I’m back in my hometown and motoring up a familiar hill. As
I near the summit the languid winds through the trees pull
my attention to my left. That ivy covered wall still
dutifully guards the hillside. It still looks the same. I
sit at the stop sign at the top of the hill for a few
moments staring out into the baby-blue sky that sits so
daintily above the concrete jungle of close-fisted gray
before me.
I’m no longer in control of my car. Something has
commandeered the wheel. I find myself executing a series of
left turns until, about a mile later, I find myself looking
up at those black spiked gates that shield Forest Lawn,
Glendale. On the top of the gates, peewee lions of metal
hold up signs proclaiming “Eternity.” Inside, I’ve entered
the true Eden. Gigantic cedros and eucalyptus trees flail
their leavie fingers and arms to block out the horizon. To
my right a large two story mansion that has two chimneys
protruding from it’s roof. To my left a water fountain of
three man-sized erect Herons blast water 40 feet into the
air from their open beaks. And green, green, everything is
green. The lawns, the trees, the water in the fountain, why,
even the air itself is green. The green water that sprays
into the air turns a fine mist and slowly radiates coolness
through the gentle breezes that meander through this emerald
city. Suddenly you experience a rare sense of peace, calm.
The madness is still there, crouching for you outside those
gates like jungle cats, but for now, serenity among the
dead.
I continue winding through this sea of shimmering
green, I’m no longer in my car. I’m back in my 68 chevy. But
how can that be? My yellow SS Camaro with it’s shiny metal
stick shift rising like a cobra from the console. My silky
red and black graduation tassel is hanging from the mirror.
I don’t quite know what’s happening but I’m really in no
hurry to escape.
On the journey you see them. Hundreds of flower
arrangements. Tulips, roses, carnations. American flags and
the occasional life size marble statues of mothers and
children frozen for their pose in time. A couple more turns
and I believe yes... I believe...yes I’m here. It really
hasn’t changed at all. I’ll walk over to the markers, they
were right over that little swail. As you step from the
asphalt your feet sink down into the soft fescue grasses
that clothe that hill. You quickly find yourself treading in
the endless sea of markers. Beloved wife and mother. Beloved
daughter. Beloved friend. Beloved this, beloved that, almost
all beloved.
But where is it? It was right over here. But.. no I
guess it was over there... no..lots more markers but not
them. But I remember us all being right here, probably what,
a hundred of us. The steely cold of the parents, the
numbness of the siblings, and the silence of the friends,
all those friends standing here on this hillside all those
years ago.
Like so many other tragedies there was no rhyme or
reason to it. Two friends upon high school graduation set
out to see the country. They are driving in Alabama, or was
it Georgia, and are hit head on by a guy that just escaped
from prison. Killed instantly, never had a chance, closed
casket in case you’re wondering. And that’s it and that’s
that. Bodies shipped back here to be placed side by side
here on this mountain until the end of our universe.
But that’s what made it so ironic. This graveyard, this
section, this slope, this was our slope, my slope, the
school’s slope. I, we, they would quietly park our cars out
there on that very street, and then, by cover of night,
climb through the thick ivy covering that wall and jump down
into this very graveyard. And here we would play. Laugh,
dance, sing and oh yes drain those bottles of the magic
elixir. Underneath the stars, flashlight in hand, every
grave marker could instantly be transformed into any story
you needed. Over here, ya see, this is ah, hmm, Joe
Somebody, he died at, lets see, do the math, at 26, on his
wedding night, yeah. He was very religious and a virgin.
Because he never got any he still roams this graveyard with
a large butcher knife searching for some. Hey, what’s that
moaning, what’s that stirring over in the shadows, why, why,
is that footsteps? I think it’s coming closer...here, let me
hold you darling... yeah yeah... Yeah.
I’m now a castaway in this sea of markers, hundreds of
the beloved but still no...there they are. Sitting right
where they were all those years ago. Silver markers the size
of briefcases, nestled down a few inches below the level of
this grassy slope. Covered in little dunes of dead grass and
dirt. The dirt cakes around the letters and numbers and
grudgingly comes off when attacked by a little twig that is
laying there. And there they are, Jerald W. Heyne and Bill
Atkinson, both 1954 to 1972 and both Beloved Sons and
Brothers.
As I look down it all comes slowly jangling back like
dense fog rolling in over the fences. After the debacle in
Chicago, the Democrats had met in Miami to launch the
McGovern-Eagleton-then McGovern-Shriver Jr. ship for the
voyage to the presidency and the end of the war and a better
country. But instead of steaming up the eastern seaboard
they make a navigational error and end up in the Bermuda
triangle, forever lost among those moaning ghost ships.
The great unwashed of the country are finally being
“cleansed” and educated by Archie and Edith, Laugh-In, and
the New Lucy show. American higher educaton. The French
Connection dominates the Academy awards and the nation
wonders about, “The first time ever I saw your face.”
That recently graduated class, the graveside 100, had
what Bill and Jerry obviously didn’t, their lives. The only
thing that any of us really have, our existence, our
consciousness. We had the facts of life before our moppety
eyes, but would those eyes be able to see? Would we live
strongly, boldly, here and now, realizing that this
improbable gift of consciousness can be cut off at any
second? Would we love more, spend more time with our
families, and marvel at the splendor of just being alive or
would we fall into the same old “Marshall” plan of robotic
work, house on hill and trophy wife and or husband? Would
we, as Newton said, rummage for enticing shells on the beach
while the whole vast ocean of knowledge and wonder lay
unnoticed at our feet?
The lives of the graveside 100 were never promised or
ordained to begin with, we had only acted as if they had.
The real miracle is that we had existed at all. Any of us.
We had beaten the cold, uncaring universe. By the
percentages, we could have, should have been a burst of
energy in some distant sun or perhaps a rock sitting
somewhere in the Serengeti desert. That’s what
99.999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999
999999 percent of what all energy and matter are. The only
two things in the universe. But we, by some miracle got the
gift of life instead. The ultimate lottery win. We had
robbed the universe! We were essentially cosmic Bonnie and
Clydes standing on that hill.
But now the breezes are caressing my face. The fog is
starting to flee. I can see Archie and Edith starting to
drift away from being to nothingness. Just as we all shall.
I get up, take a last look at those markers, what is there
to say? I can hear the cars working harder to make it up
that hill beyond the fence. As I walk back, again I see all
the “beloveds.” At least we get the chance to do it. And
what would Bill and Jerry and these hundreds of “beloveds”
lying here in this ground say to us, the graveside 100, the
still living? Nothing. No words are needed, for they are
already speaking to us everyday.
The Kalugu is the third book in the fifteen book series, The Adventures of Lord Belmundus, a remarkable tale of others worlds, strange customs, beauty and warfare; and, in its grips, lands a young celebrity, who has the chaps to play the many parts t
