Wrong Cemetery

originally posted: 6/29/01

Brought to you by the Selective Navigation Committee. Chairperson: Mother Media. Vice Chair: Media Sensation.

While we were in Mom's hometown this past week, she wanted to take me to visit the grave of her father, my grandfather. She had been to the site twice, once for the burial and once to visit, with someone else driving and plenty of conversation going on in the car. I mean plenty of Wiemholt (Mom's clan of origin) conversation going on in the car: at least three or four people talking volubly, not necessarily to anyone in particular. She had reason to be less than attentive to the route on both occasions. Plus, the Wiemholts aren't renowned for directional acuity; family nicknames include Wrong Way, Which Way, Any Way and Sub Way (finding the sandwich shop is an exception). But I figured I could rely on a navigational sense inherited from my Dad's side of the family to get us there, so Mom and I got directions from one of my aunts and set out.

First off, we had a little trouble finding the cemetery. Mom grew up in this town, but she's been away for decades and doesn't get back as often as she'd like. We cruised around a little bit before spotting headstones. We turned in at the east gate rather than the west, but figured that we could simply reverse the lefts and rights we'd been told and locate Grandpa with no problem. But it wasn't that easy. The instruction to turn immediately after passing the caretaker's shed made no sense, since we saw neither a shed nor an intersection in the pathway. "Park in the shade" wasn't much help, either, as there were trees everywhere. We drove around for 20 or 30 minutes without seeing the marker we were after.

We did, however, locate the pre-marked plot of my grandmother's new beau, Charlie. That's not significant until you consider two things. One: We had just had a lengthy discussion with Granny about the differences between Sunday services at Charlie's church, which is not Catholic, and Granny's church, which is. Grandpa, like Granny, was Catholic. Two: The town has a couple different cemeteries, one for Catholics and one for "other," right across the street from one another.

Now, I know what you're thinking. You're thinking, "You're staring at the headstone of a known non-Catholic but seeking the grave of a devout Catholic? Try the other cemetery, genius." But this did not occur to either of us. We circled, cramming a borrowed Jeep Cherokee down paths originally intended for narrow horsecarts, until we were late for dinner. Finally we conceded defeat and left for the restaurant. Confessing our failure, we spent the rest of the evening enduring the gibes of people who claim they get lost in their own driveways.

Epilogue: We went to the correct graveyard the following day and found Grandpa easily. He was a rather stern man in life, but I think even he might have chuckled at this.