A couple of days I ago I made a run to one of our county-dump transfer stations to drop off our recycling,. My trek out there was near the end of a series of errands, and I’d put off breakfast, so I grabbed it on the way.
This particular dump site is kind of hidden; you have to know it’s tucked away at the back of a local graveyard along a country road. There’s no sign out front to announce the dump is there, which would admittedly tarnish some of the gravity of the location for those not stopping by to dispense with a bunch of smelly beer bottles or a soiled mattress. Which is to say that if Grandpa Whosawhatsit is planted out yonder for his eternal rest, you and the fam might understandably find his unintended association with a nose-wilting trash drop-off just a tad bit off-putting. He was a war hero, for heaven’s sake!
Anyway, know it’s there, or miss it.
So I pull into a U-shaped drive toward the front of the cemetery and park, stepping outside to eat my breakfast in the midday heat, so as not to get crumbs all over my wife’s still very new car. And let me just say that there is something perversely life-affirming about scarfing down a lard-loaded Bojangles biscuit, which you just know is taking years off of your own life by the bite, at the edge of a quiet boneyard, out among former souls who, presumably, had their own previous biscuits, tasty fare that clearly long ago completed that same dire deed for them.
So, y’know, coffee, anyone?
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I love this so much!
When I lived in FarmVille, I use to rollerblade on a quiet street that boardered an old cemetery. Whenever I reached the beginning of the graveyard, I’d raise my arms into position for a waltz, and dance with the dearly departed to the other end of the graveyard. I found them to be exceptionally light on their feet!
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I’m pretty sure I used to visit that same graveyard, Hollywood Cemetary, not too far off Grimmersburg Street, some nights while out running, back when I still could, a bit. I’d go out the door way, way late, and got a kick out of running along the paved paths out there, yelling out things like, “Hey, everybody!,” and “Don’t get up, I’m just passing through!,” before turning back toward the little downtown.
No “resident” there ever bothered me nearly as much as the Farmville police, who more than once would ride along beside me when I was back among the more, y’know, upright citizens, like a sweating, overweight goofus in running gear was up to something besides just that in the literal midnight hours. One time a cop stopped me round about 1 a.m., and he simply hassled me for being there; he couldn’t come up with any reason for detaining me, and I just sort of moved away from the car at some point, and ran on. Give me the dead any day.