Death's Headstone

I have always been fascinated by graveyards.  Not in a morbid, creepy kind of way, but because they are full of things to stimulate the imagination - an explorer's ancient marker here, a soldier's broken angel there.  Multiple generations of the same family buried in successive ranks over the course of several hundred years.

Caroline's Saturday afternoon gymnastics class is at a school at the far end of the planet, a good 30 minute walk from our house.  No form of public transportation takes us close enough to bother.  It is too far to walk home during her class, and there is little to do in the area but wait in the schoolyard and try not to look too suspicious.  Most weeks, a friend with both a vehicle and a daughter in the class brings her back, but this week I had to hang around to take her home.

It has been extremely cold here lately - the temperature has been hovering around 0C (that's 32F for the dysmetric).  That might not sound so cold to those used to Pennsylvania's appalling winters, but you also have to factor in the damp.  There is a meteorological anomaly that occurs regularly here - a kind of freezing fog that permeates everything it touches, chilling you to the bone.  If you've ever stepped into the freezing mist emanating from a walk-in freezer, you'll know what I mean.

Saturday, despite gloves and scarf and hat and five layers of clothing, was chilly, and after 30 minutes of sitting in the schoolyard at the pint-sized picnic tables reading 'Wolf Hall' (a very good book, by the way), I needed a walk to restore the circulation.  Just beside the school is an ancient church, and in the churchyard, a cemetery.  Some of the stones near the church entrance date from the late 1700's, so I assume the church is at least that old, unless they built the cemetery first, which seems unlikely.

After my initial excitement at finding two headstones from 1777, I was disappointed to discover that many of the other graves are no older than the mid-1800's, and most seem to be from 1940's and onward.  Still, the graveyard stretched on and on and it was a grey, slightly misty day, the last quivering leaves rattling in the ancient oaks; it was just the sort of day for wandering in a quiet cemetery and having a good think, so wander and think I did.

As I was about to head back to the school and its cramped benches, I noticed one small white marble marker, unremarkable but for one of the surnames on it: De'ath.

Seriously.  Someone named Death is buried in the cemetery next to the little school where my daughter has her gymnastics class.

Imagine going through life with that name dragging behind you like a length of chain.  Oh, sure, it was probably cool around Halloween ("Hey, fellas, Death just called, he's coming to the party tonight, and he's got killer weed!"), but most of the time, I expect that it must've been something of a burden.  ("I'm sorry, Mr. Death, we just don't think you're cut out to work in sales here at IBM." or "Do you, Death, take this woman?").  I'd have thought the poor guy would've changed his name.  Maybe the apostrophe was added to soften it a bit.  "No, it's pronounced De-AATH."  In any case, I took a photo and had a good chuckle as I directed my frostbitten steps back toward the school.

Thanks, Death!