Tales From The Cemetery

(A Feel-Good Story, I Promise!)

For three years now I’ve gone running at the local cemetery. It started when my gym shut down because of Covid, and I couldn’t think of anywhere else to go. I’m so glad I chose to run at the cemetery. There are lessons of love, kindness, respect, dedication, and friendship around every corner.

Every morning between 8 and 9, Ed pulls up in his big, black SUV and carefully unloads a folding chair from the back. He checks the condition of the grass around his wife’s grave, and if it looks a little dry, he pulls a gallon jug from his truck and waters it. The date on the headstone indicates she has been gone since 2017. I watch as he adjusts his “Vietnam Veteran” baseball cap, lights a cigarette, and sits down. I can see his lips moving, I know he’s talking to her, but I’m too far away to hear. Besides, this is a private conversation between a husband and his obviously much-loved wife. His friend, Albert almost always joins him after visiting his own wife. Albert brings his own chair and his own cigarettes. When I run by, they yell “Good job, Andie! You’re going pretty fast today!”

Side note: I am never going fast.

Bill drives into work and backs his car into his spot. He goes into the building, but only for a minute. He comes back out and begins his morning inspection. He cross-crosses through the roads, picking up a discarded candy wrapper, or an empty bottle. He wipes some debris from the top of a pink marble tombstone. He smiles and waves at me as I run by. He walks quickly, and with purpose. Finally his walk brings him to the giant statue of Jesus. He stops, genuflects, and I can see his lips moving in prayer. I imagine he’s praying for not only the hundreds of graves he’s tasked with keeping watch over, but for all of their loved ones.

“Frozen Lemonade Guy” is what I call him in my head. His car is always parked at an angle in a no-parking zone. As he exits his vehicle to go walking, he sets (what looks like) a bottle of frozen lemonade on the hood of his car. We wave at each other. I’m running, he’s power walking. One day he motions for me to take out my headphones, so I do.

“I have seen you running here all summer.” Frozen Lemonade Guy says, “And I really hope you’re proud of yourself because you should be! You’re doing great!”

At first, I’m too stunned to speak, but I quickly yell, “Thank you!” as I continue my run, now with a huge grin.

I have it in my head one particular morning that I’m going to run more miles than I ever have before. I want to run at least 5, but once I get into it, I’m excited. I get to five, then five and a half. I can do more. Six miles! Six and a half miles! Okay my legs feel like rubber, so at the seven mile mark I allow myself to stop, arms raised in victory. I’m so proud of myself. I decide I need to celebrate this occasion, so I walk to the group of men digging in the flower beds. (They dig graves too, but not on this day).

“You guys!” I yell, “I just ran 7 miles! That’s the most miles I’ve ever run at one time!”

Every one of them drops or throws his shovel. They stand up. The tallest guy removes his gloves.

They clap! They cheer! They whistle! They yell, “You’re amazing! That’s awesome! Good job, girl!”

Oh, my heart.

What is it about the people I see at the cemetery? It’s a sacred place, of course. But it’s more than that. I think the people who gravitate towards the cemetery have a deeper understanding of that thin line between above the grass and below the grass. I think they treasure life just a little more. I think they smile a little bit bigger, and let their worries affect them a bit less.

When I started running at the cemetery during the Covid lockdown, my mind was swirling with worries and fears. The more I showed up, though, the more I felt I could hear the voices of all those people buried below the tombstones reading death dates like “Died July 2, 1973”. I could hear them saying “Honey, you are living through a rough time. We did too. You will be okay. Just keep running.”

And I have.