My Mount Auburn

One of the places that got me through college was Mount Auburn Cemetery in Cambridge, Massachusetts. It was my quiet place, my green open space, and the beautiful monuments were part of a landscape that inspired peace and contemplation in me--something I sorely needed as a break from dorm life. Now, when I visit Cambridge, I leave a day to walk there with my dear dear friend Kris, who gathers up all the best little bits of the cemetery and gives them to me as she hurries from stone to stone, lightmoment to lightmoment.

Now Kris is very camera-shy, and she has perfected a quick sidestep when one is pointed even remotely in her direction, but I lured her into a photo under the pretense of showing her what the Canon G-11 (now G-12) can do. Hah. Gotcha, little elf.

I have been to Mount Auburn in almost every atmospheric condition; fog, rain, summer light and autumn gold; even winter's monochrome, but I never want to go there again without Kris. It would be like going with my eyes closed.

We always visit the argonaut. No, ammonite, says the ever alert Boneman. Science Chimp, Chimped! What a lovely thing to make of stone.

Here it is in October. His spouse, with oak leaves and a shamrock. All these recurring natural motifs have meaning, much of it lost on us modern mortals. I love looking at them and wondering, knowing there are years of study in unraveling it all.

I love Mount Auburn in all seasons. But  my October visit there was beyond perfect. Kris and I were skipping all our Class of 1980 activities, all the panels and encounter groups, to make our own kind of  spiritual journey, and pay homage to our favorite space in this fairest of fair cities. It had to be done. The bluegold day, the shaded passages, the glimmering leaves were calling us.

I pressed my lens up against stone Mary, her delicate features protected by her rock-hard hood,

and clucked over poor noseless Jesus. Acid urban rains have not been kind to him. There is a sense, looking at these monuments so clearly meant to last forever, that they will not be here that much longer. A sense that they need to be appreciated now, while they still may be read and deciphered.

For here are some of the finest examples of the stonecarver's art, standing out in the hard rain and snow. This Civil War tableau ripples with fluid, artfully draped life, yet is hard, frozen to the touch. I borrowed this winter shot from an earlier visit, because I love this so much.

And the dogs. The faithful graveyard dogs. I always well up as I lay my hand on their cool stone craniums, murmur my greeting to them.

A fool for animals, whether living or graven.

Especially ones that wait alert for their loved one's return, all year round. 

Perhaps one day there will be a Boston terrier of stone on a little plot in Whipple, Ohio. Or, as I think about it,  a stone Zick, recumbent but alert, on an even smaller plot. Come on, Baker. Let's go for a run, see what's doin' in the Whipple cemetery.