Late afternoon in the final days of January, this view to the north at Fair Plains Cemetery in the city of Grand Rapids, Michigan shows the aggregated headstone styles of the past 120 or more years. According to poet and undertaker Thomas Lynch the burial standard is 500 bodies to the acre, although there is some change from one century to the next as products and services intersect the changing times so that customs and standard practices are not forever fixed.
Depending on the viewer’s relationship to death (having lost friends or family; or not yet) and stage of life, as well, cemeteries may be sources of wonder, curiosity, history lessons, family tree foraging, or something philosophical: presenting a ready-made setting to think about the lives and the times that these many personalities experienced, and by extension also its a change to think about one’s own life and the times passed through in one’s own lifetime. As such, this corner of real life offers up a natural prompt for thinking, talking, or writing.
On today’s walk past the outer fence and then through the winding paved lanes of the cemetery grounds several thoughts came to mind. For example, of the men and women, boys and girls all assembled here, how many are the last in their (surname) line; that is, when the male carries the family name to the next generation, only households with a male descendent who then fathers the following generation, including more males to perpetuate the family name will sustain the family forward in time. With no male to convey his surname, that particular branch in the family tree ends (never mind that the genes of daughters as much as sons can pass to the next generation; only the surname does not persist). Of course a male cousin with the same surname can keep the family name in circulation, but that is a collateral line.
Another question that arose while keeping my thoughts company in my winter walk has to do with the “six degrees of separation” phenomenon: how many of those lying in the ground were either kinfolk or else would have fit into the framework of being known to each other in six or fewer personal connections. For example, friend A knows B who knows C who knows D who knows E. And so if the person lying in a particular grave happened to be friends with A, then through this chain of relationships E might also have been familiar to our buried person. If ever the social relationships of those buried could be puzzled together, it could well be that a significant part of the burials have some connection to the others.
Related to this “who do you know” observation is a similar question, but this time based on genetic heritage: in the course of whole lifetimes there are estrangements, serial marriages, out of wedlock births, adoptions and many other ways that people sharing genetic heritage may not be aware of the biological affinity they share. With marriages leading to name changes and with generational drift, couples could be 2nd or 3rd cousins, sharing the same great-great grandparent, and have no idea why there are a few hints of similar facial features, for instance. So in this collection of burials, I wonder how many lie in the ground who are related but in life never knew of the shared genetic roots they carried. The number of such unaware family connections may not be many, but perhaps there are a few such cases here.
Since urban centers have many kinds of employment opportunities, it has long been a magnet for in-migration from the countryside and from foreign countries, too. Scattered across the headstones here, how many grew up outside of the USA; how many are the first generation born here; second; third and so on. Envisioning some sort of map or census of those buried in this 4-Dimensional database as a series of immigrant stories makes this place a kind of mirror to the country’s history of growth and immigration. Surnames and personal names sometimes suggest ethnic or religious affiliations. In some epitaphs languages other than English also demonstrate the distant origin of those laid to rest.
Finally, looking across the snow-covered ground at the rows of gravestones, I found myself wondering how many of these knew love; disease; dreams; grief; and so on. How many glimpsed during their lifetimes some of the wisdom of mortality now found on the pages of Oliver Burkeman’s recent book, “Four-thousand Weeks, Time Management for Mortals.” Likewise, how many of the dearly departed knew during their lives some of the insights about what makes a person who they are in David Brooks’ recent book about deeply seeing the people around you, “How to Know a Person.”
Approaching the open land near the access street of the cemetery, I realized that all the burial spots will likely fill with the last waves from the Baby Boom Generation. When this land is full, mowing and plowing will still go on, but the city will carry on the responsibility without the income of successive generations of burials. Graveyards are not a subscription service, but a one-time payment for perpetuity. When that day comes, the slumbering remains of lifetimes long ago will continue to prompt thoughts, writing, or conversations. It is a living source of lessons and a library of life stories bequeathed by the dead for the benefit of all those who follow. Let those with eyes, see. Let those with ears, hear.
