Gone But Not Forgotten

Driving back from Arizona to the Midwest, I mused on the uncertainty of life.  You never know what will be happening, suddenly, right in front of you.  We are headed back, yes, but to a new house.  We have come into possession of a house, previously owned by a friend who has relocated to New Mexico to live with friends while she recovers from serious injuries.  We had hoped to eventually have some property besides the truck and the Bigfoot, but didn’t expect it to happen now, nor in Chicago.  Yet here we are, headed for the Pullman neighborhood to move in.

Near the town of Hatch, NM, in the hot, dry, mostly featureless desert, something caught my eye – color, in the form of flowers, lots of them.  It was a Mexican-style cemetery, glowing with a riot of hues amid the brown and tan landscape.  I could not resist; we had to turn back and take a look. 

We drove into the cemetery, which has roads going horizontally and vertically.  Sometimes we parked the car to go on foot and get a better look.  The Hatch Cemetery, otherwise known as the Garden of Memories, comprises rows of graves marked by stones outlined in the sand, or metal enclosures with gates and what appear to be tiny buildings.  I have seen other cemeteries in this style, but none this colorful.  Every grave and the spaces outside the graves were full of artificial flowers in every color, and the graves were also decorated with drawings, photographs, sculptures, both man-made and natural, usually religious in theme, and stuffed animals.  Between the graves were the signature super-tall junipers we had gotten used to seeing in Douglas, AZ, as well as shorter desert shrubs and other evergreens. 

Many graves had inscriptions.  My favorite was one in Spanish, which when translated, read: “You are only dead when you are forgotten, and I will never forget you.”  I found this moving, and the cemetery in general did not seem creepy, but full of love and dignity.

I don’t know why cemeteries have always fascinated me, since I do not intend to end up in one.  (I have left instructions that my body be left to science.)  Ever since I was a kid and we played in a cemetery near my house, I have loved them.  We played there chiefly because the grass was so thick, green and well-maintained that we could go barefoot.  But the gravestones fascinated us too.  We could not resist subtracting the death date from the birthdate – was this perhaps a little kid?  Was he/she like us?  What did they die of?  How did they like to play, when they were alive?  Did they love to go barefoot in the tall, cool grass like we did?

Even as an adult, I cannot resist subtracting the dates.  One beautiful woman (her grave had a photograph) was only in her early 40s.  Others had lived into their 90s, and quite a few were veterans, mostly of the Korean conflict. 

The effect of all the color, the pictures and religious icons and other sculpture, was beautiful and tacky at the same time.  The photographs we took were only a sampling of the eye candy that was this Garden of Memories. 

As we continued north after leaving the cemetery, we went from city to city along our route, staying overnight in the parking lots of Cracker Barrel restaurants.  This had been recommended to us by friends and on RV websites, but we had never tried it.  It is boondocking, meaning camping along the way somewhere other than in an actual campground, without fees or hookups.  Cracker Barrel goes farther than most places in welcoming travelers – most of the restaurants we visited had actual RV parking sites out in the back, well-marked and spacious.  As a courtesy, we always ate a meal there, usually breakfast, except for LCR’s birthday on March 17, which we celebrated with a dinner of grilled rainbow trout. 

At Cracker Barrel, you will see many country and old-fashioned themed artifacts on walls and even ceilings.  I looked this up and found they were not merely themed items, but actual antiques.  The company has a huge warehouse full of many thousands of old farm implements, tools, pictures and actual photographs, everything from soda ads to horse collars to old bicycles.  They try to match the artifacts with the geographical area of the restaurant. 

In a way, this was another graveyard, full of mementos of bygone days.  The part I always like best is the old photographs.  I wonder what those people were like when they weren’t wearing their best clothes and standing stiffly for the photographer.  They all had lives and stories to tell, but now they’re just photographs on a wall, and we can look at them and make up our own version of their story. In fact, that is the reason I did not think to take many photos at Cracker Barrel – I was too busy gawking at the array of interesting old things in every location.  Oh, and they serve breakfast all day.  On the road, eating out is an expense to consider, so we usually get breakfast, and this chain has an array of reasonably-priced options.  Eggs, potatoes and old photos – I started each day on this leg of the trip with a few of my favorite things.