Today Behind A Camera ...

Over the Memorial Day weekend, my nephew and I visited the cemetery plots of our immediate relatives. Like millions of Americans, we utilizing a portion of the holiday to "spruce up" the resting places of friends and family who have died. I'm fascinated by cemeteries ... the majestic monuments and the odd quiet make my senses tingle. There is also an artistic quality to observing how people can make a gravesite truly beautiful with mulch, small planters, river rock, etc.

I happened to have my camera with me and decided to take a few respectful pics. What I focused on were the small iconic momentos left to keep watch over the grave markers. There were lambs, dolphins, train locomotives, mushrooms, pinwheels, gargoyles, frogs, suncatchers, butterflies, and more made of an assortment of materials. But what caught my attention most were the cement angels that sat like stoic sentinels to protect the dead.

Angels have been a part of our collective mythos for millennia, appearing in religions across the planet. These beings are believed to be basic extensions of God ... spectral entities that have been depicted as divine messengers, glorified menials, and protectors of humanity. The term angel is a fusion of the Old English word "engel" and the Old French word "angele," both of which are hand-me-downs from the ancient Greek "angelos" ... "messenger."

Both the Christian and Hebrew Bibles speak of angels as semi-divine beings possessing powers and perceptions above those of "mere" mortals. Scholars and theologians have studied angels for centuries through writings, art, and testimonials from individuals who claim to have interacted with these ethereal personas. Popular culture has characterized angels as winged beings whom are often surrounded by an aura of light. Most "sightings" describe asexual beings with mild, handsome male features often accompanied by flowing robes, head-adorning halos, and even pleasant sounds and smells. But this is certainly not the cased in all cultures ... Hinduism, for example, characterizes angels as "devas," the embodiment of natural elements. And devas are often destructive in their roles as "mediators of God."

In some religions, certain angels have taken on strong personalities and distinct roles. Structured hierarchies have been developed to chart these entities' abilities and duties ... kind of like a scorecard for one of today's popular role-playing games. Several main-stage angels have allegories in multiple religions and are often referred to as "archangels." From the book of Daniel we have Gabriel (God's primary messenger) and Michael (the warrior and protector). Other key characters include Raphael (the healer), Uriel (the fulfiller), Azrael (the death-bringer), and, of course, Lucifer ... the fallen angel who became the "Satan figure."

In the mainstream, people that believe in angels see them as guardians, harbingers of danger, and agents of positive change. Belief in angels has been a topic of organized cultural-anthropological study for nearly half a century. In 2007, a study showed that 68 percent of those Americans polled believe that angels and demons are active in the physical world. In 2008, a Baylor University poll found that 55 percent of respondents believe that they have been protected by "guardian angels" during their lifetime. And multiple 2009 surveys showed that more Americans believe in angels than the concept of global warming!! Similar studies have been conducted in Canada and the United Kingdom.

Personally, I even know two individuals who have vivid recollections of being visited by angels. One friend believes the "visitation" was what prevented her from being involved in a terrible accident on a commuter train. The other acquaintance was going through a tough emotional period and feels that the "bright lights" that spoke to him on three occasions is what gave him the strength to power through both a divorce and a dependence on alcohol.

POINT OF RANT: I was just thrilled that my photos turned out so damn good!!

Today At A Funeral ...

A friend of mine recently lost his wife. Well, he wasn't so much a friend as the son of a good friend of my father's who we saw at picnics, Christmas and Fourth of July get-togethers, card club, and various functions while growing up. We went to rival high schools, so there are no great "buddy" stories or tales of high school hi-jinx. Now we just run into one another five or six times a year and force idle chit-chat.

I guess I'm trying to establish the "friendship" level of our relationship because his wife's funeral was a mess and I'm going to talk about it.

The rumor was depression, pills, recovery, and suicide ... in that order. Local gossip said she'd been extremely down and moody for months. Then she pulled out of it and things seemed good. About a week into "good" she checked into a hotel about 30 miles away, used the pool, ordered ice cream from room service, and then ingested a boatload of prescription meds. They didn't have any children, thank goodness.

At the funeral, the casket was closed which I found odd. The wife was really pretty and, well, I always figured if you still looked good on D-Day why not show off a little. And the family all told this "story" about a traffic accident out on a country road that was news to me. Everyone listening just nodded and "oohed," but when the family recounted the details of the accident, the inflection on certain words was so fake you could tell it was rehearsed. Weirder and weirder.

Anyway, I hate funerals. Meeting the distant and not-so-distant family of the departed and then making small talk is so uncomfortable. Making excuses for why it's been so long since you've seen the departed or general friends and family is equally exhausting. And watching little kids squirm in new clothes and uncomfortable shoes makes my skin itch.

The very first funeral I ever attended was for my great grandmother. She was nearly 90 and died from complications from pneumonia. Lying in that coffin, she just looked peaceful ... like she was catching a nap while the rest of us scurried about. I was too immature to get the finality and sadness of it all.

The next one I recall was in high school. A kid on our football team lost his father in a construction accident. Everyone turned out for "calling hours," a type of "Get-Out-Of-Attending-The-Funeral" event usually held the evening before the official funeral and burial. I went with a group of five friends. We were all clustered around our classmate when I happened to look over at the open coffin. Our classmate's little sister ... she was probably four or five years old at the time ... had pulled a stool over and had climbed up to get a better look at he father. She spoke something to him that I couldn't hear from across the room ... it seemed sweet. She then touched his hand gently with her much smaller one ... it was touching. Then she leaned in and kissed him square on the lips! ... I thought I was seeing things. Finally, an older relative swooped over and guided the little tyke over to a seat near two other children. The older lady looked around the room furtively, caught my glance, and smiled like she was saying "Oh, well." I smiled back with an "Oh, how gross!!" reply. I couldn't wait to tell my friends about what went down at this incestuous ho-down ... I think I was getting hives on my neck from the anticipation. To this day, I still run into that little girl ... she's recently married and expecting her first child. I know she was young and didn't understand what was happening around her. I also know that I stare at her lips like they should have open sores on them, or burst into flames for touching the dead. She probably thinks I'm a perv or secretly into her. I hope she doesn't sense my "Oh, I still think you're a creeper" thoughts in my present-day grin.

So we've established that funerals are on my "out" list, but I must say that cemeteries are "in." I think cemeteries are the most peaceful places on earth. Most are beautifully organized and manicured, almost always teasing your senses with an unnatural quiet and the scent of freshly-cut grass. Even the older ones ... complete with broken markers, overgrown perimeters, and muddy colored everything ... have a unique charm.

When I was in junior high, one of our projects for civics or history or some subject was to visit the grave yard and make charcoal rubbings of the headstones we found most unique or interesting. I remember I did a report about two families who tried to outdo each other with bigger and more intricate headstones, and it was truly fascinating. In college, I did some of my photography assignments in a local cemetery and asked dorm mates to help out as "extras." I also remember visiting a graveyard about an hour away because of a newspaper article ... it boasted this large granite orb that supposedly shifted on its pedestal with the rotation of the earth. One several occasions, the stone in question has been marked and sealed in place with various epoxies, only to be discovered slightly rotated a few days later. Spooky and cool at the same time.

But most of all, creepy as it may sound, I like to occasionally visit cemeteries for personal reflection and relaxation. When the weather is nice, there is one particular contemporary graveyard where I sometimes go and park myself on a bench to read. Anne Rice is wonderful to read in a cemetery ... and Ridley Scott. Other times, I visit relatives who have passed to tell them things about my life ... it's corny, but I feel more connected with a headstone to focus on.

Now, I'm not suggesting setting up guided tours or creating RV lots for eager campers, but consider visiting with a departed loved one more often then a sad geranium on Memorial Day.

POINT OF RANT: Death is a human ritual that lingers well after the actual event.