My family and Beechwood

I cannot remember a time when we didn't all go to Beechwood Cemetery (see its history, blog below).  My grandfather, Charles Stapledon, died in 1953.  I was six, but I remember the unremitting weeping of my grandmother, Lillian Lord, at Hulse and Playfair, where he was laid out.  Thereafter, we took her to the family plot in Beechwood to visit him every Sunday after church before a big family lunch. 

Beechwood sits on 160 acres of magnificent treed land in the city and is the final resting place for 85,000 souls.  But you'd never suspect it as you wander through because it is beautifully laid out in little park-like areas off narrow, winding lanes.  In fact, it is a mature urban forest and home to a host of bird and animal populations and flocks.  An absolutely magical and peaceful place. 

In the Spring, my cousins and I had to plant flowers and trim the trees my grandmother had planted.  Summers we tended her flowers and clipped the little shrubs she had put in on either side of the grave stone; in the Fall we pulled the flowers up.  Our plot was opposite the old military site, where WW I and II vets were interred.  I used to wander among their markers, marveling at how impossibly young they all were:  

When my grandmother died, I continued to take my mother to tend to the landscape maintenance.  Soon I began to pack a little picnic lunch, which began a tradition of many subsequent Beechwood picnics with family and often friends.  My picnics included tomato, cucumber and egg salad sandwiches, on white bread, crusts cut off, just the way my mother insisted, plus a big pitcher of martinis for me and a thermos of tea for my temperate husband.  Why not?  I used to say, after all we own land here.  We'd see others walking dogs or jogging, but we seemed to be the only visitors picnicking.      

"Well, at least you can't kill anyone here," joked my father when he took me through the lanes among the trees where I learned to drive.  Later, that's where I took all my kids to learn to drive.  They all had to learn on a stick and there were lots of little ups and downs, where they could practice braking and starting without stalling and rolling back.  Great memories of those days.

My father was the last to be buried in a casket, the Stapledon/Griffith plots becoming eventually too crowded to fit anyone else in au complet.  My late brother, John Griffith, who tragically committed suicide at 32, is there with them, as B and I will be.  In fact, our stone is already planted, missing only the dates of death.

Since moving out West, we pay the cemetery to plant flowers and maintain the plot.  Around ours are the names of families I knew at school.  I used to look to see if any fellow students had joined their parents -- many of the latter I knew as a teenager.  I also spotted the grave of one of my least favourite bosses and tried to be respectful.  (Probably failed after a few cocktails; he was not a nice guy.)

The grave of the son of my best friend is also nearby.  He died at 24, the result of an epilepsy attack while swimming.  That was so tough and I always visit his resting place.  

All this to say, Beechwood holds a special place in my heart and I am comforted knowing we will all be together there one day.