The week just prior to this writing, a friend of mine, who shows up whenever I need wheels, and oft’ times when I don’t, just checking to see if I’m okay, drove me around the country delivering a few books and picking up a few poinsettias. Three of which were to brighten our home, as in the past, throughout the Christmas season; the balance as gifts of thanks. The last call of the day took us over to the cemetery where rests the Little Lady’s and my two lost boys.
I had taken with me two single roses to place on their graves. A red one for the oldest, a yellow one for the youngest; it was just a little ritual that the Little Lady and I did each Christmas season in fond memory since their parting. It was just something that we both felt just had to be done.
That feeling has not left me; only this year, as last, it will be an orchid that is placed on my Little Lady’s headstone.
Each time we placed a flower it was hard to hold back tears; this has not improved with time. But neither have the fond memories lessened, nor the good times less recalled. They both enjoyed life, and laughter came easy to each of them.
On arriving back home, checking emails, the first thing that came up on my computer screen was something that I know would have brought chuckles and laughter to both of them. I know not from whom it came but, beyond my comprehension, the timing seemed oh so right; so here it is.
Tombstone Musings
Harry Edsel Smith, of Albany, New York. Born 1903 – Died 1942. Looked up the elevator shaft to see if it was coming down. It was.
In a Thurmont, Maryland, cemetery: Here lies an Atheist, all dressed up and no place to go.
On the grave of Ezekial Aikle, East Dalhousie Cemetery, Nova Scotia: Here lies Ezekial Aikle, Age 102. Only the good die young.
In a London, England cemetery: Here lies Ann Mann, Who lived an old maid, But died an old Mann. Dec. 8, 1767.
In Ribbesford, England, cemetery: Anna Wallace The children of Israel wanted bread, And the Lord sent them manna. Clark Wallace wanted a wife, And the Devil sent him Anna.
In a Ruidoso, New Mexico, cemetery: Here lies Johnny Yeast. Pardon me for not rising.
In a Uniontown, Pennsylvania, cemetery: Here lies the body of Jonathan Blake. Stepped on the gas instead of the brake.
In a Silver City, Nevada, cemetery: Here lies The Kid. We planted him raw. He was quick on the trigger, But short on the draw.
A lawyer’s epitaph in England: Sir John Strange. Here lies an honest lawyer, and that is Strange.
In a cemetery in Hartscombe, England: On the 22nd of June, Jonathon Fiddle went out of tune.
Anna Hopewell’s grave in Enosburg Falls, Vermont: Here lies the body of Anna, Done to death by a banana. It wasn’t the fruit that laid her low, But the skin of the thing that made her go.
On a grave from the 1880s In Nantucket, Massachusetts: Under the sod and under the trees, Lies the body of Jonathan Pease. He is not here, there’s only the pod. Pease shelled out and went to God.
In a cemetery in England: Remember man, as you walk by, As you are now, once so was I.
So folks, I hope you’ve had a chuckle too.
Take care, ’cause we care.
Barrie@barriehopkins.ca 519-843-4544