East Parish Burying Ground

And we interrupt the London recap once again. At this point I think the remaining UK posts will be headed for the Flashback file...

If there's one thing Massachusetts is good for, it's old cemeteries, and if there's another, it's autumn.  In my opinion this is the best time of year to visit a cemetery, because combining the aesthetics of turning, falling leaves with old stone makes for some pretty gorgeous contrasts.

Once again, I briefly thought of going to Salem this week before my class in Boston.  It's still just a bit too far to justify, though, and I wouldn't have had enough time to spend in the burying grounds there.  But in the course of looking over my cemetery spreadsheet I noticed a name that's become familiar on my jaunts on the turnpike: Newton.  The town is basically in Boston, and only about five miles from campus if the GPS is to be trusted, so I could certainly make a stop there.

East Parish Burying Ground is one of three old cemeteries in Newton.  Without having visited the other two, I'm still confident in considering this one the best.  It's also the oldest of the three, occupying the spot where the first meetinghouse in Newton was built in 1660--and now across the street from Boston College's law school.  Using the school's address for GPS coordinates might be a good idea, since most websites only listed the cemetery's location as the corner of Cotton and Centre Streets; that is indeed where the entrance is.

The only problem with the cemetery is that there isn't anywhere convenient to park.  Parking is prohibited except for weekends and holidays on Cotton Street, and some other streets in the neighboring residential area are similarly marked.  I figured the law school might not be amenable to foreigners using their lot, so I finally decided to part in front of someone's house around the corner from the cemetery entrance, within sight of a one-hour-parking sign.

The earliest graves are from the 17th century and the latest (and least) from the 20th.  The southern end, the section nearest the entrance, seems to have the older graves, and they get newer as you move north.  The cemetery isn't all level; there are a few mounds near the entrance that hold mausoleums covered over with grass, and the ground slopes a bit higher above them as you move further in.  Then it falls away toward the north.  I liked the uneven terrain.  It wasn't hilly enough to be too challenging to walk through, but enough to provide interest.  And as I'd hoped, there were a few trees in a really prime state of leaf-changing.

The thing that sets East Parish apart from other cemeteries is the quality of the carvings.  Of course there are some toppled stones, and reassembled ones, and lichen-streaked ones, but there are a number of 18th-century slates whose carving is fantastically crisp and fresh.  It was almost unbelievable; several of the stones looked like Halloween decorations, both in their design and in their apparent newness.  I was really very impressed, and still am a day later.  Plus there were some wonderful old names, like Sylvanus Wetherbee, Deliverance Hide, General Michael Jackson, and my favorite, Patience Pigeon.

East Parish had great light, great leaves, and great graves.  While you may not be guaranteed the first two on your visit, you'll definitely get the latter.  I highly recommend visiting if you can.

Mirabilis

We interrupt your regularly scheduled London recaps for this postlet. 

I
Walt Whitman I think would not be surprised to know that there's a cocktail named after him at the Dead Poet on the Upper West Side.  A variation on the Long Island iced tea, it's sweet and fruity and strong.  Whether or not he would enjoy the drink as I did, I don't know; but I cannot imagine that he would not be both delighted by and matter-of-fact about its existence.  Of course we still remember and celebrate him in this city.  How could we not?

It avails not, neither time or place—distance avails not;
I am with you, you men and women of a generation, or ever so many generations hence;
I project myself—also I return—I am with you, and know how it is.1

II
As we sat at an early service in St. Paul's Chapel, I wondered what George Washington would think of this.  Not about the fact that the vicar leading the service was a woman; not about her wireless mic and the speakers in the balconies or the electric lights; not about the fact that all but two of the box pews have been removed (one of those remaining being the one he sat in) and that the congregation now sat in chairs arranged in concentric circles; but what he would think to see us in 2015 still worshiping in the same church he did.  I wondered if he would be surprised that St. Paul's still stands all these years later, or if his reaction would be one of confidence in the building's endurance.  What must it feel like, to see a building from your time now dwarfed by the unfamiliar architecture of future years?  The chapel has survived for over two centuries; that it survived these past fourteen is all the more astonishing.

III
Noted cinematic masterpiece "Kate & Leopold" begins in the late 19th century, with a ceremony at the not-yet-complete Brooklyn Bridge attended by Hugh Jackman's character.  When he's transported to 2001, Leopold happens upon the finished bridge and is awed to see it still standing, so much so that to an unimpressed sanitation worker he declares, "That, my friend, is a miracle!"

IV
It is a city of miracles upon miracles, and not the least of them that the sky was blue on Sunday afternoon.

from "Crossing Brooklyn Ferry" ↩