I spent Sunday afternoon in a cemetery.
Nobody had passed, nobody was there to for me to visit posthumously. Hardly anyone was there at all.
I drove through the gates of Lakewood Cemetery a little before 1:00 in the afternoon. They were wide open and Hennepin Avenue flows right through them, causing an abrupt end to the avenue at the cemetery Administration Building. A lovely structure, it was closed on a Sunday afternoon. I had hoped to get a folded brochure of the walking tour there, but would make do with the copy I’d printed off from the internet despite the printer cutting off the right edge of the map. I looked around…there was nobody else within eyesight. Was I supposed to be there? Is there a parking lot? Would I get in trouble for pulling over wherever I pleased?
It became clear that I was supposed to be there. The sky was blue and the clouds were white. There was barely any sound which was unexpected as it was smack dab in the middle of the Minneapolis Urban Jungle: Uptown on one side, Lake Calhoun on another, and sun-starved half-naked Minnesotans all around. I was happy to be buffered from the courteous chaos beyond the fences…acres of Minnesota’s ancestors, statesmen, mothers, fathers, brothes, sisters, and children were keeping the surroundings down to a respectful hum.
I almost didn’t want to run the engine of the Jeep…and I certainly felt it was appropriate to turn MPR from the edgy station to the classical station. With the Sky Slider roof back, the sun on the skin, the symphonies for accompaniment, I was ready to tour Lakewood Cemetery.
Unobtrusive
Going around the loop in a counter-clockwise manner was my plan. Starting at the gate but passing the Administration Building, the first stop would be the Chapel. Lakewood Memorial Chapel was built in 1910. Designed by Minneapolis architect Henry Wild Hones, the Chapel was modeled after the Hagia Sophia in Instanbul. The interior, by New York designer Charles Lamb, is modeled after the mosaic design in the San Marco Cathedral in Venice. Oh, what a structure. Domes, arches, brick, and stained glass greeted my eyes as did ornamental iron and carved stone. On the National Registry of Historic Places, the Chapel did not disappoint my senses…though the locked door did. I walked to the door, felt its permanence beneath my fingers and breathed in its art. The interior would have to wait for a return trip. Oh, how I wanted to see the stained glass with the sunlight streaming through it…
Chapel
Form and Function
Turning around, I gasped in horror. God, I hate mid-’60s architecture. Really. Beneath the beauty of the sky and at the end of a flower-bordered Pool of Reflections was the Mausoleum. Shudder. It looked like a fall-out shelter with a few carved stone pieces to distinguish it from the concrete vaults used to protect the caskets in the ground. Completed in 1967 the Mausoleum exterior is comprised of Minnesota granite (okay…not concrete), steel, bronze, and ugliness. Oh, how could such Elysian Fields be disrupted so?
This is where I would’ve inserted a picture of the Mausoleum exterior, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. No, I will spare you that blight. It reminded me of the Dassel City Hall and Library. Let’s stop talking about it. It doesn’t belong in Lakewood. I drove around to the entrance of the Mausoleum and, again, found myself wondering if I should be there.
To call it just a “mausoleum” is to be incomplete in its title; it is the Memorial Community Mausoleum and Columbarium. From the description, I’m guessing that the mausoleum refers to the 3,000 crypts within…but the structure also has seven columbarium rooms with more than 2,000 individual and family “niches” for cremated remains. I didn’t know any of this going into it. I just read that now as I’m typing this blog post. No, I went into the structure blind.
A Ford Focus pretty much sums up the firepower of the security guard I found in the office just inside the Mausoleum. Always a class act, I parked, closed the Sky Slider roof, locked the doors, looped the three-keys-on-a-bootlace that I use when dog-walking (and when going purseless, I guess) around my neck, and refrained from removing my pink bucket hat upon entering the place of reverence. I figured the lack of respect for the deceased was canceled out by the fact that I was doing them a service by hiding my hat hair.
The security guard was around the corner in an office, shuffling paperwork. A look-alike of David Cross in the days of “Arrested Development,” I felt immediately at ease.
“Hi,” I said, camera in hand.
“Hello.”
That’s a start. I continued, “I’ve never been here before…is it okay if I…um…poke around?”
POKE AROUND? What? This isn’t a Yard Sale. Jeez.
“Go ahead.” He smiled.
Phew.
“And…um…is it okay that I parked…just…there?” I asked, pointing to the only vehicle other than the Focus.
“Yes, it’s fine.” He went back to his paperwork.
Wow. I’m smooth. I’m gonna go hide in the crypts now.
Walking into the main foyer, it was clear that the interiors were just as they were originally designed, except for the carpet. The décor was very late 1960s. Wood paneling, crystal chandeliers, ornate mirrors, dated sconces…and the stained-glass windows. Oh, the stained-glass windows…they almost hurt my feelings considering that I don’t like the glass art that came from the same period as the architecture. But, I can respect it. And, I can admire the beauty that the stained glass windows cast on the corridors and alcoves of the final resting place of so many.
Blue Skies
Vignettes of both sacred and secular literature were portrayed in the 24 large stained-glass windows. The colorful light they provided illuminated what could’ve been a very maudlin place. In fact, there was an exquisite reflective effect on the marble of the corridors as the sun shone through the windows. I noticed it after I tried to take a few photos of the windows, themselves. Here is a small gallery of corridors.
As the only other person in the building but Security Guard Cross, I felt a little conspicuous. I hoped that nobody minded me nosing around and taking pictures. Having spent many a Wednesday night watching “Ghost Hunters” on SciFi, I have both a healthy imagination as well as a very real respect for what might be considered paranormal. I didn’t want to bug anybody by taking their picture from a bad angle. At least they didn’t have to worry about a double chin. That’s something to look forward to.
I had to talk myself into going to the lower level. I thought, “There. You saw it. This is the Mausoleum.” But, I knew that if I were to experience the whole shebang, I had to stop being a chicken shit and go downstairs. I don’t know what I was thinking—well, embarrassingly, the scene with Tony Todd in “Final Destination 2” kept popping up in my head. I pushed the black button for the elevator and I swear I heard a pulley turn…yup: Original Lagerquist Elevator. Great. Stepping inside, I pushed the button for the lower level and felt the temperature plummet as I descended. Well, that knocks out the “Final Destination 2” scenario with a crematorium, I figured. Instead, as the doors opened, I saw more of the same sconces, chandeliers, wood paneling, and carpet. I’m a dork.
The difference between the upper and lower levels had mostly to do with the lower level having more of an earthy feel…exposed wood beams at the ceiling, what looked like a slate tile on the floor, and piers of rough-hewn vertical rock strips anchoring the structure. There were fewer stained-glass windows but many, many more niches. Perhaps there’s a caste system to the Mausoleum and Columbarium. The more you spend, the higher you stay…forever. If that is the case, I had likely found my people…in the basement with very modest accommodations (if tan, grey, and green marble is modest). The upper level contained corridors that were a polished rosy marble with distinguished metal lettering spelling out the family names…the lower level was more like a post office with smaller rooms of honed stone and carved lettering. If nothing else, it was clear that the upper level sparkled while the lower level let it. Definitely, my kind of people downstairs. Figuring I’d spent just the right amount of time indoors, I bid Security Guard Cross adieu and left the building. It was time to explore the smaller stone structures of the cemetery.
Oh, the monuments. It was between 1850 and 1930 when prominent architects and sculptors designed monuments as “cemetery art,” the three most popular styles of which were: Classical Revival (ex: a woman draped in a robe), Egyptian Revivial (ex: obelisk), and Medieval Revival (ex: round, Romanesque lines or delicate gothic style). As I walked from the darkness of the Mausoleum into the bright light of day, the monuments glowed. I was drawn toward the Classical monuments…the women were haunting me.
On foot, I explored the area around the Mausoleum. It seemed to be the central area where all the founding fathers were buried; many, many important names adorned the monuments: Lowry, Dunwood, Pillsbury, Fridley. It was the Fridley monument that I took a particular shine to–one of the largest in the cemetery.
Smart Chick
Not only was Abram Fridley a farmer and Minnesota Representative in the 1800s, but he introduced the first women’s suffrage bill to the legislature. The Minnesota city of Fridley was named after him. I think we should’ve renamed the state after him. Rah, Abram.
Here are additional impressive examples of monument art in Lakewood:
Knowing I had two more areas that I really wanted to find from the self-guided tour I’d downloaded, I ventured onward. The next section was to be the one closest to Lake Calhoun. I took the Jeep around to the outer loop of Lakewood. Upon seeing Lake Calhoun, I knew I was in the area of the Francis Memorial. This is where I would find Ellen and Joseph Francis. The story goes that they had vacationed in Minneapolis before Lakewood Cemetery was founded. Ellen stood on a hill overlooking the Lake and said she had never seen such a beautiful site and that she wanted it to be her final resting place. Upon the planning of the cemetery, Joseph immediately purchased the lot—Lot 1, Section 1—not realizing that Ellen would be laid to rest there only two years after in 1873…he was to outlive her by 20 years. So lovely a story, I wanted to go find the spot and stand there myself.
I started walking toward the lake. Seeing a memorial that was fashioned into a granite bench facing the lake,
My Kind of Monument
I smiled. If my loved ones go against my cremation wishes and bury me in the ground, that’s the kind of utilitarian memorial I would like to have. Moving closer to the lake, a wide white memorial popped into my field of vision: Pohlad. Huh. I didn’t know he was here. Successful Minnesota businessman and philanthropist, I guess it shouldn’t have surprised me that Carl Pohlad would have a first-class view of the lake from his gravesite. What did surprise me was the understated boulder right next to Carl.
Could it be it? I’d read about it, but decided not to try to find it. I walked closer. My throat clenched. Yes, that was it. On the boulder in large letters was carved, WELLSTONE.
Oh, Paul.
I let out a long shaky exhale. I recalled hearing the news in 2002 when the small plane carrying Senator Paul Wellstone, his wife Sheila, and their daughter Marcia—as well as campaign staffers, driver, and pilots—crashed in Northern Minnesota, ending the story of the “Underdog Goes to Washington.” He wrote the “Conscience of a Liberal.” He championed the little guys. He was a hero. In my head, I started singing “Love Train,” the refrain of which I’ll never forget due to his Memorial Service on television, the morning after which I went to work looking like I’d been beat up, I’d cried so hard.
Peace Be To You
A few tears rolled down my cheeks. I smiled. The sun was shining, the sky was blue, President Obama is in office, and we are on our way, Paul. As I walked back to my Jeep, I said goodbye to the in-ground granite markers: Paul, Sheila, and Marcia Wellstone Markuson. Thank you for helping us get to where we are.
I was feeling a little jittery after seeing the Wellstone lot. I’d come to Lakewood to be a tourist, not to be affected in such a personal way. I shrugged it off, glad to have had the experience…a reminder. I would continue with my plans for the rest of the tour.
Other than some sundry sections of interest, there was only one place I wanted to find yet that afternoon. It was only listed on the map and as a heading in the self-guided tour materials…there was no written description of it. Other areas that were mentioned involved war memorials, fire department tributes, and wealthy family lots…this one had a different, more simple allure.
Because there was no description of “Babyland,” I had no idea what I would come across. I drove around the loop further, checking the map as I went. I located the area that I suspected to be my destination.
Oh no. There were people there.
I couldn’t stop without seeming odd about it. I kept driving. There was a couple that was about my age, in their thirties, and a couple that looked to be the age of their parents. At Babyland. Oh, I didn’t want to interrupt anything. I don’t know what I might have interrupted, but I’m guessing it would be a visitation.
Oh please, oh please don’t notice me.
The older guy waved as I slowly passed by them. They all hugged each other and made their way to their vehicles. I breathed a sigh of relief. Of all things, I did not want to trespass on anyone’s experiences at Lakewood. They’re there for their own reasons, far be it from me to tromp through their lives with a bucket hat and a camera.
After they left, I got out of the vehicle and approached Babyland. All of the monuments were the rectangular types, flush with the ground. In the middle was a solitary upright monument of Jesus with the little children.
The Scripture on the monument says, “Suffer the Little Children, and Forbid Them Not to Come Unto Me, For to Such Belongeth the Kingdom of Heaven.” My knee-jerk reaction is to hate the Bible because of this Scripture. Sure, I get it that the context of it was that Jesus was chastising his disciples who were shooing away children…but then say it that way. Because I didn’t know the context of the words until I looked them up just now, I got all mad at the monument. Putting the words “suffer” and “children” in the same sentence is a dastardly thing to do. I won’t go into how much the Bible irks me right now, but I will say that I was feeling very defensive of the children around the monument.
I gazed down at the quiet placecards in the ground. Reading them, there were children buried there from the 1960s until present day. I couldn’t find a rhyme or reason to the layout…and I also noticed that the age ranges on the markers indicated that they might’ve passed away the day they were born, or lived as long as five years. There were different ethnicities in Babyland. Different religious carvings in the markers. Different sayings carved into the child-sized monuments: “Beloved Boy,” “Safely in His Bosom Gather,” “Little Lamb.”
Then, I saw this marker:
If you can’t read it very well, it says
“In Loving Memory of Our Sons
Benjamin Jon Aug. 19 – Dec. 2, 1984
Joseph Benjamin Aug. 19, 1985″
My mind raced trying to piece it together. The first son was born on August 19, 1984, and died in December at four months of age. The second son died on August 19, 1985. A year after his brother was born. Was he born the same day he died? Joseph was not given a birth and death date, it must be the case that he died the day he was born. They shared the same name, “Benjamin;” the second was presumably named after the first. Did Joseph arrive just over eight months after his brother died? Not being able to know what happened put me into such flux. What pain their parents must have gone through. What pain their parents must still go through.
I lost it.
Completely. I’d been primed by the Wellstone monument, but this pushed me over the edge. I wept for the parents of Benjamin and Joseph. For the little children who suffered. For the parents who are left here, without them.
I thought of my few friends who have lost babies early in their pregnancies, near term, and shortly following birth. I cried for them. I went from marker to marker reading through the tears. Thoughts of my friends who have fought to have babies brought forth more sobs.
Yes, a Pro-Choice Democrat can mourn in Babyland.
It took me some time to find peace. A few times I made the futile effort to look skyward and see if the tears and snot would soak back into my head, but it had to run its course. I had to let myself mourn.
Eventually, I dried up.
I wondered what I should do next. I didn’t have any other real “destinations” to see…and, while still standing at Babyland, I found myself perturbed by the sightseeing parallel. But, at the same turn, that is what I was doing. I was visiting the past…in the present. Like other historical sites, I was learning from my predecessors. I appreciated the beauty of what they left behind and what it means to me now.
With that in mind, I concluded my tour of Lakewood Cemetery from my Jeep. With classical music as the soundtrack, I left Benjamin and Joseph in Babyland and drove. Every once in a while, I took a photograph.
Somehow, though, the remaining memorials just didn’t seem all that important.
***
(I split the difference between 11:30 and Noon…and, I dawdled.)
