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| Marmaduke: circa 1580. |
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| Stay thirsty, my friends. |
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| Fight the power! Unless they are fixing the damned pot holes. |
Channeling the behavior of a proper card-carrying ghoul I recently returned to Greenridge Cemetery in Saratoga Springs to roam the rest of the property. I found an interesting mix of monuments. Let’s get to it.
I think this is a tomb stone. It was flanked by typical headstones, each spaced the same distance from it. In other words, there was no empty space implying something else should have been there. It is possible it is a marker of some sort, but it had no companions. I saw no markings on it, either. Could be a hat or a board game piece. Maybe a candy dish. I should I have checked it for candy. Darn.
I looked up expecting a giant ACME brand 16 ton weight, or to notice I was under large box propped up by a stick with a string tied to it. Sadly, there was nothing. The symbol actually refers to Heaven or The Heavens where the recently deceased is (supposedly) going.
“Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord”
Every inch is covered with small clusters of striations. The anchor symbol could mean the person was a sailor but it was often used as to mean hope or everlasting/eternal life.
An Egyptian themed mausoleum.
Mr. Batcheller and his wife Catharine had quite the life. He was a judge in Egypt who died in Paris. She died in Alexandria, Egypt. The final word on the door is fitting.
This stone marks the resting place of a member of the fraternal order Woodmen of the World. This was a new one to me. The group is well known in the Midwest, but from what I read these graves are not common in the East like other fraternal groups.
Discerning zombies trust Purdy’s Discount Wines and Liquors for when only the finest spirits will do.
I like the columns and the rays of light carved out of the stone above the door.
A closer look at the cross.
Similar designs. I don’t know if the first stone has a base beneath it covered by soil. I try not to bother the residents. I do know it contains a medieval knight who holds a shield bearing the next clue to the Holy Grail. That much I am certain.
This is the only monument I saw with death masks. If you are unfamiliar with the term, these busts are the faces of those buried here sculpted shortly after there death. The empty frame awaits a mask that will never come.
Word on the street is William Worden was a soldier of the republic.
And then we have this humble memorial. The plague indicates a soldier lies here too, but the simple crosses held no name I could see. Quite the contrast from William’s site.
Yes, that is a giant clam shell. It’s covered with very faint writing. They looked names and dates, which would make sense. And finally…
When Willoby’s broken body was found across the tracks on the edge of town the authorities called it a tragic accident. His family, however, knew better. Their son was murdered. They pleaded with the police to re-open the case but no one would listen to them. The ramblings of grieving parents, the townsfolk called it when the McMillan’s were out of earshot. The less forgiving accused them of pointing a finger of blame at every shadow in the hopes of catching the imagined criminal hiding within. They paid no bother to any of the whispered words carried unseen upon the wind. They knew the truth. A new stone was erected over their poor, shattered son. It carried the killer’s name and image for all to see. You can still see it today. “Willoby McMillan was killed by his engine.”
It says so right there.
Readers of the blog will recall my recent piece Consumed by Zombies in which I posited that zombies are our current personification of stress. Given the last few weeks in my life this new piece has ZOMBIES! Do I need to explain the implication? No? Good.
Thankfully my mind has been fighting these dark times by feeding me scenes from some of my favorite British television shows like Are You Being Served, The Young Ones, Keeping Up Appearances, Black Adder, and Ab Fab. And thus, fiction is born.
Enjoy this brief, but far from shallow, Friday dip into the humour pool dedicated to my wife, Katherine. We join Lionel and his wife Dianna during a zombie apocalypse already in progress…
They’re at the window again, Dianna.
Who?
The Girl Scouts. Biscuit season again.
Those are zombies, dear.
What?
Zombies. The undead. Walkers. Flesh Eaters. The recently deceased risen to feast upon the flesh of the living.
I thought they were Girl Scouts.
Girls Scouts are shorter.
Oh. I can see that now you put it that way. What do you think they want?
Us, I imagine.
For the feasting bit?
‘fraid so.
See? I do listen to you no matter what that shrink says... Oh dear.
What?
Is that your shrink right there? The one behind the one pressing up against the window?
Oh, you're right! I liked him, too. Have to find a new one, I suppose. Look! Across the street! A zombie is sneaking up on Mrs. Bouquet. Should we help?
Who? The zombie?
No, Lionel, Mrs. Bouquet. Oh, dear. Too late. How dreadful! Torn limb from limb, poor thing.
Aye. That zombie never stood a chance.
Yes, well it should have noticed the pile of bodies she’s collected by curb. Biggest on the block, of course. We’ll never hear the end of it. Oh no, she sees me. She pointing to her kill pile. Yes, I see them all. Very nice. Well done, dear.
Is Mr. Bouquet anywhere in sight?
No.
With any luck the poor chap slipped her grip long enough to run into the embrace of the first biter he saw.
You’re horrible. Right, but horrible.
Seems to me we didn’t have such things as zombies when we were growing up. An alien invasion from Venus, perhaps, maybe a mad scientist or two with a giant robot robbing banks, or a giant radioactive spider, but zombies eating people? Doesn’t seem right. The world’s changed so much. I’m starting to feel old, Dianna.
It does seem that way. But how different is it really to be eaten by a zombie or disintegrated by a Venusian Death Ray? You’re dead either way. Different road, but same destination. The world may change its tune, but it still marches to the same beat. So, as the old drunk said, we must never, never quit.
I can see that now you put it that way. My voice of reason, ever with me through aliens, arachnids, or all other manner of awful apocalypse. I love you, my dear.
And I you, my pet.
THE END
