I
don’t go to Resurrection Cemetery to visit relatives; they’re not there. Instead, I go out of the belief their graves
serve as satellite dishes that make for better communication. It’s also a good way to pick up brownie
points when it comes time to check in with St. Peter: Hey, I passed up biking that one nice day in
November to go to the cemetery instead.
But, for the sake of today’s post, let’s say Resurrection is just like
the cemetery in Edgar Lee Master’s Spoon
River Anthology, with the departed present, accounted for and talking.
I went yesterday
to do my seasonal cleaning of headstones.
I was surprised and, yes, a little disappointed, to see a sprinkling of
Cub flags and pennants; Resurrection is very much South Side, which should mean
White Sox territory, but you can’t account for taste with some people present
and past. I’m just happy none of that
stuff was around my father’s grave.
Things could’ve gotten heated among residents after closing time. Ed Bukowski didn’t suffer fools or….
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