Author: lisabof

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Ever think “What better way to pass the time on a gloomy, drizzly Saturday afternoon than to visit a cemetery?” I did. The weather almost frightened me away, and I made a detour to Target first despite “Don’t Fear the Reaper” reassuring me from the radio. The drizzle had picked up when I left the store, and I again began to waver when the lyrics “You make me feel like/I’ve been locked out of Heaven…” by a pocket pop-star came out of the speakers. I changed stations. “You’ve got to have faith, faith, faith” blared at me. I turned off the radio and headed to the corner of Irving Park and Clark to enter the historic Graceland Cemetery. I briefly wondered if some of the tenants had perhaps been reincarnated as disc jockeys who were seeking ways to motivate me.

I suspect it is only possible to have 119 picturesque acres in Uptown if you put it behind a thick wall in 1860. The red brick is about seven feet tall. When I first moved nearby it was topped with razor wire, leaving me to ponder whether people were dying to get in or out. A few years back that was replaced with a four-foot tall, spiked, wrought-iron fence that looked friendlier but could still do some damage. It wasn’t until after my first visit to the cemetery that I understood the security precautions: Mausoleums, crypts and tombstones for Chicago nobility such as Marshall Field, Mies van der Rohe, the McCormicks, and Daniel Burnham are dispersed throughout the cemetery. The latter, while often cited with “The Plan of Chicago,” is buried on a small island in the center of a pond on the north end, around which many of the most famous are clustered, proving that even in death it’s all about location, location, location.

It is an awe-inducing park with winding roads that have gentle names like Glendale and Wildwood Avenue, and stately trees that I couldn’t name – other than to call them Fred or Bill. The roads are laid out like cooked spaghetti, twisting and intersecting in no discernible order. In the heart of the park you can completely lose your sense of direction. (Well, you can if you’re me.) Thank heavens the architects who are interred there did not design the city streets in the same manner or the suicide rate would be astronomical every rush hour.

A few tombstones had flowers in front of them. Not surprising for those who had passed in the last decade or so, but one has to wonder who was placing flowers in front of graves from 1902. That’s commitment. It seemed that 1906 and 1910 were popular years to die. I’m not sure why. The markers of infants gave pause, somehow still sad even knowing they’d perished 100 years ago. Close to the entrance, heading east on Evergreen I wondered about the four headstones for “Mama,” “Mother,” “Father” and… “Henrietta.” I’m guessing Henrietta died last and wasn’t going incognito for eternity. Go Henrietta!

Squirrel! No, that’s not my short attention span coming out. There must be hundreds of squirrels there, which explains why all of the nutshells I found had already been opened. Greedy, chubby bastards. Perhaps in defiance of the season, few leaves were changing; unlike outside the walls… except for one tree that was a radiant red-orange so brilliant I thought maybe a shaft of sunlight was shining on it. I was a little disappointed to see that no one was buried at the base so I couldn’t fantasize that they were somehow fertilizing the earth and causing the brilliant colors.

Naturally someone with the last name of Graves would have the creepiest monument. It is just a little east of Henrietta and is of a cloaked, 10-foot tall, menacing bronze figure with only the eyes and nose visible called “Eternal Silence.” There is even a folktale that says if you look directly into the eyes you will see a vision of your own death. I stared at its feet.

Heading further north on Main Avenue there is a 13-foot tall granite sculpture of a Crusader for newspaper magnate Victor Lawson. The pen may be mightier than the sword, but it doesn’t look nearly as intimidating.

The Holmes mausoleum had windows. So of course I climbed the stairs to peer in. They were too high; evidently they weren’t put there for the living. I did briefly wonder how loud I’d scream if I saw a face looking down at me. My money’s on pretty loud.

Reading the names on the markers, I decided that the best name contest was easily won by Hedwig E. Zitzewitz. Say it like an angry German; it’s fun.

Neff came in second as I imagined people saying “Neff said…” Is it wrong to giggle in a cemetery? Putznik gets an honorable mention as does Olive Branch. Yes, that was the name on the headstone. Ruth Child must have ticked off her family as her epitaph simply read “Rest,” not “Rest in peace,” just “Rest,” even though there was enough room for a short story.

Maybe they were charged by the letter? Many of the early tombstones were illegible, worn smooth by time. Those that were blanched white and half-sunk reminded me of pieces of bread, waiting to be toasted. Note to self: eat lunch first next time.

The McPhersons had a monument that could only be described as phallic. Well, at least by a juvenile like me. But seriously, it was naughty. Another favorite, roughly two-thirds of the way to Montrose intersecting Center, Main and Lake Avenues, was a giant pyramid, easily two stories tall with a sphinx and an angel on either side of the entrance and a serpent on the gate handle. Someone was drinking when that was designed. Actually that’s a possibility; it belonged to the Schoenhofen’s who owned a large brewery in the late 1800’s.

While I virtually had the cemetery to myself, I did stop to see if I could help the occupants of a car that had its hood up. I couldn’t. But still, you want to build up good Karma when you’re in a cemetery. As they drove by me later to show the car was running again, I briefly thought about asking for a ride back to the gate as I realized it was time for me to leave. Even if you are already in a cemetery, you still don’t want to die from an exploding bladder. I kept the radio off on the drive home.