Saturday, October 29, 2011

In which people are just dyin' to get in.



Every now and then there comes a point at which this body goes "Ahhrhgf!" and "Raus!" and "Green!" and "Alalalalalaeeeeeeie!" all at the same time. That's my cue to drop whatever I'm doing, kick on the ol' shoes, and exit the building with a woosh and a jangling of keys to echo up the stairwell left behind. I've tried walking off these cranial sound effects in several places, one of which has recently dominated the realm of destination. The Stadtpark is lovely and ideal for canine and small child viewing, but there's not a single centimeter of silence in the whole place. Planten un Blomen is grand, but very much in the shadow of the Radisson Blue. The botanical gardens and Jenischpark have special places in my heart, but are a little inconveniently located. Cue the Friedhof Ohlsdorf. It has the distinction of having its own bus lines, which is convenient as it is the second-largest cemetery in the world. It also has the distinction of being my favorite late afternoon getaway.


Aided by the sustenance provided by the lonely pretzel-seller on the S-Bahn platform, my feet easily find their way through the conveniently located main entrance to the cemetery. There I can find the nature that speaks to my nature-loving Mainer heart, as well as the silence that silences to my silence-loving Quaker tendencies. Pretzel in hand and no destination in mind, I wander from one tiny, overgrown path to another, accompanied only by the slapping of my feet on the ground and the mischievous cackling of squirrels as they hurl hazelnuts from above. (Jerks.)


I often find myself making up stories behind the names on the gravestones, some plots long-abandoned and devoured by creeping rhododendron armies; some well-tended family plots with names and dates spanning several generations; some graves fresh and still stoneless, marked by piles of wilting flowers and ribbons inscribed with sappy "always in my heart" kinds of messages that seem a little too artificial in the freshly salted earth.

There are many water basins to be found throughout the grounds for easy watering purposes. I was intrigued by a dribble-plopping faucet. Several ensconced minutes passed before I noticed the Old Man With The Grizzled Beard & Bicycle behind me. When I turned, he greeted me with an out-of-place "Grüß Gott!", which I returned in a most confused fashion as he peddled away. 

 

The stories became a little more real when I got to the graves of German soldiers from WWI.



They became more real still when I reached the graves of German soldiers from WWII. They were all very simple, just a checkered pattern of flat stones in the grass. Reading the birth and death dates was heartbreaking. At only 23 I was already older than many of these boys.



The similarly marked graves of the victims of the bombings in Hamburg were similarly powerful. After seeing photographs and actual video footage taken during and after Operation Gomorrah, their deaths felt very vivid to me.


Once upon a time, I found a pink tree. That was exciting.


Perhaps my favorite area so far has been the tree cemetery. People can chose to have a tree rather than a headstone. Their names are then listen on plaques at one end of the tree field. It was touching to see names of couples that had purchased themselves a plot together before they died. In some of these cases, only one of the names had a death date. I can't imagine what it must feel like to be able to visit your grave and see your name on the stone. 

One part of the cemetery is home to the graves of hundreds of British soldiers. Their grounds were particularly lovely with clean, white stones, end-of-season roses, and late afternoon lighting effects. It's not their home, but it's not bad. Many families were able to add epitaphs to the stones, though I wonder how many of them have been able to visit these graves themselves in the last decades.





All of this wandering amongst gravestones naturally gets me thinking about my own mortality. For the record, I want to be cremated and have my ashes divvied up amongst anyone that wants a piece, which they can then scatter wherever they feel is best. (Now that my final wish has been submitted to the internet, I can rest assured that it will exist for the reading... eternally.) Not that I have any intention in kicking it anytime soon. No, thanks.

3 comments:

  1. Really wonderful photos and ruminating. Burial grounds (as we used to call them before the funeral industry took over) used to be some of my favorite sleeping places during more urban backpacking. Nobody ever bothered me there. Thank you so much for these.

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  2. Margaret, that picture of the water droplet is beautiful!

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