In the period between The Jewish New Year (Rosh Hashonah) and the Day of Atonement (Yom Kippur), it is traditional to visit the graves of relatives. My parents, and their parents too, are buried at Failsworth, near Oldham, Greater Manchester.
I found it unusual to stand there in shirtsleeves this week, with the October weather so unseasonably warm. Last year I was in hospital and unable to go, so I noticed some changes in the cemetery. Also I had rather more news than usual to "tell Mum and Dad about", as I straddled their two graves. I reflected and spoke about the joyously happy and the profoundly sad events of the past two years.
I hope you won't think me morbid, but I was reminded of where one's own "path to glory" leads. There's nothing like a cemetery to give you visions of mortality. Most shocking of all was years ago when I visited Rice Lane cemetery in Liverpool, and there stood at the tombstone of my father's father, which bears the name Philip Green, my own name - spooky!
But I was talking about changes in the cemetery. If you've never been there, then let me tell you that the Jewish cemetery at Failsworth is not laid to lawn, nor are there flowers or trees. It is a bleak environment. Some have protested that this is a mark of neglect, and that a community can measure its spiritual health by the way in which it remembers its dead. Others have countered that it is a fundamental principle of Judaism that the relics of human life are not as sacred as the soul. The soul is thought to have departed to reside for ever by its Maker's right hand, in Paradise; we should rejoice. The corpus no longer has any relevance. And yet there it lies to be reclaimed by the soil. And there stand I bringing news to what? To whom? To fertiliser? It's all rather a puzzle, really.
I mean no disrespect to the memory of my dear departed relatives. Far from it; I believe that the mark they left in this world is not to be found in a plot of earth, but in the hearts and affections of those whose lives they touched; the children they bore; the extensions to their families whom they embraced - grandchildren, nieces, nephews, siblings and all.
I find it distressing to observe the decaying of graves that are no longer maintained in good repair. Usually it is a signal that no close relatives are still alive. I recall the devotion with which my late aunt attended to the decaying tombstone of her grandmother who had died more than 60 years previously in 1933. It is sad to note that after only a few years her own memorial now shows signs of prolonged neglect. She was a generous benefactress, and I can think of 365,000 reasons why she deserves greater respect. I dedicate this blog to the precious memory of Jock Aaron Green, my Dad, Freda (nee Baumgarten) my Mum, and their late parents. I also name that good, kind, affectionate and deeply trusting woman, my Auntie, Marian Stone, whom I remember with love and respect and more than a little sorrow. I may not believe in the endurance of a living soul, but suppose they were somehow able to raise the curtain on this world they left behind. I'd hope for them to be spared the knowledge of some transactions, and I would wish for their dear spirits only to rest in peace and contentment. Some would be hopeful that their own reward might be more generous, whereas, if I should pray it would always be for a just and proportionate recompense for all.
