I don’t care much about what happens to the postmortem me, but there might be some family members that should be consulted before they throw my ashes out. Funerals are for the living, and they might care how it’s members are dispensed with.
Other than that, I agree with Coloma. I really like cemeteries, especially old ones. I’m glad we have them, but I realized their days are numbered. I like big, fancy crypts—classic Grecian or Roman style, granite, marble, bronze and wrought iron work, exteriors covered with vines—with the grate unlocked revealing close, twilit interiors with marble benches and small stained glass windows. I like going through graveyards reading the stones, filling in the clues.
I was in Boston Commons a few years ago. They have an old grave yard right there in the park. The stones read from the 1600s to early 1800s when this was a common pasture for the town’s livestock owners. Right in the middle of this big, busy city. It’s not a big graveyard at all. But there are all these small, children’s stones all dated withing a couple of winters around 1702 or so. Something tragic happened here. So, I walked around, asked at a couple of nearby bookstores. Nobody even was aware that there was a graveyard there, it seemed. Finally I found a guy at old, dusty Brattle Books, America’s oldest bookstore, down in this section of winding cowpath streets. I wasn’t going to let it go. Turns out they had a Typhus epidemic. Freakin’ Salmonella killed their babies. Tragic, but solving the mystery made my day.
New Orleans has great cemeteries. Stockholm has some beautiful old ones and they often used to put the person’s most distinguishing characteristics on the stone, usually their occupation: Sven the carpenter, Ingela the teacher, Albin the soldier. On the Island of Ven between Sweden and Denmark, there is a small old cemetery with a grave above the village of Kykbacken with a dual stone. Two deaf sisters, twins, died at 13 years in the 19th century:
Katrina och Kirsten, Tvillingar, Döv och Stum. Tretton år
They died on the same day. I stood there, looking around for clues on the other stones. Nothing. It’s an island, fishing is a way of life. Maybe they drowned?
There are knights in sarcophagi in the basements of tall, clean, Nordic baroque churches that have outlasted the villages in which they were built in the middle of nowhere across the Scandinavian countryside. Beautiful, just standing in the middle of nowhere, doors unlocked, apparently unguarded.
There are great, beautiful places for the internment of heroes, celebrities, artists, and writers among commoners of the past two centuries like Paris’ Père Lachaise and the incredible monuments to the great French political and military heroes like the Panthéon or the Invalides, the world’s most beautiful VA hospital and burial place. Or the Panthéon’s British counterpart, Westminster Abbey. These are great treasures and I’m glad they are there.
I like cemeteries, because if you want to know the history of a place, go to its libraries, museums and newspaper archives. If you want to feel the history of a place, go to it’s cemeteries.