Cemetery Story: July 17-24, 2025
Take a walk (literal or virtual) through a cemetery and write a fictional story, poem, or ballad about someone buried there.
The Submissions:
by Captain Quillard
Before the made-up story, here’s a real one:
My grandma had a lot of memorable sayings – things she’d frequently repeat that we found funny, partially because she at least partially meant them to be funny and partially because they all had a bit of the kind of folksiness you get from an old woman Arkansas-born, Ohio farm-raised, and small town-aged, and delivered with a knowing, sarcastic, half-winking twinkle in her eyes.
She could be expected to oft proclaim that someone “don’t know shit from Shinola.” She would wave to my sister and me as we boarded the school bus, telling us to “go learn that two plus two equals five.” She would serve our family of four a giant homemade dinner with multiple homemade pies for dessert and unfailingly announce, “Whatcha don’t eat, ya’ gotta’ take with ya’.”
But one of the most frequently heard expressions as she grew older was her somehow not at all macabre contention that "When it’s my time to go, I’m just gonna’ step off the curb and get hit by a MAC truck.” Terrible and violent as that may sound, it likely would’ve been a preferable option for her and for all of us to the reality of her last several years suffering from dementia and tearfully asking us all why she couldn’t just die.
Grandma so often repeated her desire to exit this world via the grill of a speeding MAC truck that when she eventually did die at the much-too-old-in-her-opinion age of 93, I found the online store for the company and purchased several small lapel pins with the MAC Trucks logo. I wore one to her funeral and quietly passed them out to family members who would know the significance, and we all celebrated Grandma with a silent and subtle inside joke that she most certainly would’ve been in on.
After the funeral, I assumed pall bearer duties and helped transport Grandma to her plot at the cemetery. A graveside ceremony that I don’t remember at all took place (I assume), we lingered for a bit around her grave, and we then slowly dissipated in the rain. As I turned to leave, I noticed the headstone pictured below. There, a few yards away and facing Grandma’s grave, was a granite burial marker with a large semi trailer truck engraved on it. I laughed, looked back at Grandma’s plot, winked at her, and turned back to address the big rig headstone. “Too late.”
The Ballad of Bob Evans
Well, you might know him as ‘William’
And I know that there are still some
Folks who’ll say that ‘Robert’ sure had some charm
But I always called him Bob
And I’ll tell you that his job
Wasn’t slinging gravy “Down on the Farm”
Well he drove a big MAC rig
And he held some other gigs -
Eked out a living by the skin of his teeth
‘til the day they say he drowned
Now he’s gigging underground
‘neath a tombstone and a dry Christmas wreath
Toiling up and down I-90
But our hero didn’t mind, he’d
Blow his horn each time he passed through the tolls
Well, ol’ Bob knew every exit
Now he probably regrets it
‘cuz he also knew each watering hole
Once, he parked his rig in town
And he threw a couple down
At the bar behind the laundromat
Well, he raised a little hell
‘til somebody rang his bell
When ol’ Bobby called his girlfriend fat
So, Bobby grabbed a pool cue
And he swung it like Babe Ruth do,
Hit the boyfriend right between the eyes
And the types who run saloons
Will let you howl some at the moon
But they tend to frown when somebody dies
Bob was bruised and cut by bottles
When he opened up the throttle
As the townsfolk chased the rig down the hill
Well, he sobered up too late
B.A.C. ‘bout point-two-eight
When his trailer slammed into the old mill
He crawled out the cab’s windshield,
Saw ‘bout thirty-five men wielding
Shotguns and pitchforks and blades
Bob couldn’t make out
What was said through their shouts
But this wasn’t the time for Charades
So then Bob took off running
With the angry mob gunning
To show him with whom he had been messin’
They caught up to him soon
And ‘neath the bright harvest moon
Commenced to teach ol’ Bobby a lesson
Just then, Bob caught a break
And he managed to shake
Away from the mob and abscond
But he tripped on a root
And rendered the mob moot
When he fell into Chippewa Pond
There was gurgling and bubbles,
Then the end of Bobby’s troubles
And the mob who had before been far meaner,
No longer bent on teaching lessons,
They collected Bob’s possessions
And mailed them with a card to Charlena
Well, that’s the tale of Bobby Evans
I’m not sure he went to heaven –
It’s more likely he met some other fate
Still, he kept his engine humming
And my grandma saw him coming
But it turns out Bobby’s truck was too late
by Journal Kurtz
Eunice Elizabeth Kibbey Smith
Kendall Cemetery
Gobles, MI
1827 - 1921
There’s a lot to look back on in 94 years. I lie on the day bed my grandson set up for me on the screen porch, looking over the same orchard Mark and I planted when we moved to Michigan, letting the memories sweep in like the soothing steam from my breathing treatments. My granddaughter insists on bringing me garlic syrup or a poultice pack for my chest, and I don’t have the heart to tell her not to bother. She feels better if she’s helping, but if the bronchitis doesn’t get me, my weak heart will.
Truth be told, I’m ready. I had 26 years after Mark to make life my own. No longer “farmer wife,” I laid my obligations to rest with him, and have even passed the last ten years in relative ease, except for the coughing fits. I haven't had to stir a pot in a long while and can pick up any book I like. I’ve lived long enough to see the fruits of our labor take root and produce. Our children and the cherry trees are strong and know who they are in any kind of weather. What more can I ask for?
by Anonymous Frau Redux
For Mr. Smith there was no dash.
A date noted the beginning and the end.
Details of his “dash” lost to time along with family and friend.
Mr. Smith had a first and second wife.
Born in Erie County of New York, traveled to Wisconsin and Ohio.
Mr. Smith was buried in Michigan after 75 years of life.
The internet listed five offspring.
He worked as a farmer.
Spent 33 years with the last lady he gave a ring.
What was he like?
Could he whistle a tune or ride a bike?
Was his best friend Ron, Joe or Mike?
Was he a God fearing man of the church?
Take the boys to fish for perch?
Read poetry underneath the birch?
Was he clean shaven or have a mustache?
Well to do or short of cash?
What was the content of his missing dash?
Mr. Smith passed away 130 years ago on Independence Day.
Cause of death- the interweb didn’t say.
An accident, an illness, maybe his ticker just gave out?
In his old age, was there arthritis, or a touch of gout?
Mrs. Smith did not remarry after Mr. Smith was buried.
The interweb doesn’t list another fella, for reasons that may have varied.
“It must be true if it’s on the internet,” the saying goes.
Found Mr. Smith’s name was listed two ways.
That dash, who knows?
Next Week’s Assignment:
Find an old black and white photo - your own or from elsewhere - and add color to it in a way that makes it come alive.