NUMBERS ON A TOMBSTONE Last week I remembered I hadn’t made arrangements for my mother’s gravestone to be carved into correctness. It reads: Lillian Satterly - 9/25/21 to.......... And there it stops. No final date.... No end point. To the casual passer-by, who strolls the cemetery paths, it appears she’s still going for coffee at Dunkin. That’s not good. She changed addresses in May and I forgot to notify the cemetery walkers, a small, but faithful group of folks who get their morning exercise meandering by the tombstones. So... I called the Granite company, and it will be done for $125. Not bad. When I was a kid, I played in that cemetery, living only half a block away. It’s where I learned to ski, and saw my first of many ghosts. I loved that old place where a large number of my relatives are tucked in for the night. In Junior High, my nightly paper route finished at the far side of the graveyard, and I rode my bike home in the early evening, which, by the way, is a fine time to see ghosts. Each Memorial Day, my grandparents would go the three nearby cemeteries and scrub the tombstones. I was always made to ride along and help. “It’s important they look nice,” my grandmother would say, as she scoured the granite with a hard brush. “You don’t want people walking by and thinking we don’t care about our family.” I used to hate those days, they seemed pointless to me. Great grandpa Abner wouldn’t even know his stone had been cleaned, and whoever it was who judged our ancestors by the bird poop on top of the carvings could go pound sand. What would the neighbors we know, think, is one thing. Unknown cemetery walkers are another. To be truthful, one of my mother’s chief worries was what others thought about us and our family at lots of places other than the graveyard. Mrs. Valsing, across the street, took an afternoon nap, and God forbid if we disturbed her. She might think less of us. Or, old Mr. Whittaker didn’t like it when we ran behind his house. He was a friend of Grandma and his opinions mattered. This business of running our lives by the thoughts and opinions of others is big stuff. It catches us where it hurts. I think it springs out of our childhoods when we wonder if we will be loved when we misbehave. If you have been told not to pet the cat, but you truly want to run your hands through that fur, what will happen if you do? Yelled at? Hit? Disciplined? Is it worth the risk? Sometimes, if you want it so bad, you risk the wrath of your folks, and some kids are so driven, they will do so. Others will put aside their own wishes in order to hold on to the “love” or approval of mom and dad. The latter may be wise, or simply fueled by fear. There’s really no way to know what the cost will be. For some, disapproval is so damning it seems like it is unaffordable. The chances are, those kids will turn into my mother, who’s worth could be wrapped up in the neighbor’s frown. Not always, mind you, but it was always on the front portion of the plate. I was speaking with a colleague the other day regarding an assignment I had agreed to undertake. “I’m not sure what it is they want, exactly,” I said, referring to the class I was to teach. “Oh my, “ she said, “I’m sure you’re way past the place of worrying about what others think.” What a great answer. But, am I? If you ask Sue, she’ll refer you to my choice of outfits. It’s true, I don’t really care about colors, or styles. She’ll point out the way I enjoy embarrassing the grandchildren in the mall. “I don’t think you worry too much about the opinions of others.” she says. Well, that’s true, But when I’m up on the stage, and the performance is in full swing, I care mightily. I want to shine, be a star, make a difference, and have you pat me on the back when I come back for my third curtain call. Sadly, I have piled this target on my son’s back, and when we stand together, we are two peas in the pod. He’s already told me he will not be scrubbing my tombstone. That’s okay with me since my ashes are being tossed over the mountainside. Let the walker-bys Judge that. My Lament for tonight is for those who are caught in a web by the opinions and judgments of others, in such a vice that they are unable to catch their breath, and climb the hill of their own hopes. As for my mother’s tombstone, I have been trying to get the courage to have printed the words I told her would fit her favorite whine: “See... I told you I was sick!”
Posted on: Mon, 18 Aug 2014 22:57:25 +0000
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