I grew up wandering around cemeteries with my father. I remember trying very carefully to step over and around graves. A chill running up my spine that I could not shake. I was both enthralled and terrified of the cemetery. I suppose as I grew older, I discovered a love for the macabre. I would read books about ancient Egyptian mummies by flashlight under the covers, Goosebumps and later Fear Street, both by R.L. Stine kept me up all night too terrified to sleep. But, I loved it! I would scare myself senseless over and over again. Horror movies, ghost stories, abandoned buildings, ancient death rituals, and of course, cemeteries. I loved it all.
If you had asked me ten years ago, however, I never would have believed that I would actually live in a cemetery with my husband and three young children (my youngest having actually been born in the cemetery), I would have laughed. Yet here we are. I believe my kids have a very normal childhood ninety percent of the time. They know that people coming to the cemetery are coming to visit loved ones who have passed away and that they need to be quiet and give people their space.
They also know that they cannot be riding their bikes around when an internment is being conducted. Stay away from open graves. Is a rule in our house. My oldest two have argued at the dinner table who gets to be buried next to me (one on either side was the outcome).
Most days, it is just a beautiful and tranquil place to live and raise your kids when the rest of the world seems to have become such a hectic, technology-driven place. This blog is dedicated to my musings around living in the cemetery, my kids, my writing, and the books I like to read.