In the last week 2 Aussie icons have died. Steve Irwin, wildlife nutcase, was killed by a stingray and Peter Brock, legendary racing driver, died in a racing crash.
Brock was most famous for winning Bathurst, the world’s best touring car race, 9 times. Bathurst is a country town of 30 odd thousand a couple of hours from Sydney and the Mount Panorama circuit is public roadway except during racing. On the day that he died hundreds of people turned up at Mount Panorama to drive laps of the circuit and leave flowers and messages written on the racetrack safety fences.
Yesterday Steve Irwin’s family apparently had his funeral. During the day 300 surfers, some wearing Irwin’s trademark khaki short and shirts, paddled out from Alexandra Headland, carrying sprigs of wild flowers in their teeth. They formed a huge circle 300 metres out and some of them in the centre of the circle appeared to conduct a service. Irwin was, apart from being wildlife fanatic, an accomplished surfer.
Got any other person specific memorials you know of??
When Graham Chapman died, John Cleese said, during the service, “A few years ago, Graham made history by being the first person to say ‘shit’ on British television. I’d like to top that by being the first person to say ‘fuck’ at a funeral.”
And one with where deceased was generous with his humour: when Peter Sellers died, the pastor played the track “In The Mood”, because Sellers had requested it. All of Sellers’s best friends started cracking up laughing in the church - because they knew he absolutely hated it.
I’ve always been touched by tributes left at graves, like the unknown person who leaves a bottle of liquor at Edgar Allen Poe’s grave every year on the anniversary of his death. (I’d love to know the story behind that, but at the same time, I’d hate for the “mystery” to be solved.)
There’s a cemetary behind my grandparents’ home. Their son died and they had him buried in his favorite spot, but they were warned by their attorney that if the property was ever sold, the new owner could order the grave be moved. So, they gave the plot of land to the county to be used as a cemetary. Whenever I’m over there, I go up and look around.
At the back of the cemetary, a baby was buried. From the dates on the stone, the poor thing didn’t even make it until its first birthday. Its mother used to go up there and sit by the grave for hours. (I always left when I saw her there to avoid disturbing her privacy.) She left plush toys, a pacifier and a few other little gifts, but the one that tugged at my heart the most was when she spread a flannel blanket over the grave after the first frost. She doesn’t come by as much any more, so perhaps these offerings were healing for her.
There was also someone who left letters on one grave, each in an envelope that had a single word written on it: “Daddy.”
I’ve always wanted to start a little museum of “grave offerings.” What people leave behind is often so telling about the person who died and what they meant to their family. I don’t know what happens to these little offerings after a while-- it just seems like they ought to be preserved in some way instead of (probably) discarded.
I was in Oklahoma City for a science fiction convention, and while there visited the site of the Murragh building. The memorial hadn’t been built yet, but there was a tall fence around it, as the ground was being leveled in preparation for construction.
It seemed as if nobody could visit without hanging something on the fence. I saw teddy bears, pictures of children, baby shoes, key rings, poems, you name it. Above my head a flash of red and blue caught my eye, and it looked up to see a stuffed Jayhawk(University of Kansas mascot) in a ziploc baggie. The note on it was from the KU basketball team, that had recently been down for a game. I live about half an hour from the university.
That day I took a lot of pictures of that fence. I’m told that at least some of that stuff was saved, for the memorial, but I haven’t been back since to see.
In Thai animist tradition, unless a person’s body is put to rest within a couple of days, the spirit of the dead becomes a ghost. Because so many westerners died during the tsunami, and their relatives weren’t able or willing to perform the traditional ceremonies, the Thais believe that thousands of the dead became ghosts. There are various ways to pacify these ghosts and hopefully mitigate their effect, or even dismiss them completely. One of these is to release a paper ‘hot air balloon’ lantern into the night.
My wife travelled to Thailand to attend the 1-year memorial service for the tsunami victims on the island of Phi Phi in Thailand. At the end of the memorial day, one lantern was released for every person lost. Here’s a picture of a similar ceremony in Khao Lak, a few miles north of where we were. She took a movie on our camera of the lanterns floating into the sky - around 2,200 of them, simultaneously. It’s an astonishing sight and never ceases to reduce me to tears.
Last week our local zoo announced they had set aside a space for people to leave memorial gifts honoring the Croc Hunter. I’ve never participated in that sort of thing, but I did this time.
I cut some roses (thorns and all) from my garden and banded then to a stuffed, pink flamingo, the fiercest animal I could find in our collection.
When we got there, there was only one, sad bunch of flowers, and a single rose, under a small, paper sign, saying to leave gifts for Steve Irwin here. I felt a little silly, with my flamingo, but I put it down and stood there for a moment, at a loss. As I turned around there were several people and their children heading into the zoo. Everyone of them made eye contact with me and smiled, even the kids. I guess, my gesture wasn’t in vain, after all.
As we drove away, my husband pointed out that even that small memorial was amazing for someone who lived and died halfway around the world.
This thread in general is reducing me to tears.
We went on a hike in southern Colorado a couple years ago.
It was a hike that led to a waterfall.
When we got there, my son called us over to a spot where the water was coming down.
We could not hear what he said because of the noise of the water; he motioned and we looked. Among the ferns, there was a spot of blue–a little handwritten sign.
There was a name, a date, and a little blue onesie; it was a memorial for an infant.
Nothing looked very weathered; it was a fairly recent additon.
We observed a moment of silence and then went on.
Near my office is Postman’s Park. It’s a surprisingly tranquil spot, occasionally full of lunching office workers, surrounded by plaques commemorates ordinary people who died trying to save others during the late nineteenth century.
There’s a cemetery in Bethany, West Virginia, where a little boy was buried in 1978, when he was 10 or so. The headstone has a Star Wars motif, very expertly done, because that was his very favorite movie. Until recently, there was also a baseball at the foot of the headstone. The last time Mr. Rilch and I were there, it was gone, and when we asked the groundskeeper, he said the family had removed it but he didn’t know why. But in all the years it was there, no one messed with it.
I’ve left stuff on graves. I left a thimble on my mom’s friend’s grave, because she collected decorative thimbles. And I left a Ho-Ho on Louis’s grave, because that was his favorite. Warren Zevon’s ashes were scattered, but had he been buried, I would have visited the grave (assuming it was public) and left a guitar pick, because once, years before he was famous, he was performing at a coffee house, dropped his pick into the sound hole of his guitar, and was too embarrassed to continue. And at the Vietnam memorial, I saw, in addition to flowers, a McDonald’s cheeseburger. turns to
A gravestone near my grandfather in law is of a teenager with the last name Bell. It is a large inverted U shape, in the center holds a bell. Above the bell, the boys name/dates and the phrase “Every time a bell rings, an angel gets its wings.”
On the vertical posts of the gravestone are the first names of every person he was an organ donor for. Some only say things like “7 year old girl.” There have to be more than 30 names on it. I was amazed at all the things that could be used and it was amazing that all those people benefitted from this young man dying. That and his parents were strong enough to let him be donated.
Be an organ donor. Tell your family, put it in your will.
On the highway halfway between Denver and Boulder, CO is a small triangular patch of grass that separates the Denver-Boulder turnpike, a major N-S road, and the turnpike onramp. To get to it, one must park far away and cross multiple lanes of fast moving traffic and climb down a large hill.
In the middle of this patch of grass is a tiny headstone surrounded by a wrought-iron fence, also tiny. It is always impeccibly maintained, even in winter.
***US 36 used to be a toll road. Back in 1951, when much less was along it, the job of toll collector was a lonely one. So when a black and white mutt pup showed up to keep the collectors company, he quickly won their hearts. Over the years, he became their official mascot. Motorists would leave food and extra change to take care of him.
Finally, old age and arthritis took their own toll. For a time, Shep had to be carried into the booth in the mornings. And in August, 1964, he was put to sleep.
The Colorado DOT decided to officially bury Shep, and local merchants donated the fence and headstones. A portrait of Shep still hangs outside the CDOT commissioner’s auditorium in Denver.
Today, a mystery gravekeeper tends the site. When we visited in August 2003, small American flags from The 4th of July were flapping. A wreath from Christmas was still tied to the gate. Press reports says that the grave is also decorated for Dia del Muerte. But since no one knows who takes care of the grave, no one knows how long it will continue. * **
It still continues, 42 years later. I drove by it today.
