Cemetery Corner

by RC DeWinter

Canvas Print

$63

Framed Print

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Art Print

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Poster

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Metal Print

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Acrylic Print

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Wood Print

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Throw Pillow

$30

Fleece Blanket

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Duvet Cover

$110

Shower Curtain

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Bath Towel

$40

Tote Bag

$40

Weekender Tote Bag

$49

Zip Pouch

$35

Portable Battery Charger

$50

Yoga Mat

$65

Greeting Card

$7.95

Spiral Notebook

$15

Sticker

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iPhone Case

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Beach Towel

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Round Beach Towel

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Weekender Tote Bag

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Coffee Mug

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Men's Clothing

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Women's Clothing

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Youth Clothing

$26

Toddler Clothing

$24

Baby Clothing

$28

Title

Cemetery Corner

Artist

RC DeWinter

Medium

Painting - Digital Oils

Description

Copyright 2015 RC deWinter ~ All Rights Reserved

The Gravedigger's Tale

Now that I'm feelin' that cold wind
blowin' over my bed nights when I'm layin' here,
ninety-five an' bent an' twisted
under five blankets that never keep me warm
it's time to pass my story on to someone else.

Always been drawn to the dead.
Mebbe it's 'cause I grew up next to a graveyard;
Holy Angels Cemetery butted right up
against our backyard,
and I was always climbin' the fence,
wand'rin' like a curious cat between
all those stones.
I was never scared.
I'd seen enough dead pets and relatives
to know that once the light goes out
it stays out.

Crosses and flowers and angels and lambs,
small slabs and fancy monuments,
all as quiet as the folks underneath 'em,
ever'thing gray and black and brown,
marble and granite,
smooth and rough,
names and dates and relatives forgotten.
I'd read 'em all and try to imagine all those diff'rent lives.

Once on while I'd come acrost
somebody I knew.
Take old Joe Temple
who owned the market downtown.
I laughed to see what his family'd
put on his stone.
"Loving husband and father gone to Jesus.
May he rest in everlasting peace."
Heck, ever'body knew Joe was
the stingiest, meanest shopkeeper
in town.
He'd never give a break to no one,
not even my grandma when she was
a few pennies short,
and raised his kids on stale bread
and wrinkly vegetables nobody'd bought.
He'd work his wagon horses
'til they dropped in their tracks
and his wife looked worn as a dishrag.
I don't think Joe went to Jesus,
and even if he did get to heaven
and there was no cash register
behind them pearly gates
he'd'a been mighty miserable
and there'd be no peace for anybody.
I bet even the Devil would have a helluva time
pryin' open Joe's wallet.

I never had no ambition to study,
even though Ma was allus at us
about schoolwork
and spent any extra money
she could scrounge on books.
Soon's I could I quit school
and went to work down at the harbor
unloadin' freight from the ships.
I gave Ma most of what I made,
but kept some for pool and beer
down at the lodge.

I was still in the habit
of hangin' 'round the cemetery too,
It was quiet there most times,
a real nice change from the noise
down at the docks.
I'd buy a paper and set up against a tree
and read what was goin' on in the world
and in town with no sound but for the birds
and once in awhile a car going by,
fulla people come to visit their dead.

Never did marry.
Oh, I liked the girls alright,
'specially Peggy McKnight.
I think mighta even loved her,
but a stevedore with no great ambitions
whose only habits were pool and the cemetery
didn't exactly set the pond on fire
as far as romance,
'specially since my idea of a nice time
was a meal down at the crab shack
and a walk through the graveyard.
So nope - no girl would have me.
One or two outins, mebbe, and that would be it.
I didn't mind. I liked peace and quiet -
still do - and there was a fancy house
over to Porterville if I got the urge,
if you know what I mean.

One Sunday when I was in the graveyard
with the paper and a sandwich
old Timothy, the gravedigger, come up to me
after he'd finished diggin' out a plot
for Judge Patterson, who'd died earlier
in the week.
Now that was a scandal,
'cause he didn't have that heart attack
in his own bed next to his own sour wife.
Nope. He kicked it down to - oh, never mind all that.

Anyway, Timothy, who was older than Moses
and still out there throwin' dirt like he was
young as me
told me the cemetery committee
had voted to hire on another digger
and wondered if I was int'rested,
seein' as how I spent so much time there
anyway
and was in good shape from all that freight work.
Now I'd never thought about actually workin' there,
'cause the graveyard was my restin' place -
sorry, bad joke -
and I made good money down at the docks.
"Lemme think on it a day or two," I told him.
"All right," said Timothy, "but don't wait too long.
"Bill Palmer's boy is tired of drivin' that delivery wagon
so I bet I could get him easy."

Well, I tumbled this around in my brain overnight
and decided why not?
Why not spend my days where I loved best,
diggin' and mowin' and trimmin',
uprighting the old stones that allus tipped
in heavy weather
and shovelin' out the paths come snow?
I got up next mornin' early and found out
Timothy
and told him it was a deal.

And that's been my life -
outside in all weathers with the dead,
nobody yellin' or complainin',
just me and Timothy and when he dropped dead
a few years later in the middle of diggin' Widow Greenlee's grave
me and Bill Palmer's boy as second hand.

I got no regrets.
Sure, sometimes I'd see the fellas from the lodge
out on a Sunday with wives and fam'lies
and a queer little ache would lurch a little
in my chest,
but even then when I got to the graveyard
and went to work I'd feel just peaceful.

I gave up workin' when Doc Fellows told me
if I didn't I'd keel over in some hole just like Timothy,
but I still go down to the cemetery most good days
and give Jed Palmer grief about how
he and the new boy are keepin' the place.
All in fun, mind you. They do a good job.

One a these days they'll be diggin' a hole for me.
I'll be sleepin' under that huge old pine in the far corner.
Already got my stone all picked out and paid for;
nothin' fancy, just a plain rectangle
with m'name and dates and the words,
"Home at last."
~ copyright2015 RC deWinter

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