Gloomy, rainy Edinburgh Saturdays may not be the most inspiring to go around and discover the town, but, already lagging far behind in my exploratory project, there was no way I was going to let this deter me from doing some sort of wandering about. In keeping with the mood of the day, I decided to pay a visit to one or two cemetaries in the neighbourhood. In Paris, walking through Cimetière du Montparnasse on my way to Sorbonne was both inspiring and a pleasant treat of silence, calm and order for a few minutes most days. It became a source for writing, for observations, and for grand thoughts about the world, the human being and about existence, quite similar to what I imagined some of the famous occupants, Sartre, de Beauvoir, Tzara and Beckett to mention a few, had pondered over in their golden days. Or so I liked to believe.
Comely Bank Cemetery has much less of this grandeur, and significantly less of the calm, silence and order too. Many graves are half-littered and in a state of forgotten decay, several tombstones fallen or pushed over, the walkways muddy, wet and badly kept, and fallen leaves from many months ago are rotting on the final resting place of many. It had taken me some time to find the cemetary, first getting lost in the grounds of the hospital next door - the practicality of hospitals and graveyards in a half morbid attempt to make the world more efficient always strikes me as a bit odd. While it may be handy for the transport, I wonder if patients like to be reminded of their mortality when they lay in their beds hoping for quick recovery? Or if proud parents of newborn babies appreciate the symbolism in that the starting point for their offspring is conveniently close to the end of the lap? Or even if those who visit their recently deceased think about the days that they may have spent worrying within the walls of that building, hoping that they wouldn't have to walk across the road? But I digress.
While the graveyard in itself was a particularly bad example of the sort, the individual graves were interesting enough, and provided enough food for thought. They did allow me to draw some hasty conclusions about different traditions, beliefs and common practices across different cultures. The way we present and remember our dead can say a lot about the living. Norwegian custom dictates that the person in the grave - usually just the one in each - is presented with a name, birth name is appropriate, date of birth, date of death and possibly a short saying or epitaph from the family. Years ago, it was common to list occupations if they were from a particular outstanding layer of society, but this has all but gone. The headstones are generally sober and simple, while recent years have seen an increase in embedded photos and signatures rather than 'printed' names. I suppose this serves to make the grave a more personal place, and brings the deceased closer to the surviving. Even so, I would be loath to sign my own tombstone, kind of like signing off for receiving a package.
Irish graves are more lavish, and commonly decorated with Celtic crosses, symbols and carvings. The headstones are taller, bigger and more imposing. Many have several family members in the same grave, all listed on the headstone - which makes it a requirement to invest in a large stone if you have a large family. The deceased are introduced with full name (née if they were married women), often with a loving "prefix", like 'Our much adored mother Mary O'Callahan (née Dunne)'. Date of death is then listed, with the age of the person rather than their date of birth. I have often wondered what this signifies, but it does make it more striking when you see the particularly young or particularly old presented with an age rather than with dates. Another Irish tradition is to mention placenames, which may very well be linked to the fact that many emigrated, many have moved away from their family and their roots, and for the surviving family it may be important to reconnect. Thus, birth place and place of death is also often mentioned: 'In loving memory of Eoin Hayes of Mohill, who died in New York March 31st 1997, aged 58'.
In Comely Bank Cemetary, some of the stones bore the same Celtic symbolism and inscription, while others seemed more of the tradition of simplicity. Again, mention of the age when deceased, rather than date of birth was more common, and members of a family tend to be buried together. This poses some interesting hierarchical challenges, when members of the extended family die in unparticular orders: In memory of John McMullan, also his second son Charles, his wife Catherine (if this was Charles' wife rather than John's, an indent is often used to signify this), also his youngest son Alistair, also his third daughter Shona, his wife Miriam (this could well be John's second wife), also their eldest son Martin (John's eldest with Miriam rather than with Catherine)' and so on. One particularly striking feature as such was the amount of information and text engraved on each stone. Following the family tree as it branches out, and in some cases where most members are presented with a quality (very special, much loved, always caring), a profession and even an education degree: 'Marjorie Simmons BA (hons), née Urquhart'. No wonder several of the stones were toppled over; the stonemasons are too busy carving letters, and have no time left over to re-erect fallen headstones.
No matter what they look like, the grave always tells some story of the people it is in memory of. As with the family of three, where the son, Alexander, died at the age of 11 1/2, and his parents never got another child. That half year must have been of such significance, and you can practically hear the yearning for just one more day from the sobering grave. And for the big family, where some died young, some died old, and the mother of them all is all the way at the bottom, the only one without an age. You never ask a lady her age, even in death. Or what about the 24 year old who is remembered by his family and friends with an engraving of a dart board and a hopeful message that they will meet again over the rainbow. Many sad stories, but many happy memories, is the true context of any graveyard. And on a dark and drizzly day, it is a wonderful place to walk around to get to know some of those who lived before.
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