Yesterday I bought some real estate. Not much, really: probably about a square foot, maybe two. By the square footage it was pretty pricey – $750. But we have to remember that the construction we will put on it is longlasting; as the gravedigger in Hamlet puts it, “the
The Garth
houses [the gravedigger] makes last till doomsday.” Yup. I bought a cemetery plot in the Garth.
For 26 years I taught English at Phillips Academy in Andover, Massachusetts. I came there in 1982, when Jane and I married, and we lived there until 2008, when I retired. Both of our sons were born, grew up, and went to high school there; and we all came to love the place deeply. I lived at the academy longer than anywhere else in my life. After retirement we moved 25 miles away to Lynn, where Jane, my wife, is rector of the Episcopal church. But I left much of myself behind in Andover.
It’s a lovely, old burial ground. Harriet Beecher Stowe is buried there. Another resident is Dudley Fitts, a former teacher, who translated the version of Sophocles’ Antigone that I used to teach. On a warm day in October, I would troop my class down to the cemetery, and groups of students would perform scenes from Sophocles on the Garth itself, ten yards from Dudley’s grave.
The Garth is a circle of grass circumscribed by a granite ring, much like curbstone, where late faculty members may be buried. It makes a great spot to act out Greek drama. The granite face is polished, and etched into it are the names of faculty members who have chosen to be buried there.
Another classroom visit to the cemetery during teaching time occurred in the spring when I taught Our Town to ninth-graders. We would walk over, always on a warm sunny day, and read the third act, Emily’s funeral, which is set in the Grover’s Corners graveyard. Remembering that the play is supposed to be staged without scenery, we had performed it the day before in the squash court. No scenery there! Still, I always preferred the cemetery version.
I’ve been to several Garth funerals. One of my great friends, Craig Thorn, is buried there. Craig died of cancer when he was in his forties, way, way too young. As my department chair, he helped me publish a grammar book that I used in my tenth-grade classes. In summers for lunch I often went over to his apartment – part of a dormitory – and we sat outside eating charcuterie and drinking wine, talking about books and travel and teaching.
Another dear friend, Carmel Rodriguez-Walter, is there as well. She also was claimed too soon by the “emperor of all maladies,” as Siddhartha Mukherjee termed cancer. Carmel fed our family grandly every Thanksgiving and often on Christmas and Easter as well, knowing that Jane had services those days and our family needed her warmth and sustenance. A Cubana who grew up in Paris, she made flan like God’s own preparation of manna for the lost Israelites. She also helped with the writing, proofing various manuscripts.
The act of buying this bit of earth was unaccountably exhilarating. First of all, the purchase was made with the help of Chris Joel, the Director of Business Services. Chris’s father, Pete, was a colleague, and a delightful man, another friend who died all too early. I’ve known Chris for years, when he was a teenager, bright and kind. Those adjectives still apply. We recalled some of the old days, and laughed a lot. I emailed him afterwards, saying, “I never had such a pleasant time buying a funeral plot!”
No one buys something like a burial site without thinking about its ultimate use. I’m 71 now, and I think I’ve got some more miles to go (before I sleep, as Robert Frost might add). But everyone knows where we all are going, sooner or later. And even now, as I look back on it all, I know I’ve had a fine time here on earth, and I hope I’ve left the place a little better than when I came into it. I’m trying – after all, I drive a Prius!
What I’m saying is that the purchase didn’t lower my spirits in the least. I’m glad to hope that after I check in to the Garth – a long time after, I hope – Jane will come along to join me. In the meantime, Craig is there already, and maybe we can hang out and talk books. Carmel may have some flan waiting. And every five years each son will have an Andover reunion, and they’ll know where to find us, and stop by for a visit.
A lovely commentary on a necessary preparation that all of us need to do as our years advance into the 70s. Thanks for sharing, John.
Tom R.
John, this is beautiful. Thank you. I have been around for the burial of my father and my children’s father, to whom I was married for many years and of whom I remember with, for the most part, affection, having fallen in love at ages 15 and 18 and married at ages 21 and 24. My ageless and stalwart mother will probably be around for many more years; I expect her to reach 100 without even leaving her own home although perhaps she will have given up driving by then, who knows!
Thank you for this John. Dad is not beneath the Garth, but nearby with his very dear friends, Peter and Jean McKee and Hale Sturges. I visited last year when I was on campus for my reunion. Mum and Karen will be there eventually and it brings me much joy to know that the old friends are together, discussing the wonderful and difficult years they spent on campus, reliving, for their era, the wild times they shared off campus and of course, cheering on the Red Sox.
My best wishes to you and Jane.
Laura