Generation Bubelah: Cemeteries are communities

"Let's go see mommo," was what my mother said. The first thing that came to mind was heritage house, and then the second thought was the cemetery.

"For her birthday, let's go see her and poppo." My grandmother's birthday was the 20th of May, and I was back in Columbus, Ohio.

"Maybe we should bring gin and tonics?" I said, jokingly.

Every Friday night before Shabbat dinner, my grandmother would drink a sapphire gin and tonic.

My mother took a lime from the basket on the counter, grabbed the bottle of gin from the above cabinet, and the tonic water from the refrigerator. I watched as my mother fumbled around to find a jar to put it in.

The last time I was at the cemetery was when we buried my grandmother. The time before that was when we buried my grandfather. Cemeteries are the only physical evidence of our loved ones that remains.

We drove for fifteen minutes before we reached the Agudas Achim cemetery. We parked on the corner next to my grandparent's plot.

"Mommo picked the spot because it's on the corner," my mother said, pushing herself out of the car. "That way she could see who was visiting who." You could see that someone had recently passed away because of the dirt and light mud. Next to my grandmother was my grandfather, who no longer had light mud, but blades of grass.

"They look cute together." I said, "healthy." I looked over to my mother; she stared at the gravestone. It reminded me of when I interviewed my grandmother about her parents. She had said, "I'll never again hear my mother's voice."

After a moment my mom walked behind the gravestone and started to pour the gin and tonic. We made a toast, and put some fresh lilacs, chocolate and a mentos on the plaque in front of the gravestone.

"Let's do the rounds," my mother said. "Mommo would want us to say hi to everyone."

We were the only ones there. As I looked around at all the gravestones, I noticed that the closer we were to the highway, the more religious symbols on the tombstones.

"It's because they're the older generations," my mother said. It was interesting to see the difference; the younger generations had more modern stone, less religious text or symbols; the older generations had small portrait size pictures, and was written in Hebrew. I couldn't help but think if there families still talked about them. How many people really know about their great, great, great grandparents or uncles, aunts, etc?

"These are mommo's parents," my mother said.

Everything was in Hebrew. I took a picture.

"And these," my mother said, walking a bit farther down the row, "are poppo's parents."

I took a picture.

I followed my mother as we did what she called. "The Agudas Achim Cemetery hop."
 
Everyone my mother knew when she was a young girl was buried here. She would stop, and say things like, "such a wonderful woman," or "just really genuine people." After each expression, she would wipe her eyes with a tissue.

"Your father and I bought our plots, they're right next to mommo and poppo." She said, looking at me as we started walking back.

Maybe it's because the Jewish community where I grew up is relatively small, but the cemetery all of a sudden felt more like a neighborhood than anything else. Sure everyone was gone, but they were all still next to one another, and who knows, maybe sharing stories under the ground. Even in death, the Jewish community remains strong.

As times have changed since my mother grew up, more people leave home and settle in other states or countries. Does this mean that more people aren't being buried close to their relatives, immediate family? And really how do you choose where you will be buried. Maybe I'll know down the line, but what affects the decision? Family, where you are located? I started to think about being my sister, who lives in Virginia. She is married, will someday be pregnant, is she going to want to buy a plot in Virginia where she starts her family, or in Ohio where her roots are? Then I thought about me. I don't know where I'll end up, but the thought that I would be far from my family, made me well, sad. And hypothetically, if I were to marry outside my religion, then do I choose family or spouse?

Maybe these thoughts are premature. Maybe as I get older, get married and have kids, my thoughts about where to lay your head change. But after going to see my grandmother, and other relatives, I can't really imagine not being a part of this stilled community.