Here is my first stone story.
My parent's families are both buried in the Mount Saint Mary Cemetery, Flushing, Queens NY. I said before that my mother's family would go to the cemetery on holidays to clean the stones, lay flowers, etc. So it must have been around Thanksgiving, I get a letter from my mom at college, with a photo of her family's monument, a map of the cemetery marked with all the family, and then one of my father's parent's stone. Mom, who hated my father with a passion, had cleaned their stone, pulled the leaves, put down flowers.
She asked me to give the photo to my father and to tell him that she had tended his mother's grave.
He started to bellow before I could even get the first sentence out of my mouth. What kind of GHOUL takes photos of a headstone??? What kind of nerve to touch his mother's grave!!!! Your mother is a MONSTER!
Wow. And that, right there, shows the difference in how people face death.
So I'll post my own photo of my grandparents stone. Somewhere, my father will be spinning in his grave. Oddly enough, for me, I have no idea where that grave is.
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