I've always had a certain fascination for cemeteries, ever since I was a kid and my parents walked me through a Revolutionary War era graveyard in Salisbury, CT. My father taught me to drive in a cemetery. When in college, I studied for tests at one in Totowa, NJ. When I jogged, I jogged at one in Bernardsville. In my 20's, I took photos of the ceramic portraits on the gravestones of early 20th century Italian and Syrian immigrants in the Paterson, NJ, area; fragments of history frozen in time. I took photos of lichen-covered statues, awe-inspiring scenery, breath-taking skylines, ornate old mausoleums. I sought out where relatives-- genetic and adoptive-- were buried in the Bronx, Westchester County, Hackensack, Lyndhurst. I sought out the graves of those I had admired or found interesting historical figures, ranging from Franklin Roosevelt and Fiorello LaGuardia and Alexander Hamilton to Al Capone and Legs Diamond and John Dillinger. At all times, I proceeded with respect, proper decorum and consideration for those buried in these places and their relatives. In turn, I never encountered any problems in any cemetery that I've gone to over the years. Except this one.
I came here as a teenager, not long after I'd started driving. I wasn't familiar with the area, but was driving someone back and forth to a local hospital. I decided to kill some time here while waiting to pick them up for the trip home. I drove down a road that wasn't well maintained, but there were no signs denying entrance to it. Suddenly, I was blocked in by a car. A tall, cadaverous older guy resembling Lurch got out of the car, accompanied by 2 or 3 younger guys (but older than me). They moved in close, making aggressive, threatening comments to me. After asking myself, "WTF is this about?" I realized they were gravediggers, cemetery employees, which was even more disconcerting than if they had been stray, wandering hoodlums. I wasn't a tough guy, but I had never backed down from a fight, and I had had my share in my relatively short lifespan. But the fights I had had were always with one guy around my own age, not a gaggle of goons. I kept asking myself, "What is it I've done wrong here? Have I crossed over into the Twilight Zone instead of a cemetery?" I was bracing myself, hoping to get in at least one or 2 good shots before I got my a** handed to me, when they dispersed after ordering me to leave and leave fast. I couldn't figure out what they had thought I had done. Had there been vandalism recently? Drunken teen parties at night behind the mausoleum? I never knew.
Thirty years later, I was working not far away. On my lunch hour, I came across this place again. I decided to kill the hour reading a book in a quiet place. Obviously, I was not a delicate vessel who had been permanently scarred by that unsettling incident. I was a middle aged adult now; not a callow teen. It wasn't a pretty cemetery-- Piscataway is not a pretty town-- but it was quiet. At least until the hour was coming to an end, and a car rode up to me and-- you guessed it-- Lurch approached, uglier and older but undeniably Lurch. He asked if I was visiting relatives. No, I wasn't. Then I would have to leave. He was more respectful than he had been previously (at the very least, he didn't seem like he was getting ready to assault me), but firm. Thirty years ago, I had been shaken. Now, I was amused, a little astonished. You can't make this stuff up. Lurch is still the cemetery's junkyard dog? Ok. I gotta leave? See ya.
I still don't know what's up with this place. How does such a long term fascistic method of conducting business equate with Christ's message of love and pacifism (it is a Catholic cemetery, after all)? Don't ask me; ask Lurch. I don't know if he's still working at the cemetery, but sit down outside for awhile in your car, read a book, contemplate the mystery of life and death, and I guess you'll find out. If a car drives up to you with a cadaverous old guy in it, don't say I didn't warn you. read more
