Located on a quiet hill in the even quieter hamlet of Hartsdale, New York, Ferncliff Cemetery is the eternal home of lots of famous people. Songwriter Harold Arlen, James Baldwin, ice cream meglomaniac Tom Carvel, Joan Crawford, Basil Rathbone, Toots Shor, Ed Sullivan and his orchestra leader Ray Bloch, director Preston Sturges, Moss Hart and his wife Kitty Carlisle Hart, renowned troublemaker Malcolm X, Oscar Hammerstein, Moms Mabley, and Judy Garland. Beatle John Lennon was cremated there. The list goes on and on and on. The place includes also a whole passel of my relatives. And the relatives of several good friends of mine.
And my parents.
Indeed, my mom would be happy to know that her top floor studio apartment/niche was once a mere three dozen footsteps away from Miss Garland, whom I would have allegedly be named after. If I, of course, was a girl. Not that gender ever made a difference to Judy. Meanwhile, Judy's family has since moved her casket to Los Angeles. But, I digress...
Believe it or not, cemeteries were a prime destination for Sunday drives, especially with my grandparents.
"Come on, let's go see Uncle Fritz."
The eight-year-old comedian in me could not resist the witty retort.
"Yeah, but he can't see you."
Ha ha. My grandmother didn't find the funny in funny.
"Don't be fresh."
Almost as punishment, I was loaded into the car along with a whole bunch of gardening tools and off we went to Tombstone Land. I never understood why my grandmother felt the need to garden some graves, except perhaps we had some family members who were too damn cheap to pay for the perpetual care offered by the cemetery. My grandmother would survey the lawn on top of some relative and if she found it a little too weedy, there would be the beckoning call to my grandfather.
”Pop, bring me the shears!”
And then they would spend an hour manicuring the grounds while I played hopscotch on the bronze nameplates all around me. And then get scolded for that.
”Don’t walk on them. That’s where their head is.”
Huh?
Now, in our family, there were two cemeteries of choice. The old and staid Woodlawn Cemetery in the Bronx. Most of the older folks wound up there. Cousins who had died of sinus infections in the pre-antibiotic days of the 30s. One young nephew who had accidentally stabbed himself to death while slicing some pork chops in the butcher shop. And now, there in Woodlawn, “reside” my grandparents. In a plot they selected twenty to thirty years before they died. By the fence so they could watch all the cars drive by on Webster Avenue. That was the reason I was given. I kid you not. And, I digress again…
The younger relatives were all found in the more modern and up-and-coming Ferncliff up in the suburbs. And that place always managed to give me the creeps. Invariably, I would get sent into the mausoleum to get some water for vases. And the eerie, somber music that was piped into that joint made my trips into them as time-condensed as possible. I walked through there wearing imaginary blinders. If you looked at any of the crypts on the left or the right, you would find decorated to look like real living rooms with kids’ toys on the floor. Audible scream!
There was one grave that my father scared the shit out of me with. It seems some real jerk had a bust made of his head. When he was buried, the bust was placed under the nameplate and you could lift it up to look down. One day, my father said, “come on and say hello to Uncle Charlie.” Not knowing the horror to come and being a dumb kid, I did so. Uncle Charlie looking up from his resting place.
Audible scream all over again! Nightmares for a week. Thanks, Dad.
Ironically, I’d unwittingly get back at him for this injustice. Years later, the day after he passed away, I went through the robotic process of “making arrangements.” There never was a thought in my mind that his eternal resting place would be at Ferncliff. Besides, all the good spots by the fence at Woodlawn had already been taken.
Anyway, as if I was playing the bonus round on Supermarket Sweep, I blew through Ferncliff and got everything settled in the space of fifteen minutes. Cement vault, hole in the ground, lettering and design for the plaque, timing for a graveside service. Because I don’t believe in the ritual, there would be no funeral parlor viewing. It would be just like the Wild West. 12 Noon at Boot Hill. Be there or be square. And your attendance would be by invitation only. I had it all solved in a flash.
The day before the burial, I got a call from one of my dad’s cronies who had made my A List of invitees.
”So, Len, what time is the cremation tomorrow?”
Huh???? I told the guy there would be a burial.
”But your father always told me he wanted to be cremated.”
I thought about the cement vault. Already invoiced. The grave. Already dug. The in-ground plaque. Perhaps being engraved as we spoke. I called my mother and asked if she had ever heard that request. Knowing my parent’s virtual disregard for any timely communication, I was not surprised that she had not. And naturally this was complete breaking news for me.
So, indeed, in death, there would be one last time where I screwed up something for Dad. And, in a way, I was getting back at it for the fright show that had been Uncle Charlie. But, I also thought that my father might have enjoyed the faux pas that only I could have constructed.
On the day of the burial, we stood in the street near the gravesite and waited for the hearse to show up. We saw it enter the gate and it immediately made a hard right turn. Into the section where all the Black people were buried. Most of us couldn’t help but giggle. Suddenly, the hearse slammed on its brakes and started to back up. We imagined that the drivers had been startled by a rap on the window in the back of the hearse. And perhaps a faint voice from the beyond.
”What are you idiots doing? You can’t put me here with all those coloreds.”
When I make my annual visit to Ferncliff now, I survey all the nameplates around my dad and realize that his pain is continuing. Every name is Chinese.
Sorry again.
Dinner last night: General Tso's chicken.
