This has been a sad year. After
having just lost my Mom to cancer 2 ½ short years ago, my Dad suddenly passed
away last month. I’ve found myself thinking profoundly over the past few weeks
about legacy, pondering deeply what my parents left me with, not so much
physically as metaphorically. I am grateful for the solid foundation they gave
me through encouragement, support, education, and sometimes a firm hand and
boundaries that enabled me to become who I am today. As a child, my parents fostered a love of
reading, learning and books. They took our family to museums where we could
steep ourselves in history, science, and art. They encouraged us to try our own
hand at playing instruments and filled our house with music ranging from jazz
to classical to the occasional foray into folk and pop music. They took us on
vacations to beautiful national parks. They made sure we all learned to swim
during summer vacations. They gave me
and my siblings the gift of college educations. We had regular family dinners,
homemade and at the table together. We
discussed what we learned at school, politics, and the world. We watched the
nightly news and the Muppet Show together in the evenings. We laughed a lot and sometimes cried. I
wonder often how children grow and prosper when they don’t have the luxury of
being raised by parents like mine.
In the 2 ½ years since we
lost my Mom, I began going to my Dad’s house to help with some chores and make
dinner. We had some wonderful conversations over those dinners and I became much
closer to my Dad. Frequently our conversations in that first year were on the
topic of stones. The headstone on their grave was not a quick decision. Dad mulled over multiple designs and types of
stone for months, deliberating with all of us as to which one would best serve
as not only a marker, but a memorial. We decided that a piece of poetry or
writing would make it all the more special and Dad perused multiple possible
excerpts before finally settling on a portion of John Donne’s “Death Be Not
Proud.” Once the stone, design, and words were settled upon, drafts and
revisions circulated among family members until, finally, many months after Mom
was laid to rest, the perfect headstone was set in place at Lower
Brandywine.
Throughout those months
and discussions about the headstone, Dad and I also talked about the
predominantly Jewish custom of leaving stones when visiting graves of loved
ones. There are multiple explanations for this custom in Jewish lore. The
oldest historical connection actually comes from ancient times when people
would mark graves with simple piles of stones. It was a practice that
ultimately evolved into grave markers with inscriptions and was not solely a
Jewish custom. Aside from the historical significance of piles of stones, there
are multiple stories that emerge explaining the custom. The associations Dad
and I talked about most were 1) the idea of stones symbolizing endurance 2) the
leaving of stones as a sign that “I was here” visiting this memorial and 3)
stones left as a tribute meaning “you were remembered”. Once the headstone was
in place, Dad and I both began leaving stones when we paid a visit to the
gravesite. Dad left a stone he collected at Trinity University in San Antonio
as well as stones from family vacations to Graves Mountain and Lake George. I
left stones from various places I visited as well as stones I just liked.
Unfortunately, some
well-meaning soul has cleared away all of our stones. Maybe someone who
recalled Mom’s dislike of kitschy disorder left as memorials or maybe just
someone trying to keep the cemetery clean and orderly. I feel certain Mom would
be just fine with this custom of leaving stones, however, and I invite any and
all of you to leave your own stones if you happen to visit. Both Mom and Dad
were filled with fortitude and lived rich, full lives. The legacy they left is
solid as stone; it endures and lives on in the memory of everyone their lives
touched.
Holy Sonnets: Death Be Not Proud
By John Donne
Death, be not proud,
though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadful, for
thou art not so;
For those whom thou
think’st thou dost overthrow
Die not, poor Death, nor
yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleep, which
but thy pictures be,
Much pleasure; then from
thee much more must flow,
And soonest our best men
with thee do go,
Rest of their bones, and
soul’s deliovery,
Thou art slave to fate,
chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poison, war,
and sickness dwell,
And poppy or charms can
make us sleep as well
And better than thy
stroke; why swell’st thou then?
One short sleep past, we
wake eternally
And death shall be no
more; Death, thou shallt die.
(Spellings in the original
Donne poems are slightly different and the inscription on my parents’
gravestone uses the original Donne spellings.)
