Lost but Not Lonely in The Cemetery

I should have paid more attention

To get to the cemetery, my father and I had to walk four blocks to the bus stop, take one bus, transfer to another bus, and then walk a long distance before finally getting to Mission Cemetery in Santa Clara.

It was a slog, a schlepp, and as a child, not a trip I enjoyed making. So, my father had to resort to bribery to get me to go.

The bribe was a scoop of Cherries Jubilee ice cream in a sugar cone.

If there wasn’t an ice cream shop down the road from the cemetery, I don’t know how he’d have convinced me to go.

My father would clip some roses from our garden, wrap the stems in tin foil, and give them to me to carry.

If those roses made it to the permanent vase in my grandparent’s headstone, it was a miracle.

While he’d pay his respects, I’d dance around the graves or look for weeds masquerading as flowers.

Who cared if they were still pretty?

Then, after a short time — the journey to get there took three times as long as the visitation — we’d be off to get my reward for not being too big of a pain.

When I returned to the cemetery years later, the ice cream shop was gone, and my father was interred in the Garden Mausoleum there.

An assisted living facility had been built next door so the residents could look out on the cemetery. I don’t know if they were comforted by its peacefulness or if they noticed it at all, but the proximity seemed unkind to me.

I’d been living in Los Angeles when my father had a heart attack while walking through a San Francisco sporting goods store. An excellent planner, he’d purchased a niche for his cremains in Mission Cemetery.

I drove up from L.A. to see my friends, but the first thing I did upon arriving in the San Jose area was go to the cemetery to visit my dad and my grandparents.

After parking on the street in front of the cemetery, I first went to the office for a map and then walked towards the back of the grounds where the mausoleum was located.

Directly in front of the mausoleum was what was known as The Children’s Garden. If I thought the senior facility was sad, this area, with its tilted pinwheels, dirty and weather-beaten teddy bears, and broken toys, was heartbreaking.

Reading the gravestones of children was unbearable, and I quickly went into the safety and silence of the mausoleum.

I found my father’s niche right away. I touched my hand to the bronze plaque that had my father’s name, date of birth, and date of death on it. It was cool to the touch and reminded me of when I’d put my little hand against my father’s big hand and how loved that small gesture made me feel.

I should have brought some flowers from my garden but they wouldn’t have made the journey, even with wrapped stems.

Sitting on the stone bench, through tiny tears, I silently told the stories of my life that my father had missed. My grief had already been forged to my heart and was a part of me.

I’d never not be grieving for my father; I’ve learned to live around the grief as if it were a terrible roommate.

I promised my father I’d be back again and went off to look for my grandparents’ grave.

Over twenty years had passed since I’d been to their grave, but I was certain I could find it.

I walked up and down every section, trying to recall landmarks.

There was a tree.

They were not on the street side.

Dang it, why hadn’t I paid more attention?

After walking for more than an hour in the hot sun, I faced the fact that I needed help and went back to the office.

“Can you tell me where I can find my grandparents?” I asked the cemetery clerk.

“Certainly. What’s their name?”

“Schoenwald. George and Margaret Schoenwald. S C H O E N W A L D.”

“I’m sorry, we don’t have anyone here by that name.”

“No, I know they’re here. Could you check again?”

“They’re not listed on our database,” the clerk said with a tone that indicated a rapid loss of patience.

Well, I didn’t know what was happening, but I went back out. The sun was fully engaged in shining its rays on the cemetery.

I retraced my route, this time checking each headstone, looking for my grandparents, Opie and Omi.

After another thirty minutes, it hit me. My father had changed the spelling of our last name.

I went back into the office and asked, “Can you check, Schönwald?”

And lo and behold, they found it, circled the exact area on the map, and off I went again.

By the time I got to my grandparent’s graves, I was exhausted. I didn’t have the energy to grieve. I said a quick hello, brushed off the top of their headstones with my sleeve, and concluded the visit.

Although I was done with my time at the cemetery, it wasn’t done with me, for when I got to my car, I noticed that my lights had been left on and my car battery was dead.

As I waited for someone to give my car a boost, I had to laugh. If only I’d paid more attention to the location of the graves than my reward ice cream, I probably would have gotten back to the car before the battery lost the charge.

Since neither my grandparents nor my dad drove, I’m sure they all had a good laugh that day.

What I would do for a scoop of Cherries Jubilee with my dad right now.

Thanks so much for reading.