Three Things: The Pet Cemetery, the Gettysburg Address, and the Couple Reunited

“1971
Here Lies Mr. Bird
Canary
Bilbo Baggins
White Mouse
Loved by the De Young Children.”

These were the words painted in black letters on a the wooden makeshift marker just inside the gate of the pet cemetery. Situated underneath Doyle drive in the Presidio, this peculiar patch of earth hosts the remains of SF’s dogs, cats and “other.” This was a remarkable find for me. I’d never been to a pet cemetery before. What was this place?

I wandered around, noting the dates and the names, the epitaphs: Killer, all the love of a lifetime, no matter how long, is never enough. I remembered my own beagle, our Dalmatian, the first kitten. How the owl must have scooped her up when we weren’t paying attention. The place evoked Stephen King, any number of bad horror-flicks, even Bunnicula. While enchanting, it was hard not to notice a staleness about the place. These were not just monuments to beloved pets, but a macabre reminder of lost children. Lost in the most mundane of ways, because the children were merely now long-grown. It seemed as if the whole scene was a memento to first grief: tacky as a prom picture, and saccharine sweet as a high school love letter un-tempered by prior heartache.

At this square of earth, tucked away, forgotten, under the overpass, I wondered what had become of the De Young children in the last thirty years. And I marveled how such a big name in San Francisco had the power to immortalize common names for the simplest of creatures. Thirty-plus years is a long time, and then again, not so long at all.

I’ve always found cemeteries to be peaceful, humbling, and a place for contemplation. How short life is! How ultimately anonymous. I kept walking, and made my way to San Francisco’s National cemetery. I was a little unnerved to actually find live marines performing some kind of office in full uniform. The cemetery if full – so I didn’t think I was intruding on a funeral. They took little note of me, but I still felt like an intruder. Liberal! Possible jogger! Jogging is an activity strictly forbidden in national cemeteries, a fact I learned when I stopped at the informational kiosk. I was immediately self-conscious to be wearing running shoes.

On the kiosk, I read about Pauline Cushman – Union Spy- who was buried inside with other notable skeletons. Oh to be a notable woman back to the time on the civil war! Someone had placed a dog tag that read “Licopoli Alessandro E – AB Neg.” This was a brilliant, guerilla act of collage. The addition of something current and potent to the exhibit–like text, made it a real place. There was a story in that simple act, as unique and commonplace as the other stories that were buried here, lined head to toe. The names of their wives engraved on the alabaster backs of their stones. It was hard to tell if they were buried behind them –or just remembered there. Even though I knew it didn’t matter, I didn’t like the idea of their wives being buried somewhere else.

As I walked up the hill, the eucalyptus that surrounds the walled grounds creaked and swayed in the wind. They reminded of doors opening and closing. From the top of the hill I could see Chrissy field and the beach. The park was full of live pets, boisterous children, etc. How fitting that there is a symmetry to this landscape, the living and dead are balanced – the cemetery is the counterweight to a beach full of sandy dogs and squealing children, kite surfers, and sailboats. The trees almost offset the ocean.

On my way back down the hill, I paused to read the inscription on a monument where the marines had stood in line; so officious in their uniforms. The text was from the Gettysburg Address. I never had to memorize the Gettysburg Address – and honestly hadn’t thought much of it. I was always stumped by the fore score and seven. I’m bad enough at math – archaic ways of counting does not encourage further attention. But on Saturday, I took the time to absorb the words of Lincoln’s dedication.

In light of our recent election, the words really struck me. To reflect on the choice of the citizens of the United States to elect Senator Obama, Lincoln’s words—a
premonition of equality, government by the people for the people, and how its up to the living to fight for that – ring very true today. Before November 3rd, I would have been too cynical to take those words to heart.

Later, after digging a little online I came to learn a few things about Lincoln’s speech. For one thing, some say it was not well received. They say Lincoln himself didn’t feel that confident in it. But who can blame an audience so fresh out of a war and probably mourning the loss of many close to them? It seems likely that many viewed the speech as hypocritical – if we were governed by the people and for the people – then the south were also people, and had their own opinions that didn’t include being part of the Union. And this is a valid perspective I think, given that Prop 8 wasn’t defeated this month – well- I don’t want government by the people who would so readily restrict the civil rights of a great many people I care about.

Some scholars say Lincoln was quoting an abolitionist. The evidence seems to suggest this, and I’d be willing to bet that Lincoln truly had vision beyond his time, and that his speech aspired to a world not yet present – a world that not only abolished slavery, but awarded the vote to women, and enjoyed a democracy that was ever-evolving. That his words have been remembered this long, is telling, of the truth of them. Or maybe the truth as it is becoming, and continues to become.

I also learned that there are five separate versions of the text in circulation, that Lincoln kept fussing with his draft after the speech had been given. I take great comfort in this. It speaks to our own tendencies to tweak and hone our poems, homes, lives, our institutions – it is somewhat reflective of this process of evolution. That we can revisit, revise, and from that work, hopefully inch closer to the truth of things.

A piece of writing, re-written, or even re-interpreted can be a lot like something mended. Just like the dog tag on the kiosk could reinvigorate the cemetery with fresh grief and bring healing to the mourner who had place it there; Lincoln’s speech was meant to bring healing and a semblance of meaning to a country that was grieving its dead. And the pet cemetery, while freakish and gaudy is a way for children to acquaint themselves with the nature of our existence –, its their place to get-to-know lost love.

My walk ended at a coffee shop – and there I was given another example of revision, and healing. Buddy is a character in his early sixties who hangs out both at a café on Chestnut and near Chrissy field by the volleyball courts and hot dog stand. He is something of a flirt and I’ve chatted with him on a handful of occasions. He’s recited poetry to me once, to get my attention. He dishes out the kind of compliments that get a little thick, quick. You get the sense that he has a big heart, while being slightly untrustworthy and most likely impossible. Is he a good guy? Is he a con man? I don’t know him well enough.

But last weekend, he sat closely with a woman and when we recognized each other, introduced me to Patricia, his first wife, from over forty years ago. They’d been married for three years, but his alcoholism and some other circumstances, led to divorce. About three months ago, he’d reached out to her – and after forty years – they reconnected. Her husband had passed away the year before, and they arranged to meet, picking up where they left off. “You never forget your first love,” she’d said. “My mother took one look at him, and said ‘You broke my daughter’s heart!’” But things were different now…he’s changed.