylvania. The brown hillsides masked the gliding hawks that preside over the golden farm fields until they appear against the light blue sky or turn to reveal their golden feathers in the sun's reflection. He drove through the townships and boroughs from hamlets to crossroads, past stone houses and barns. After passing archaic gothic churches, their flanks guarded with grave yards, a few things occurred to Bubbie. To him, the headstones mark the remarkable lives of those of whom have passed; each one a story. You see, Uncle Bubba has an odd affinity to cemeteries; so let me back up to a time when Uncle Bubba was just a little Bubbie. He was barely big enough to see over the front seat of his parents blue Ford station wagon. His mama would pack a picnic basket with bologna sandwiches, or worse yet, cheese and mustard that were so thin and dry that you'd think you were eating corrugated cardboard. It was always mustard on the sandwiches because his mama would worry that mayonnaise would grow salmonella during the car ride. Once the station wagon was loaded, they'd head out for the annual trip to visit his grandfather's family at the old farm. For hours they would ride further and further out into the countrysides. The distance between towns and houses would expand as they traveled into the farmland until his father would turn the car into the driveway of the old homestead. They would cross the railroad tracks and pass a small apple orchard beside the old gray farmhouse. It was gray because it's dried wooden planks had not seen paint in a hundred years if ever at all. The tradition after visiting with the old folks was to head to a cemetery and begin the headstone hunt for lost relatives. Invariably it would be lunchtime and right there in the cemetery, Bubbie's mama would lay out a blanket and set up lunch from the picnic basket. After a hot bologna sandwich and a glass of water, Bubbie was free to wander among the graves. "Don't step on them!" his mother would harken as she packed up the basket. So as a little boy Bubbie had developed a relationship with the carved granite blocks, the sunken ground, and the spirits that pass thru there.

Now, as he drove by a cemetery on this early spring day, he considered that a portion of these grave markers were from pre-civil war times. He envisioned all of the people in the America. Just driving, even on these back country roads, there's so many houses, and so many vehicles on the road; people everywhere. Yet it occurred to him that there aren't enough grave markers to account for all of the dead that have passed in the past 250 years. Why is that? And why do you almost never see anyone visiting a cemetery? Of the hundreds that Bubbie has driven past in the past year or so he can't recall ever seeing anyone just visiting a cemetery short of the caretaker mowing or weed-whacking around the headstones. He's not saying that no one ever visits to pay their respects, but it is rare… watch for yourself.

Bubbie mentioned that he would be remiss if he didn't elucidate on the spiritual aspect of his cemetery exposé. In general terms, he believes that a person's soul leaves their body as the body dies, yet where the body is laid to rest there is a spiritual connection, an opening of energy to which a spirit can access our world and we can connect with them. This area of energy is more to our benefit since we are grounded in the physical world. It is available but optional depending on the spirit and us, after all, it takes two to make a relationship. In Bubbie's view, we are too intent on living within our little world that we ignore those that have come before. In doing so we disregard the lessons their lives could teach us, which destine us to repeat them.