The cemetery dogs. They became my faithful friends this past summer, these fixed statues residing in perpetual loyalty over their master’s graves. I came to know every one intimately, spent many hours tending to their minimal needs, mainly making sure the grass around their feet was neatly trimmed. A minor chore when compared to the joy and comfort they gave me as I tended to the markers of their masters.

A Peaceful Place

Although Harshaw abounds in places to seek some peaceful solace, strangely, one of my favorite locations has always been Cassian’s Union Grove Cemetery.

It is located on a road I often traverse, and in the 30 years I’ve lived here it’s beauty, and history, have often drawn me in for slow and contemplative drive throughs. This is when I visit all the friends I have resting here, pausing over their markers, recalling their personalities and the adventures we shared when they walked this earth. 

There are a number of characteristics in Union Grove that make it an interesting place to visit. The veteran’s memorial in back is particularly impressive with its row of flags flapping over it, and there is a large serene angel in front I always stop to gaze at, but for me its most appealing features are the cemetery dogs. At least a dozen, representing every size and breed from poodles to Labrador retrievers. In this particular cemetery these steadfast grave guardians outnumber angels, crosses and other saintly depictions and yet, unexplainably, I find the most comfort in their innocent presence.

Last April, in what I consider a twist of ironic good fortune, I was hired to maintain Union Grove. When I heard about the opening I eagerly applied and was just as eagerly hired, mostly due to the fact I was the lone applicant. Nonetheless, I determined my peculiar personality trait for cutting grass and working outdoors could come in handy here and I was right because I came to love it.

The SCAG

Part of the appeal of this position was the equipment, especially the mower. A bright orange, zero-turn, perfectly maintained, SCAG model that became my trusty steed. But there was a learning curve with this animal that included a few minor mishaps in the beginning. One day I underestimated the length of the machine and clipped off a small spot light as I swung too close to a monument. My heart was in my throat when I called Town Supervisor Dick Herman to report this miscalculation but he couldn’t have been more gracious about it and that was the case with all of Cassian’s town board including Clerk Stacey Plamann, and Bob, Derik and Jake, the town shop crew, and Sexton Tim Augustine. Their support and encouragement were so appreciated as I navigated to perfect my techniques.

Square Dance Mowing

One of those techniques was a loosely patterned sequence I plotted out, dividing the acreage into seven sections, which were further sub divided by the location of many of the cemetery dogs. A cut off point at the black lab, another section bordered by the sheltie statue, a strip pinpointed by a beagle. I always smiled when I mowed past these creatures reposing over the graves. They lended a sense of lighthearted reverence to the plots with their faithful gazes and panting faces.

I soon learned there’s a lot of ins and outs to mowing a cemetery and I mean that literally. As I swerved around closely placed stones, curving around figure-eight style, I often reckoned my maneuvers resembled more of a square dance than anything else.  A dosey-doughing of precision clipping in an effort to minimize the more back breaking second part of this job—weed whacking. 

However, it was weed whacking around the individual markers where I developed a more intimate relationship with them, particularly their inscriptions. I took to performing numerical calculations of the ages of the deceased; who died first, husband or wife; how long did one live after the other; wondering what life was like when they were born and then on the day they passed. My heart always broke when I trimmed around the three little stones in the Bailey family plot. Infants born in close succession, their tiny curved markers simply inscribed with “Baby” and the one day they came and then left this earth. There’s a number of veterans buried in this cemetery but the young ones, the ones whose lives were cut short in service to this country, always gave me pause.

Divine Intervention

While burials at Union Grove are somewhat infrequent, from my observation that was not the case at the Northwoods National Cemetery directly across the road. A few times I shut off the machine and pulled my head phones off to observe these ceremonies, involuntary cringing at the crack of the gun salutes, and always, every single time, tearing up as the mournful bugling of taps floated to me on the warm breeze. 

Sadly these burials became more frequent as summer wore on and in deference I would move operations to the back sections as to be less of a noise disturbance to the bereaved across the road. Then one day a blue car pulled in after one of these burials and a man waved me down. I never disturbed folks who came by to visit their loved ones out of respect for their privacy but this man was insistent so I shut off the machine. He emerged from the car, his eyes red-rimmed with grief. Mine were wide with trepidation.

He told he had just come from his father’s ceremony across the road. I braced for an angry lecture about loud machinery as an inappropriate accompaniment to a dignified military burial, but instead I became wonder struck as he went into the story about his father’s life.

His name was Bob and after a stint in Vietnam he had become their town’s sexton and during his entire life’s career he had maintained and mowed their village’s cemetery and parks. He even dug graves by hand at one time. “To hear that mower in the distance as we buried Dad made me smile,” he said. “I’m positive my father had something to do with that.” I never imagined the far off drone of an industrial mower could possess any degree of divine intervention but I was glad my job had given this man some comfort.

A Humbling Truth

As I tended to the graves throughout the summer I had many moments of reflection and realized the grief and sadness that over time, had drifted up into the branches of the row of stalwart pines bordering Union Grove. Mine as well, as I have attended more than a dozen ceremonies at this place and known the heartbreak and sorrow of a loved one gone. I came to realize despite all my calculations of dates, it’s that simple dash between the numbers that holds the mystery. It’s a hard fact that the most unostentatious etching on any stone represents the total summation of an individual’s lifetime on this earthly journey. A humbling truth indeed.

And this truth came into stark focus a fews days ago as I steadied myself at my own father’s burial. As I stood at the foot of his casket, once again listening to the familiar sound of taps drifting on the breeze followed by the staccato crack of rifles, I mourned this season of my life coming to an end. I hung my head as tears welled, my heart heavy but grateful. Grateful I had this man as a father, a position at which he excelled. He had nurtured our family with a gentle firmness, a man possessed of a dry Irish wit that always made me roar with laughter. His succinct tidbits of wisdom are ingrained to this day from my childhood days. “The man with the gold makes the rules” or “every job needs a supervisor,” or “never give up you gotta deal with it.” He practiced these adages too, because from the ground up he built a successful business and even well into his 80s worked at it. He was a fixer, a problem solver, our provider and protector. Generous and kind toward all, especially children and animals, he was my safety net in many ways although I doubt he even knew it. 

And while I am so thankful for all he gave me as his eldest daughter, in hindsight I am especially grateful that early in my childhood he persuaded my mother to let me have a dog. Raising five kids born within the span of seven years was no small endeavor for any parent so purposely adding another living thing to the mix was not looked at fondly by our mother. But realizing my love for animals, and his, Dad convinced her and then one day brought home a small schnauzer pup named Putzi. There were more after her, Raisin the sheltie and Daisy Mae our farm dog. And many other animal friends who all became part of our story throughout the years. I know with certainty, like my mother, those furry pals are with him now, by his side as they were on his earthly journey.

Standing there at his grave all those memories of our life together came flooding in and although I’ve aged into gray hair and baffling wrinkles, a sense of perplexing abandonment washed over me, orphan like, and now with both parents gone, I know the frightening immersion into the totality of adulthood.

As I exited his final resting place, I glanced over that cemetery and spotted the figure of a small dog on a distant grave. It made me smile through my sorrow and reminded me of all my canine friends in Union Grove. The little sheltie reminiscent of the one we had in my childhood; the tiny schnauzer perched in play; the basset hound languidly sleeping in the grass. One of my favorites is Stolen Property, a German shepherd, who wears a collar with a dangling tag baring his unusual name, his gaze lovingly focused on his young mistress’s stone .   

Sometimes it’s perplexing what can soothe an aching heart but for me, it’s always been a slow cruise through Union Grove. These days I critical eye the acreage out of habit, but I always know I can find some solace, and a little uplift, in the perpetual loyalty of my friends, the cemetery dogs.