Many Miles Between Here and There

I didn't note any progress or regression in my mother's cancer or her treatments today over the span of ten years. Sometimes I just had to walk away to gain some perspective. But I did note an interesting pattern to my posts. On this day for several years in a row between 2014 and 2019, I returned home to Kentucky after spending time with Dad over the holidays in Virginia.

Taking care of my father between those years is another story, so I'll save most of those details for later. The distance I traveled between 2015 (after my spouse died) and 2020 (when my father died) added up over the years, though, and that is a point of interest for now.

I'm fortunate that my little black 2014 Chevy Cruze LT, which I purchased after my husband died, made all those trips without major issues. We'll not count the time a buck charged at my car outside Beckley, West Virginia, in 2015 with my daughter and infant grandson in the car. It was rutting season, after all. We all were fine, and the Chevy braved it.

The one-way mileage between where I live and where my parents lived equals about 750 miles, or about eight hours. That's 1,500 miles per visit, which is why most visits were extended ones. Of course, I became very bored with traveling the interstate time and again, so I took back roads sometimes. I will never do that again when driving alone, because I saw so much beauty in the Appalachian mountains, and I couldn't stop, because--you know--a single woman traveling alone...

Back roads also added to the mileage. So, I often kept to the interstate along with a book on disc. I kept measure of my time on the road by the towns I passed on my way, the roadside oddities, such as iron bridges spanning the interstate and log cabins off in mowed fields, and by pit stops. I tried to make only two restroom stops, one at the halfway mark, and one when I left the interstate to travel the mountain road into Lynchburg. One never knows how long that leg of the trip might take. It would depend upon any slow drivers or 16-wheelers in front of me.

Plus, I would always stop in Clifton Forge to visit with my father's brother. He passed this last year, so I won't need to make that trip unless I wanted to visit the cemetery. I guess that's a mandatory thing, so I'll see that gas station above at least one more time, I guess. The photo is one I took in 2019 in a pit stop outside Clifton Forge. It was the one time I didn't stop to see my uncle. I had bad feelings on that trip, and they came to a head at this stop, which is why I took the photo. I didn't know what was going on with me then, but I have a good idea now. Sometimes we do have premonitions.

At times I long to take that trip again. I would have a reason, as I still have an aunt and cousin in Virginia. I learned this past year that I have many more cousins, thanks to DNA testing, and they all want to meet up the next time I return. I wonder if I can take someone with me.

Yes, I'm the Cemetery Snob

Saints arising from the dead, different than the average person.

I recently learned that I'm a bit of a cemetery snob. I've researched the subject for years, wrote about it, and studied burial methods and what the professors called "outdoor museums," or cemeteries, in my master's studies. So, I know about Christian burials and the tradition of placing the head to the west and the feet to the east in many cemeteries. Not all cemeteries, mind you, follow this tradition. But, my paternal great-grandfather purchased twelve plots in a cemetery that does follow this tradition.

Burying a body to face east is a long-standing tradition that goes back centuries. In Christian belief, this body orientation is never directly referenced in the Bible. But, ancient tradition dies hard, so some scripture was used to validate the continuation of this body orientation, including Matthew 24:27:

For as lightning that comes from the east is visible even in the west, so with be the coming of the Son of Man.

Another reference is found in Ezekiel 43:1

Then the man brought me to the eastward facing the gate, and I saw the Glory of God coming.

And, yet another reference in Luke 1: 78, 79:

...because of the tender mercy of our God, by which the rising sun will come to us from heaven to shine on those living in darkness and in the shadow of death...

Enough for references. You get the picture -- by being buried facing east, a body could be easily resurrected facing the Son of God. Simple, I thought, and very convenient for fast and easy resurrection. But, I learned that many Christians today aren't aware of this tradition. They aren't even aware that many churches were built so that congregations were facing east to meet the Son of God should he arrive on a Sunday morning between, say, 10:00 a.m. and 11:00 a.m. Or, on a Wednesday night. Or, during choir practice.

So, therefore, I am a bit of a cemetery snob. But, I have learned that the funeral home that oversees this particular cemetery where my mother will be buried knows about this tradition. And public works, which oversees cemetery maintenance, also knows about this tradition. I assumed I could trust them, then, in placing stones in the correct positions.

So why did I sense something was awry when I visited that cemetery earlier this year after my mother's death? Dad and I had traveled to talk to the funeral home about the plots, since dad was entitled to two of those plots -- one for him and one for his wife -- as a direct descendant. There were plenty of plots left, but mom and dad decided to be cremated and share one plot. This cemetery allows that practice (not all cemeteries do).

By the time I had figured out the problem, the owner of the funeral home was in attendance, as well as one of the funeral directors, and the head of public works. We all realized that the headstones in our family plots were being placed at the feet of the graves. If I go into details here, I won't have anything left for this chapter in my book. Let's just say the situation was rectified the following day. Since no bodies had to be moved, all was well (the mystery deepens, no?).

Today, my father and I traveled to that cemetery again to view my mother's headstone for the first time. When we walked up to the plots, dad and I looked at each other and burst into laughter. My mother's headstone was in the wrong place. Fortunately, I'm a cemetery snob. I had the funeral home's phone number, and I called and talked directly to the owner. The conversation, in my opinion, was hilarious. At the end, the funeral home owner said, "One day we'll get this right." I answered, "Yes, when all the plots are filled."

Fortunately, mom is at home in her urn on the fireplace mantel. No body had to be moved. All is well for now.

About the image with this blog entry -- attribution is below. Note that the people arising from the dead in this image are saints. Saints, clergy, and other religious leaders are different than ordinary people. They, traditionally, are buried in the opposite direction of the congregation; so, when the resurrection arrives they can lead the masses that arise to face the Son of God. I don't know why, but I keep thinking about phrasing this tradition as an "organized Walking Dead." I'll probably burn for that thought.

"Plaque resurrection dead VandA M.104-1945" by Marie-Lan Nguyen - Marie-Lan Nguyen (2012). Licensed under Creative Commons Attribution 2.5 via Wikimedia Commons - http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Plaque_resurrection_dead_VandA_M.104-1945.jpg#mediaviewer/File:Plaque_resurrection_dead_VandA_M.104-1945.jpg