12.03.2025

If I ever need a reminder of just how tightly wound—and, let’s be honest, judgy—I can be, all I need to do is pay a visit to the cemetery where my parents are interred. Forget yoga or meditation. Nothing says “self-reflection” like being surrounded by silent residents who presumably don’t mind overhearing my running commentary.

Where I grew up, everyone who died was buried in the local Catholic cemetery. But even in death, the judging didn’t stop: the true mark of one’s legacy wasn’t just the perceived cost of the casket or the number of floral arrangements honoring the deceased. It was the location of the grave—top of the hill or bottom, near the traffic circle, or in a secluded area under a grove of trees.

The ideal spot was higher up, away from the hustle and bustle of the businesses located across the road. Because, really, what could be worse than having your eternal slumber interrupted by honking horns, revving engines, and the brawls of the over-served staggering out of bars at three in the morning? Seriously, how could anyone rest in peace with all that racket?

In contrast, the cemetery where my parents now reside features several mausoleums—plural because, clearly, one isn't enough anymore. My father, ever the planner (and self-proclaimed agoraphobic) picked the highest spot for himself and my mom. (The “rooms,” as I call them, are stacked five high.) When I asked him why he chose the penthouse suite, he said, “Because I don’t want anyone bothering me except your mother.”

Alrighty, then.

Except now, you literally need a rolling ladder just to leave flowers in that tiny vase holder thingy that sits next to their names. Unless you're a Ninja warrior who can scale walls, your chances of depositing those flowers in said receptacle without bodily injury are next to none.

My own future resting place, conveniently sized for whatever remains they scoop up post-cremation, is kitty-corner from my parents. I tried to be proactive and pick a quiet unobtrusive spot when I signed up, but now, buyer’s remorse has set in.

The individual housed below me has mourners who leave floral arrangements the size of which are comparable to the bed of roses awarded to the winner of the Kentucky Derby. (OK, an exaggeration, yes – but not by much.) The result is that my name practically vanishes under that cascade of greenery. It’s petty, I know, but is it too much to ask to avoid being erased from the afterlife before I even get there?

And then there's the decor.

Holiday decorations at this cemetery have evolved from heartfelt gestures into what I can only describe as a seasonal competitive sport. I understand the sentiment, I do. But honestly, I think there’s a missed business opportunity here: grave décor as a legitimate career. I can see it now. A new DYI cable show: Graveyard Makeovers: “Turning your final resting place into a dream location you’ll never want to leave.”

Some decorations look like discarded floats from the Macy’s parade. Miniature washed out Santa Clauses, an explosion of moldy green wreathes, fully decorated – and lighted – artificial trees with half a yard of tattered garland flapping in the wind... talk about A Nightmare Before Christmas.

This also is a Catholic cemetery, so it feels a tad redundant to have nativity scenes dotting every hill and dale. There are so many of them crowding the landscape that it's no wonder the wise men are lost and confused. I'm surprised they don't just throw up their hands and head over to that Mexican restaurant just down the road instead.

Halloween, though, really takes the cake—or the spiced latte, as it were. We already celebrate the Day of the Dead, but some of the décor turns the place into a 257-acre haunted estate: stacks of plastic pumpkins, spirits (angels?) with capes blowing in the wind, full sized skeletons resting on the headstones….It makes me wonder—are those store bought, or did someone get a little too literal with that whole “digging up the past” thing?

Recently, a reporter for our local newspaper asked people to share why they visit cemeteries. The responses were beautiful: connection, remembrance, love. But I couldn’t help noticing the subtext—some folks seemed just as committed to honoring the deceased as they were to outdoing their loved one's departed neighbors.

I know people who haven’t returned to the cemetery since the day they buried their loved one. I, on the other hand, go for the same reason many people do—connection, tradition, a little bit of guilt, and a whole lot of gratitude.

I used to visit every holiday, birthday, and anniversary, but this year I’ve gone less often. Maybe I finally accepted the fact they're gone, or maybe I just no longer need so many reminders of what lies ahead.

When I do go, my visits are short, and my conversations with them are private. Sure, a few hundred other residents probably overhear, but who are they going to tell?

Still, if anyone is listening - yes, you sir, resting below my future spot - maybe pass along a message to your peeps to dial down the botanical enthusiasm just a smidge. We share the neighborhood, and I’d appreciate not being overshadowed before I even move in.

Note to self: Learn to lighten up while you still have time, otherwise eternity is going to feel like a very long homeowners’ association meeting.

*Stairway to Heaven" is the title of a song written by Robert Plant and Jimmy Page, 1971.