At some point, I was going to visit the cemeteries in Baltimore and tell my mom’s family that she had died.
Now, if the afterlife is a thing you believe in, there was really no need to do so; depending on what kind of afterlife one believes in, one could argue that her family would already know. If an afterlife is not a thing, then I wasn’t doing anything, because what’s in the cemetery isn’t aware of me or anything at all.
Nonetheless, I felt it was something to do, if only for my own piece of mind. I feel a sense of responsibility to people I have never met and who died long before I was born.
I wrote two months ago that I went looking for a 19th-century Episcopal priest, Dr. Julius Grammer. I found that, standing next to my great-great-grandmother’s grave, I could make out clearly where he and his family are buried, though seeing his grave would be impossible.
The Fowler grave, a capped obelisk circled toward the left, is the key. Grammer’s grave would be behind that, up some stairs cut into the hillside. The mausoleum I circled is the same mausoleum I walked past two months ago; if I’d turned to my left, I’d have seen Dr. Grammer’s site.
Also up there is the grave of Bill Gardner (no relation), who played for the Baltimore Orioles in 1887. His father, Augustus, is buried on Whatcoat hill, near my great-great-grandmother.
A MARC train went by. I always wave at the trains as they pass.
There was deer poop all over the place. Of course there was, because there were deer!
A rangale of deer were minding their own business in the cemetery, and then this idiot tourist wandered right into the middle of them. The deer were spooked, I was spooked, and we stared at each other for a few minutes. They moved to get a better (suspicious) look at me. I moved to get better photos.
One of the deer had an impressive white tail.
Eventually, they tired of me, and I wanted to get back to my car.
Maybe we parted friends when they ran off.