Gravedancing, and the rule of 3

There is a rule of 3, and we all know it- things happen in threes, third time is a charm.  Sunday evening, I was sitting here working (of course) and a funeral passed our house, headed down the road.  The only graveyard I know of down here is the tiny abandoned one behind the house behind ours- there were few cars, and I wonder if they were headed there.  I wonder if it was Hazel who used to own this house....this was followed by the news at school the next day that one of my students had been seriously injured in a car wreck, with the driver that hit her grandfathers van dying at the scene.  Time? 6:30 Sunday evening, same time as the funeral wound its way down our road (I know because I looked at the clock when the hearse passed- I always do.) Sara herself I hope will be ok- she is in ICU, and is one of my favorite new students- quiet but funny, awkward, arty- loves magic and horses and boys in that order.  Then last night Charles mother called- an Uncle had died (I had never met him) but I know his wife Alberta well.  She works at Walmart as a greeter, knows everyone in the county, always has time for a hug and conversation  (so much so that they exiled her to being the greeter at the garden department in January- who shops in the garden department in January?- but I found her to say hello).  She just had moved back to the main door greeter.... we always talked and laughed about the family, about life in general and... she is my friend.  I am worried about her because I could tell from her stories that she loved her husband deeply, and last night Charles told me that earlier they had lost a son (who was his age) to suicide and that wiped her out for a long time~ she still cries about it.  Well, I would to-
and I mourn for her.  There is not a viewing, but a funeral tomorrow morning, I will take the day off (despite having to take way to many days off lately- but this is important, both death and life and the curriculum must make way).  Today I am still and quite and worried about Sara and Alberta and thinking.  For not being good socially, I wish I could see them both, just sit and talk and draw and take care.

I am a gravedancer, which is someone who is comfortable with death and its traditions, with graveyards and mourning, with helping and remembering.  I've never been afraid of death or graveyards or funerals, and I'm good with it- much better at it than handling sickness or births (which are joyous, don't get me wrong, but I am not an organizer of babyshowers) or birthdays... but I know how to take care of the dead.  It's not morbid, its a gift- there are just fewer of us around than there are those who celebrate the other passages of life.

I've always been this way, always loved graveyards.  I remember Grandview, the huge graveyard in Johnstown that took up a hilltop, full of mausoleums, tombs, gravestones, memorials, the endless rows of the unknown from the flood, big cedar trees over the unmarked graves of long ago.  Each section like its own little town, inscriptions changing languages, symbols and shapes and names reflecting all of Europe together.  Carefully maintained (and oh- we did our part!  Dutifully scrubbing down the white marble Gothic stones for Granny and Poppy Wrye- now that I think about it, how odd is it to spend time scrubbing your own gravestone- yet Granny did- planting pachysandra so the ground would be always green, weeding and decorating and taking good care.) I would help, or play admist the stones, or explore later on when I was older.  After I moved away I would come back to visit our plots, take photos of all the quiet loveliness, explore secretly down the old road where all the discarded flowers and broken stones are tumbled together.  I remember as well the graveyard in Cambria California, where Jack had a plot, quite a different place.  Back in a wooded area, small and covered with trees smelling of eucalyptus and pine, an abundance of sweet peas growing everywhere. All the colors and all the smells and the golden California sunshine filtering down.    Here in the south things are different, family plots tucked deep into fields behind houses, everyone unto their own.  The shell above was on a grave in Magnolia, where the public graveyard still follows the casual plotting of the south.  No manicured lawn, but areas overgrown with nettles and trees, pinestraw all over the ground, older graves tipped and broken but beautiful with moss and weather.  Some forgotten, some carefully and brightly decorated with names made of flowers, flags, birdhouses, dolls, brightly painted concrete angles...and on the older graves,  the shells.  It's funny, but when I am unhappy or sad or lonely or just want something- I go to the graveyards and wander and think and take photos and find things.  They always give me gifts- sometimes beauty, sometimes a stray bit of something, peace.  I feel safe there.

          Likewise for those who are not buried, they have their safe places as well.  Daddy sits on his niche in the studio- an odd unexplained small brick shelf built into the fireplace that is the perfect size.  He has his lions (the brass book end and a tiny clay one that used to live in a plant in his bedroom), the crow watches over them, and there is a candle that sometimes I light.  Over in the corner, on the bookshelf behind a travel box, are Ruffian and Jezebelle (and they probably hate it because they didn't get along in life, but don't seem to mind it now- at least there is no evidence of dogg-ghosts around).  At school, under my desk, is Elvis.  And yes, I know it is weird to keep him at school, but ever since his box broke up way back on the island, and a bit of him got vacuumed up, I never resealed it.  I keep it and when I teach my students about death (we do that in crafts class, because it is an important thing to learn how to deal with and no one else ever teaches anything about it)- if they wish to they can see.  It helps, it really does.  It is my role in the way of things, and that's ok.