RIP Kahlil, 1999-2013

17 Monday Jun 2013

Tags

dogs, grief, Kahlil Gibran, Kurt Vonnegut, pets, whippet

This was Kahlil’s favorite position Take him for a walk, tire him out playing frisbee, and he’d be ready to kick back and snooze in the house.

I’ve been out of pocket for a few weeks, extremely distracted and disinterested in anything related to writing. We had to put down our sweet whippet pup, Kahlil, on Thursday, June 13. He was 14 years old and the last of his litter of six to pass. He had been quite ill for a couple of weeks with some type of infection, and his heart (he had a heart murmur for five years) just couldn’t take it anymore.

These weeks have been incredibly hard and stressful. Now we are trying to find the resiliency to deal with our loss. He was our only pet, so the house is so empty and quiet without him. He was the center of our world. Some people may roll their eyes and say “he was just a dog,” but I don’t care. He was our faithful companion, a good runner and walker all these years, always waiting at the window for us to come home. All that matters is how we feel, not what others may think of us at this time.

This grief is different than what I have felt with grief at the loss of a person. I cannot compare the two. But it has been a long, long time that I have felt this sad after a death, so long that I almost cannot even remember. I want to be happy, because life goes on and there are so many things to be happy about right now. At this particular moment, it’s a beautiful summer evening in Minnesota—people are finally outside enjoying fresh air and the freedom that comes with summer. But even that has a dark cloud over it.

I pray for signs—signs that we will be OK, signs that we did the right thing, signs that my beloved dog is at peace. And I’m getting them. People are kind. Jenn at the Coffee Hag gave me a huge, supportive, strong, sympathetic hug, and a free drink I ran into my yoga teacher, Mel, and I could feel her healing energy spread to me. I was meant to see these people today, especially since today was a darker day. We got a thoughtful card from my cousin, someone who understands what it’s like to lose a dear pet.

One of the first things I did after Kahlil died was to return to The Prophet, written by Kahlil Gibran, our dog’s namesake.

Kahlil Gibran

Gibran has written the most beautiful words about sorrow that I’ve ever read. I was first struck by them about 20 years ago and have never forgotten:

Your joy is your sorrow unmasked.

And the selfsame well from which your laughter rises was oftentimes filled with your tears.

And how else can it be?

The deeper that sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain.

Is not the cup that holds your wine the very cup that was burned in the potter’s oven?

And is not the lute that soothes your spirit, the very wood that was hollowed with knives?

…

When you are sorrowful look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight.

I also think it’s no coincidence that the last book I read before Kahlil died was a re-read of Kurt Vonnegut’s Slaughterhouse Five. After every mention of death, he would write his famous line: So it goes.

Kurt Vonnegut.

Indeed, Mr. Vonnegut. So it goes.

It's time to talk about my hair again part two: Ecstasy

06 Thursday Jun 2013

Posted by rachaelhanel in Uncategorized

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Reblogged from ann rosenquist fee:

My friend Rachael Hanel wants to start a green cemetery but she's not sure how. Here she is in a regular one.

"Green cemetery" meaning "...as natural as possible in all respects. Interment of the bodies is done in a bio-degradable casket, shroud, or a favorite blanket. No embalming fluid, no concrete vaults." (Courtesy of greenburials.org, a good starting point for the biodegradable-curious.)

The Self-Curiosity Memoir

04 Tuesday Jun 2013

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Reblogged from BREVITY's Nonfiction Blog:

Debra Gwartney, author of Live Through This: A Mother's Memoir of Runaway Daughters and Reclaimed Love, has a valuable blog post up this week looking at "A Few Memoir Pitfalls." Good reading to remind ourselves, and particularly useful for those of us who teach:

Here's an excerpt. The full essay can be found here:

...The most skilled and engaging memoirists, to my way of reading, don’t dwell quite so much on what happened, but instead on the question that I feel is at the heart of memoir: why do I remember a particular episode (series of episodes) that way?

An uncomfortable piece of the past

03 Monday Jun 2013

Posted by rachaelhanel in Cemeteries

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Tags

cemeteries, history, Minnesota, New Ulm, U.S. Dakota War

As many times as I’ve been to New Ulm, I had not yet gone through the cemeteries prior to May this year. The cemeteries are easy to pass as you’re driving on Highway 14 toward Sleepy Eye, Springfield, and Walnut Grove (the highway is known as the Laura Ingalls Wilder Memorial Highway).

But on May 16 I had the opportunity to visit the cemeteries because I was in town for a couple of book readings/talks. New Ulm’s cemeteries are unique in that the city cemetery, the Catholic cemetery and the Lutheran cemetery share the same acreage. You have to read signs carefully to know which one you’re in, signs both directional and symbolic (i.e. crosses on top of the Catholic gravestones).

One thing I wanted to look for in the city cemetery were the monuments marking those who lost their lives in the U.S.-Dakota War of 1862. If you didn’t know anything about history, seeing gravestone after gravestone marked with 1862 as a date of death for so many would spur you to learn more. But some of the engravings also tell the story.

Can anyone translate this? The best I can do is “This monument was …” and “The dead who lie under this stone…”

These gravestones are etched with phrases that might make us cringe today. There might be people who call for the replacement of such markers. But we can’t censor or erase the past. History is uncomfortable—there’s no way to make it always palatable. The best we can do is recognize this is one side of the story and ask ourselves, “What made survivors want to include this information on a gravestone?” and “What led to this violence?” We need to put ourselves back into 1862 the best we can to fully understand.

The front of the memorial near the 1862 graves.

The back of the memorial. Not all of those killed have gravestones. If you go to the cemetery, you might see just a small marker with a number. The numbers correlate to the names listed here.

What are you thoughts?

There are a couple of great resources for people who want to know more about the U.S.-Dakota War. This website helps to interpret the complex, multi-faceted events of that time:

Minnesota Historical Society. The U.S. Dakota War of 1862. Retrieved from http://www.usdakotawar.org/.

Gwen Westerman and Bruce White wrote Mni Sota Makoce: The Land of the Dakota, which won a 2013 Minnesota Book Award.

Guest post: A Memorial Day poem

26 Sunday May 2013

Posted by rachaelhanel in Cemeteries, Writing

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Tags

cemeteries, In Flanders Fields, Memorial Day, poetry, Shelley Tougas

Photo Credit: Fr Antunes via Compfight cc

Today’s guest post is in honor of Memorial Day, probably the most popular day of the year to visit cemeteries. I thank my friend and writing buddy Shelley Tougas for writing this. I forget about the power of “In Flanders Fields,” the World War I poem written by Lt. Col. John McCrae. Thanks, Shelley, for the reminder. And I echo her sentiments below in thanking all of the men and women who have served our country.

From Shelley…

Organizers of my hometown’s Memorial Day Service asked my high school drama coach to send a poised graduate to recite a poem for the service. A patriotic poem. They also invited young kids to perform a presentation of their choice.

The drama coach selected me. Anxiety struck immediately. But both of my grandfathers served in war. The one who still lived would be touched to see me honor his service.

So the drama coach gave me “Flanders Field,” a poem from World War I. “Trust me,” she said, “it’s perfect.” She was right. The poem is simple and profound. Young men watch the sunset on a field of poppies. A day later, they are dead and buried in that same field. From their graves, they call for their brothers to continue the fight.

On that Memorial Day, on the east side of the city’s cemetery, a large crowd gathered. Flags snapped in the wind. Veterans were silent and grim. Wives held their hands.

The program listed the order of events. Somewhere in the middle, the kids would do their presentation. I came after them. Those kids, about 10 of them, stood nervously on a small platform. They began, in unison, to recite “Flanders Field.”

I was horrified. Clearly, there’d been no communication about who was doing what. I wanted to melt. If my name hadn’t been in the program, if my grandfather hadn’t been there, I might have fled, leaving an awkward gap. I pictured the man at the microphone calling my name, searching the crowd while I hid in my car.

“Flanders Field.” Again? Twice in a row? Cute, innocent kids and then a dopey high school graduate?

As I walked to the platform, my vanity evolved into empathy.

I passed the veterans who held flags and handkerchiefs. Some were stoic. Some wept. Others seemed lost in another place, another time. I passed gravestones and thought of families battered by grief.

Shame followed embarrassment. Yes, this moment required courage from me, but even then I knew it was miniscule in time and weight. To compare it to veterans’ experiences was disrespectful, trite and grotesque.

My face flashed red before I got to the microphone. My sweaty hands were turning “Flanders Field” to mush. In a voice that shook, I said something like, “I’m also going to recite ‘Flanders Field.’ I don’t know much about poetry or war, but when I read ‘Flanders Field,’ history emerged from my high school textbooks and hit me with a weight I’ve never before felt. Kids barely older than me died. Their bravery and devotion to this country makes me speechless. I can’t comprehend the fear, the sadness, the loss. So I don’t think you’ll mind hearing this poem twice. If you understand how deeply it affected me, then I hope you’ll know that us young punks do care, and we are grateful. I thank God my grandfather came back to us. I’m proud of him. I’m proud to be his granddaughter.”

I’m certain my statement wasn’t so articulate. I’m sure it was full of “ums” and “likes” and awkward pauses. I probably didn’t say “emerge” or “comprehend.”

But I did read that poem with passion.

“In Flanders Fields the poppies blow

Between the crosses row on row …”

Afterward, I sat between my grandparents. My grandfather, never full of words, gave me a glance and a nod, his signal for pride. My grandmother and I cried. She’d lived the war. I’d just begun to feel its magnitude.

Thank you, veterans. Thank you, service men and women. Thank you for protecting us, our values, our way of life. You are the very definition of courage and sacrifice.

Shelley Tougas is the author of Little Rock Girl 1957: How a Photograph Changed the Fight for Integration and the forthcoming novel The Graham Cracker Plot. She blogs at shelleytougas.com.

Family plots

22 Wednesday May 2013

Posted by rachaelhanel in Cemeteries, Writing

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Tags

cemeteries, essays, memorials, Texas, writing

Photo provided by Lisa MB Simons. This is most definitely not Minnesota. Well, during last summer’s drought it kind of looked like this.

I’m excited to post the first installment in what I hope will be a regular series on my blog. I know a lot of you have cemetery stories–one of the best parts of having this book out is the stories people are willing to share with me. I’ve heard variations of “I love cemeteries” so often in the past couple of months!

If you travel and visit a cemetery, I’d love to post your story here on my blog! I’m looking for no more than 500 words about the cemetery, and pictures if you have them.

Let this first guest post by my good friend, Lisa M. Bolt Simons, serve as an example. I’ve known Lisa for several years. She’s been a trusted companion on many literary trips I’ve taken to Minneapolis–she lives in Faribault, which is on my way to the Cities. Lisa is a fine writer herself–she’s written a few children’s books and has several books for adults in the works. Her memoir needs to get out into the world, soon!

Lisa recently visited the family plot of her father’s family in Texas. I’ve long thought about how important it is to have a place to visit a loved one after they’ve passed. Even if they are not bodily buried, you can still have a memorial space to visit. Lisa speaks to this eloquently:

I’ve known for a long time that I’ve wanted to be cremated. I do not want to take up space in a cemetery, but I don’t remember what the catalyst was for this thinking. In my current will I want my ashes to be tossed into the Boundary Waters Canoe Area breeze because I know my husband will end up there someday, too. I’d also like to be scattered at my dad’s grave at the Air Force Academy. The problem, I realized a few years ago, is that I’ll have nowhere for someone to visit me, nothing with my name to tell a mourner that’s where I am. That’s one of the things I look forward to every time I visit Colorado—visiting my dad. Where would my children and grandchildren go to visit me?

My uncle Casey is the last of three brothers. My dad was killed in his broken F-4 when he was 30, and my uncle Tommy died of liver failure when he was 48. After their dad died near the end of 2011, living a decade longer than his wife, Casey decided to find a resting place for the entire Bolt family. He found a cemetery plot in an itty bitty town about 2½ hours west of San Antonio, about four miles from where he lives. He chose the plot because he said he’d install a bench that would face the Texas mountains for when family and friends wanted to sit and think.

Photo provided by Lisa M. Bolt Simons.

My daughter, Jeri, and I attended the dedication late last month.

The cement bench gently curves as if to hug the tall gravestone in front of it, the family name on both front and back with my grandparents’ names and information on the stone’s face. Three rectangular markers with each of the brothers’ names lie a couple of feet in front of their parents’ stone inches above the ground. Casey and his wife, Cris, brought two sprays of beautiful flowers—one red, white, and purple; the other yellow—to lay at the edges of my dad’s and Tommy’s stones. Casey kneeled behind his stone and pointed at the space that would someday note his death. A heart wreath of white and red carnations and one yellow rose was propped on a thin metal tripod behind my grandparents’ stone. My cousin Jason brought his dog’s ashes and buried the box in the far corner of the plot outlined in cement. His sister, Dotti, Jeri, and I took pictures.

Photo provided by Lisa M. Bolt Simons.

The most important part that’s etched in my dad’s stone is, “Father of Lisa and Brett.” This is where part of me will be someday, after I change my will, where family or a friend can sit on the bench, look toward the Texas mountains, and say hello to me, to my family, before he or she begins to think.

Photo provided by Lisa M. Bolt Simons.

7 stories I heard while in New Ulm

17 Friday May 2013

Posted by rachaelhanel in Uncategorized

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Tags

art, cemeteries, graves

A monument from the New Ulm City Cemetery. If you want to practice your German translation skills, go to New Ulm.

My book tour took me to New Ulm on May 16. I had two events: one at Orchard Hill assisted living community, and one at the public library.

The group at Orchard Hill posed great questions and comments. As older people, they had some good stories about the days in which death was more ever-present (see my recent essay for the University of Minnesota Press blog on this very topic). It also seemed that almost everyone had some past connection to gravedigging. I heard a variation of “my ____ was a gravedigger” several times—it was usually a father or an uncle. This makes sense. In the past, in small, rural communities, you might have several people who pitched in to dig graves. It generally was not any one person who made it a career, like my dad did. Communities tended to form around the church, so it was usually a fellow parishioner who did the job—whoever had the time and physical ability.

Some conversational snippets from Thursday included:

The guy who worked at a gravedigger in the Alexandria area. He remembered a guy who died over the winter. The family did not want to bury the body in the winter, so they stored him in the grain bin.
Two little girls who died who were buried next to the house.
Playing on a little hill on a farm, only decades later to find out it was an Indian burial mound.
Lighting a fire in a steel tub to defrost a grave that needed to be dug in the winter. The fire might have to be tended a day or two before all the frost would be thawed.
A little boy who died in the 1930s. The mortician came to the house to prepare the body. A professional photographer took a picture of the boy, probably the only photograph ever taken of him. The body was waked at home, and someone stayed near him all night. Some solution (perhaps vinegar) was applied to the face to prevent it from becoming gray and ashen.
We were talking about the common images etched in granite these days, such as portraits, farms, and tractors. One woman piped up, “and concertinas.” We were in New Ulm, after all, practically the polka capital of the U.S. :)

This makes me think I should go to these communities more often and record the memories people have of deaths and cemeteries.

I enjoyed the story a woman told of picking out a gravestone for her husband. She needed a flat stone, and was shown sample after sample. Nothing piqued her interest. She asked the salesman if he had any more, and he took her in the back where he had some flawed pieces. There, she found exactly what she was looking for: a piece of flawed marble embedded with black streaks. She’s an artist, as was her husband. “Every piece of art has a flaw,” she said. “You just have to know where to look.”

“Six Feet Under” resonates

14 Tuesday May 2013

Posted by rachaelhanel in Cemeteries, Grief, Writing

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cemeteries, funerals, grief, memoir, Six Feet Under

I wrote a short essay for the University of Minnesota Press blog on “Six Feet Under” and our culture of death. Here’s a short excerpt:

“In We’ll Be the Last Ones to Let You Down, I try to capture the Midwestern stoicism I have witnessed at funerals and wakes. I saw little raw emotion. So few Nates, so many, many Davids.”

If you were a fan of the show, you know what I mean.

You can find the blog post here.

Resurrection Mary: A creepy cemetery story

11 Saturday May 2013

Posted by rachaelhanel in Cemeteries

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Tags

Barrie Jean Borich, Body Geographic, cemeteries, Chicago, ghosts, Resurrection Mary

The window at The Book Cellar, Chicago. Barrie’s book also has an awesome cover.

I recently spent 36 hours in Chicago, in and out for an event May 9 at The Book Cellar. I read with Barrie Jean Borich, author of the recent Body Geographic and my former mentor in the Loft Mentorship series.

Barrie and me at The Book Cellar, Chicago.

Barrie mentioned that there seem to be a lot of cemetery enthusiasts in Chicago who might like my book. When she said that, I was reminded of a story I hadn’t thought about for years: the story of Resurrection Mary. They say (I love the “they” in “they say”!) that through the years, a young woman has been spotted at different times walking along Archer Avenue in Justice, just outside of Chicago. She’s dressed as if ready to go to a party. She’s been picked up by drivers several times (or so “they” say) and she always asks to be let out in front of Resurrection Cemetery.

I had totally forgotten about this story. It was one that mesmerized me as a child (if you’ve read my book, then you know of my childhood fascination with the supernatural–Resurrection Mary was part of this, though I don’t mention her by name in my book). It made me wish I had planned more free time on this trip. The next time I’m in Chicago, I definitely am going to Resurrection Cemetery.

Here’s the “Unsolved Mysteries” segment on Resurrection Mary.

I frankly do not have any creepy cemetery stories of my own. Do you? If so, please share!

An ethical dilemma in the Boston bombings aftermath

04 Saturday May 2013

Posted by rachaelhanel in Cemeteries

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Tags

Boston bombings, burial, cemeteries, funeral homes, funerals

Photo Credit: Leo Reynolds via Compfight cc

A story about the funeral home that accepted Tamerlan Tsarnaev’s body appeared on the front page of the New York Times‘ website today. Peter Stefan, the funeral director at Graham Putnam & Mahoney Funeral Parlors in Worcester, Mass., has received criticism for accepting the body.

But what was he supposed to do? Requests were sent to funeral home after funeral home. Stefan was the one who finally accepted after it was clear that Russian officials didn’t want the body, either.

Something has to be done with bodies after people die, no matter how reviled they are. Who took Timothy McVeigh’s body? Who took Ted Bundy’s body? Who takes the body of the man who killed himself, his wife and his kids in a murder-suicide? Stefan says this in the story: “I’ve had murderers here, people that murder their kids, people that murder their parents. A lot of hullabaloo that we’ve had here.”

I found some information on Timothy McVeigh. After his execution on June 10, 2001, he was cremated at Mattox Ryan Funeral Home in Terre Haute, Ind. Information about his remains or a memorial service remained secret. Apparently McVeigh had wanted to donate his organs, but prison regulations did not allow that.

Now the problem comes in finding a cemetery that will take Tsarnaev’s body. So far, no takers. The family has requested burial; cremation isn’t an option. It probably would be best to bury him in an unmarked grave. Otherwise, I can imagine it would become an attraction for haters and possibly also extremists who might see Tsarnaev as a martyr.

At the end of the story, Stefan says this: “I’m not burying a terrorist, I’m burying a dead body. We’re trying to exercise some character here.”

It’s a tough position, for sure. What do you think?

We'll Be the Last Ones to Let You Down

~ Tales from a gravedigger's daughter

RIP Kahlil, 1999-2013

It's time to talk about my hair again part two: Ecstasy

The Self-Curiosity Memoir

An uncomfortable piece of the past

Guest post: A Memorial Day poem

Family plots

7 stories I heard while in New Ulm

“Six Feet Under” resonates

Resurrection Mary: A creepy cemetery story

An ethical dilemma in the Boston bombings aftermath

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