Woodland Cemetery

Cemeteries

I cut behind the #36 trolley, jump down the steps and scurry across Woodland Ave. through the iron and stone gates. By now, I've spent more time in Woodlands Cemetery than I have in any other cemetery. I couldn't say how much, but thirty or forty-five minute runs add up. I really don't know anything about the cemetery, other than that there's a whole bunch of history there. The sign just inside says that it's a National Historical Landmark. There's finer print, but I don't slow down for it. The thing about this cemetery, the thing about any cemetery I come across, is that it won't take on significance of its own. It's just a trigger for the other cemetery in my life, the one I've now spent less time in, which makes me feel bad. I turn onto the perimeter driveway, mid-hill. The obelisks reach above the other graves, all different heights, some a sleek white marble, others a gritty dulled granite. A few tombstones are shaped like crosses.

I remember less from the graveside service than I do from the church service. Someone had set up some of the floral arrangements from the funeral home. There was Astroturf around the grave. There was an awning and a few chairs set up. My father, my grandmothers and I sat. They didn't lower the casket into the grave while we were there. A priest, probably the same one from the church, recited some prayers. I had stopped crying.

"Barbie had to be in the sun. She couldn't be in the shade," my father said, gesturing to the tree nearby as we walked away from the plot. There were hardly any clouds in the sky. I thought of all the places she'd sunbathed - our deck, our lawn, Pawtuckaway State Park, Hampton Beach, the Exeter pool. I remembered waiting for her at the tanning salon when I was little. "She'd be pissed about that awning," he added. Whoever was around laughed softly. We got back into the Town Car. Tommy pulled slowly out of the cemetery and turned back onto Route 27.

The R3 trains rumble by the south edge and the occasional Amtrak train whizzes past. To the east are the VA Medical Center and the University of Pennsylvania Medical Center, giant hospital complexes sort of gazing down on all the graves. I almost always see other runners while I'm in there, or a couple walking, weaving through the rows of stones looking at the names and dates. People bring their dogs too. When I see an actual grave visitor, someone knelt next to a headstone with a pot of flowers or a small American flag, I wonder if it bothers them that the rest of us are using the space for recreation. I wonder especially when I run past a man four times. He'd be perfectly justified telling me to find a treadmill or a track. Of course, I wouldn't hear him with my iPod on. I'm always amused at the songs that wind up playing as I run through Woodlands. "Stayin' Alive." "I Will Survive." It's a bad joke.

I used to see deer there, mostly on the southwest side, behind the mansion. I couldn't believe it the first time. It was twilight and I looked to the west toward the University of the Sciences. Three or four does were a few hundred feet away, far enough not to be bothered by me. I slowed down and gawked. Another time, right after I curved around the mansion, I stopped dead in my tracks when I saw a few deer just on the other side of the wrought iron gate that separated the driveway from the graves. As soon as I stopped, my eyes focused. It was like one of those Highlights Magazine images: "How many deer can you spot in this picture?" I counted fifteen. A few of them watched me, but most continued their business, grazing next to the headstones. A doe jumped over the fence in a swift motion, her legs tucking up underneath her body and landing in silence. She strode across the path to the others.

The deer are gone now. Apparently there was a movement in my West Philadelphia neighborhood of people who thought it was no good that so many deer had found their way into an urban area. I'm not quite sure what trouble they caused. Maybe munching on some trash, ruining some flower beds. I heard there was a plan to do away with them. I didn't think it would actually happen. Deer in Woodlands Cemetery is not exactly the biggest concern in West Philly. But I haven't seen a single deer there in months.

I always forget about the cows next door to my mother's cemetery. They remind me though with a long, low moan (not quite a "moo") or if the wind is blowing the right way, with a quick sniff. Mrs. Bodge, my fourth grade teacher, used to live in the farmhouse there. Her son might live there now. I think Mrs. Bodge died.

My mother is buried in the cemetery of St. Joseph's Church on Route 27 in Epping, headed toward Brentwood, just before the two race tracks, Star Speedway and New England Dragway. On summer nights, you can often hear the hum of racecars going around the track at the speedway. My father used to take me to New England Dragway with him when I was too young to stay at home by myself. He got VIP tickets from work. They had a big cooler filled with soda in the VIP tower. We didn't have to pay for the soda. If you follow Route 27 west from the cemetery, you'll pass through the center of town, by Epping House of Pizza and the Epping Community Church and Brewitt's Funeral Home. My bus went down that road, past the Vallones' old house, and Crystal Bailey's house, and Paddy Murphy's old house and Kate Rohr's house. St. Joseph's Church is set back from the road, but it's on the way. My street, Blake Road, intersects Route 27.

People from Epping often assume my mother is buried in the larger cemetery in town, the one that's part of the Epping Community Church closer to the center of town. Emily's mom was surprised when I first said my mother was buried here. "But it's a Catholic cemetery," she said. She told me the Catholic church typically didn't allow those who died the way my mother did. I reminded her that my mother's funeral was held at St. Joseph's. "Oh yeah," she said. She had been there, sitting with Emily in the back. "I'm surprised they did that. I wonder why." I never asked my father if there was any discussion of this with the church. I'm sure they knew. They must have made an exception.

I don't realize the hills until I switch directions. What I thought was pretty flat is now an incline. I know I shouldn't try to keep up the same pace uphill, but I try anyway. The east side of the cemetery is clearly hillier than the west. The east and west edges have the newest graves. There are more fresh flowers, more people who look like they're visiting graves, rather than exploring. There's a grave that's not all the way filled on the west side - the casket-sized rectangle cut out and loose dirt piled about a foot and a half from the top. It had to have been a mis-dig. I run past a grave from 2004. Then a fresh one, a mound of dirt and a cut out of grass fit back on top. The large arrangement of roses and ribbon that had been lain on the casket was now on top of the cut out, marking the spot while the headstone was most likely still being made. My father chose white lilies for my mother's. Now when I smell lilies I can only think of her funeral. The new-looking graves extend just about to the edge of the northeast side of the grounds. I wonder if the cemetery is close to full. How do they tell people who want to be buried with their families, or who want their mom next to their dad, that there's no more room?

When she died, her sisters and mother thought maybe we should bury her in Whitman where they all had grown up, where they still lived. "I don't want her ever to be alone," Mary said. She mentioned that it was possible that my father and I wouldn't always live in Epping. But, my father decided that Epping was our home and that's where she belonged. They didn't argue. I'll probably never move back to Epping and I'm surprised my father is still living there, especially after they built a Super Wal-Mart, a strip mall and countless housing developments. They even put in an Applebee's. And a Starbucks. If he does move, which he will almost certainly at some point, she will be alone there. Even though I don't hold as much stock in the final resting place as Mary does, it bothers me. I don't want her to be alone either.

You could say that all of us who visit the cemetery are doing a service of sorts. Livening the place up. But I don't really buy that. This is why I shrug when friends ask me if running in Woodlands freaks me out at all. Sure, I stay out of there at night, but that's more because of the living who might be lurking behind the graves, not the dead. Many of my runs take place at twilight, after work. It's a race against the sunset. I circle the mansion, look for deer out of habit, sprint from the drainage grate to the big oak tree like I always do. My steps shorten but don't slow as I truck up the longest hill. I open up at the crest, allowing my stride to lengthen until I'm practically bounding downward. They say downhill impact can hurt runners more than other injuries - it tears apart your quads - but I can't help but use gravity to my advantage. Why control it? My momentum propels me up the last incline by the gate. I turn out of the gate and head west on Woodland Avenue toward home.

By JAMIE-LEE JOSSELYN