I hadn’t planned on marking the Memorial Day holiday here, mostly because I have little to say about what it has become. My father’s side of the family celebrated it the OG way—I have wispy memories of going with them out to the cemetery well outside our small town.1 They’d care for the family graves, all of which were at that time in the original cemetery on the eastern side of the road. At some point, I’d invariably get bored with all that and wander among the old graves to the children’s section. It’s what you’re probably thinking: an area devoted to all the infants and young children taken by disease and/or poverty well before they’d really lived. Some of the markers were simple; others were very ornate. All offered silent testament to the love and grief bound in those short lives.
What changed my mind was an email from a genealogical group, informing me that I had 25 family members in that cemetery. That figure astonished me, because until fairly recently, I’d known of only three family surnames; it turns out there are a few more. My father’s family’s roots go deep in my hometown, and even deeper in its surrounding farmland. They were established well before Ohio became a state in 1803.
As I was reading the email, the radio station in my mind started fighting between two songs. The first captures some of my family’s situation pretty well up through my high-school days: my paternal grandparents had only an outhouse despite their home being in the middle of the historic village; and they frequently heated stones to help warm their bed in the winter.
I discovered Tom Waits via the Bulletboys’ cover of “Hang on St. Christopher.” I instantly adored that weird song, but had no idea what was in store for me when I first heard the original, courtesy of a piratical friend. “Cold Cold Ground” is from Waits’ 1987 album titled Franks Wild Years, which I discovered today is part of a loose trilogy of albums; its music is also part of a play of the same name. To me, “Cold Cold Ground” is more about the cruel grind of poverty and what it can bring people to rather than death itself, which is why it brings to mind my paternal ancestors. The accordion by William Schimmel is a steady and soothing counterbalance to the lyrics.
The second song has no connection to family; it’s just an equally weird song that’s focused on one specific death.
“Coattails of a Dead Man” is from Primus’ 1999 album Antipop, which featured several guest producers and musicians … including Tom Waits producing this song and providing background vocals. No wonder I think of him when I hear it! And I have to confess: even though I wrote about this album last month and mentioned Waits, I didn’t connect it to this song until rereading the Wiki page today. I also discovered today that some people think the song is an allusion to Kurt Cobain and Courtney Love’s relationship.
The original version of “Coattails” has about a minute of silence before a hidden track, titled “The Heckler,” begins. Here’s that version, for those of you who can’t get enough of what is likely the weirdest waltz ever created.
Were I living in Ohio, I might be tempted to visit my familial cemetery, as well as some of the other, even older cemeteries in my hometown.2 Perhaps because of my youthful visits, I’ve long been fond of browsing old cemeteries; I like the artistry of the headstones and to consider the lives of those interred beneath. I know there are many old cemeteries near us here in New Mexico, but I never seem to think to visit them until it’s gotten too warm to comfortably do so. Perhaps this November…
the city long ago engulfed it
the oldest I’m aware of has Revolutionary War veterans interred in it