Lack of Laundry Lines
By Jeannine Patané • 27 July 2005

    As of late, I’m admittedly quite bored. To help me out of the doldrums, I got together with an old friend in the cemetery last evening, and we observed some interesting things. It has been many years since I walked through a cemetery, and last evening I saw a practice never observed before. I noticed various small rocks were placed on top of several of the tombstones, and I asked my friend Derek about them.
    “Is this some kind of new trend in prayer that I haven't heard of?”
    Derek stated that it had nothing to do with weird, poltergeist witch stuff as some might think, but it was simply that, “The landscapers are the ones who put most of the rocks on the tombstones to get them out of their way when they mow the grass.”
    It was a simple, logical explanation, and by looking at the manicured fields, I had to concur. Apparently, the surviving loved ones of the deceased didn’t have a problem with it; in fact, they participated the rock placement ritual themselves. I placed a rock on top of someone’s tombstone, then followed Derek and his guitar to a bench so we could sit down and create a lofting sound throughout the cemetery. After a few cords, Derek shot up and addressed the bench we were sitting on.
    “Whoa, are we sitting on someone’s grave? I don’t want to be disrespectful.”
    “It’s OK Derek, that’s what they want. That’s why it’s designed like a bench in the first place. They want us to sit and ponder.”
    We got off the bench to read the engraving, Graciously beautiful Esther with love and understanding for all. I thanked Esther and those who knew her to put such a thoughtful design in a cemetery. Derek sat back down and continued to play gentle, penetrating music while I was inspired to walk around and discover more of what the cemetery offered.
    Epitaphs were written in many languages throughout the small area that I explored. It quickly dawned on me that a community without a cemetery is a community without a history. As I passed by some tombstones of Asian descent, I felt an instant heat that made me jump as it engulfed my body.
    "Hey do you feel that?” I asked myself. Then I realized where the heat was originating. The sun was a few degrees from disappearing past the horizon. The air was cooling quickly, and a tombstone, only inches away from me, was radiating the day’s heat from itself. I ran my hands over the tombstone, about an inch away from the rock’s surface to feel the intensity of the radiation. It was exciting to feel; I began my way back to Derek to share my discovery.
    Heading back to Esther’s bench, I continued to read more epitaphs and found that there are many beloved people on this planet. What amazed me was how it takes an entire lifetime to sum up in a few words how we feel about someone. I enjoyed reading the few that were so bold to use adjectives on the tombstones such as “saucy” or “audacious.” For the tombstones themselves, an appreciation went to the architectural design such as Andy’s spiral columns, which could represent a pillared staircase to the heavens, and of course, there was Esther’s bench.
    The sky began to darken and the insects became more apparent. Derek and I said goodbye to Esther and took our walk out of the cemetery. An occasional lightning bug would float by us illuminating its green glow, reminding me of spirits, like little flashes of light energy out for an evening stroll. I found our time in the cemetery to be enchanting, not scary like one would presume. As soon as Derek and I reached the road, we parted ways for the evening, and I continued the few-mile walk back to where I resided.
    As I passed houses along the avenue, there was something about the atmosphere that was scarier than any cemetery. It was the schizophrenic behavior that neighbors displayed with their outdoor lighting. Some houses were more brightly lit than a stadium’s evening game. This displayed either poor judgment in lighting design, or fearful, paranoid homeowners. Yet, right next door to these electric energy consumers were homes as black as the night itself, screaming for trouble. Was one neighbor trying to compensate for the other? Why the outdoor lighting dichotomy? I just didn’t get it.
    I covered more distance down the avenue without improving much on home lightning design. I caught a whiff of perfumed dryer sheets, which again, perplexed me to why someone would be running a dryer in the heat of the summer. There was a lack of laundry lines in the neighborhood; yet, there were no ordinances against them. Laundry lines are energy savers (save the electric for outdoor lighting, right?) and there’s nostalgia with squeaky pulleys and wooden clothespins. Besides, how would the youth procure white sheets to wear in the cemetery?
    When we often believe that we are improving our suburban image, such as adding unnecessary bright lighting and removing our laundry lines, we don’t realize we’re debasing the character that made our homes attractive to us in the first place. It wasn’t until I got closer to where I was residing that an outdoor scene gave me hope for the avenue’s attitude.
    Just two blocks away from my destination was something unordinary. The strumming of an acoustical guitar along with a woman’s singing voice was a cue that I was approaching a house unlike any other on the avenue. This house had a comforting feel, with children giggling and singing, music playing and adults laughing and conversing outside. The outdoor lights consisted of dimmed, covered sconces along the sides of the house and a few camping lanterns that gave out indirect light. The warm atmosphere was wonderful to soak in; I substantially slowed my walking pace to enjoy the family music scene. Seeing this home, I was in no rush to get home myself for the night.

• • •

    Images of last evening’s cemetery visit and the following walk along the avenue replays in my head while I sit on the back porch drinking this morning’s coffee. The next-door neighbor has a white comforter hanging on their laundry line that is gently dancing in the breeze. Ah, a laundry line. Nice. The angle of the sun lights the comforter from behind, allowing me to see the feathers resting at the bottom of each stitched compartment. My imagination takes that comforter to the cemetery for a night, where I see a bunch of fluffy, child-size ghosts running around with feathers and fireflies floating behind them, and they are dancing to Derek's acoustical music. The lighting consists of only camping lanterns and candles, placed on the tombstones, next to the rocks. I smile to such a beloved image, and wait for the morning breeze to turn into a wind that will carry me out of my doldrums, and onto my next chapter.

"When we often believe that we are improving our suburban image, such as adding unnecessary bright lighting and removing our laundry lines, we don’t realize we’re debasing the character that made our homes attractive to us in the first place."