Fear, Fascination and Love- How I became a Taphophile

I am a taphophile. That is, I love cemeteries, tombs, gravestones etc. Don't let the suffix, -phile mislead you, for my passion is of a non-sexual nature. I am, however, often reluctant to use the term 'taphophile', for fear of misinterpretation of its meaning, by those who may not understand the term. When discussing my hobby, I just say "I am a cemetery enthusiast".
A lot of people don't understand my attraction to cemeteries, and frankly I don't understand why I love them, either. For you see, when I was a child, I was terrified of graveyards.

One of my earliest memories involves my mother taking me to a cemetery in Bristol, VT. I must have been two or three. I wasn't afraid, being too young to know what a cemetery was. It didn't occur to me that there were dead people under my feet. As far as I was concerned, those big stone things were for climbing. I recall attempting to scale an obelisk, only to have Mom pluck me off the monument.
As I got older, and I learned what cemeteries were, I developed a mild phobia of cemeteries, mixed with fascination. When one of my older sisters made me take a shortcut through a cemetery I was terrified, not because I was afraid of ghosts (the idea that a cemetery could be haunted never even crossed my mind), but because I was walking on dead people. I remember being disturbed by the sight of a baby's gravestone, shaped like a teddy bear.
When my sisters told me to hold my breath whenever we passed a cemetery, and keep holding my breath until we saw a white house, I complied, even though they never told me why I should hold my breath.
But it wasn't all fright and superstition. There were laughs, too. For as long as I can remember, every time we'd drive past a graveyard my Dad would point and say, "Hey kids, people are dying to get in there,". No matter how old the joke got, I always insisted on hearing it.
In the fifth grade, the special Civil War class I was taking (the school I was attending did elective classes, such as drama, or French. You signed up on a first come first serve basis) took a trip to a cemetery in Burlington. We were looking for the graves of Union generals and soldiers and I took the entire adventure very seriously. I prayed at the graves we visited and even scolded the ear off of a classmate who broke a child's gravestone by sitting on it. I remember the grave that he had broken had a lamb statue on it, and was in the segregated African American section of the cemetery. I remember our teacher (who was also the school sheriff) explaining to us that this part of the cemetery was in bad shape, because of racism.

Around the age of 10, while reading up on ghosts, I finally figured out that cemeteries could be haunted. I reacted to this idea with fear and curiosity. I wanted to go to a cemetery and conjure up some ghosts. As I grew up, my fear of cemeteries turned into a fascination. When my 7th grade social studies class went on a field trip to a local cemetery too look for the graves of notable historical citizens, I was so excited I didn't even bother doing our assignment, I just wandered around in a state of joy.
For a long time, cemetery visits were a rarity. I vaguely recall visiting a small 19th century cemetery in Willsboro, NY one humid July 4th, but other than that, my curiosity went unsatisfied.
It wasn't until I moved to Bellows Falls VT, that I started to become a full blown taphophile. I loved going to cemeteries now, dragging friends along with me. When I couldn't find anyone to join me, I'd go by myself, though I felt uncomfortable doing so, due to a slight fear of ghosts.
One day, in fall of 2007, I happened upon a website named Grave Addiction. It was like the heavens had opened up and shone down upon me. Not only could I enjoy cemeteries from all over the country without having to leave my house, but I had gleaned some very important knowledge. I was not alone. There were others like me out there. Other people who shared a deep passion for cemeteries, funerals and the fine art of mourning. Beth's website inspired me to fully embrace my love for graveyards and, what started as a fascination became a part of my identity. When I go on long road trips, I count how many cemeteries we drive by. I walk long distances just to visit a favorite graveyard.
And yet, the old fears never left me. I still won't go into cemeteries at night, at least not by myself. I don't know where this particular phobia came from, but it seems to stem more from a primeval fear of the dark, of the unknown, than the cemetery itself. There could be anything hiding in the gloom- ghosts, monsters, psycho murderers, Snooki.
I also can't go into certain cemeteries by myself, even in the daytime. For instance, I've had so many paranormal experiences in Oak Hill cemetery in Bellows Falls VT, that I just won't go in there alone (though I've still had some eerie experiences even with a companion). I'm working on this fear, by daring myself to go into creepy cemeteries on my own. I've even developed a mantra to help me "The dead can't hurt me. It's the living I've got to fear".
How did I go from being afraid of cemeteries, to loving them? How can I both fear and love something? I've gone over this again and again. Why do I love cemeteries? Why am I so fascinated by the macabre? Why am I so drawn to death, despite my fears? Is it my fear that attracts me? There aren't any simple answers, I'm afraid. Nothing that I can interpret from my brain to the keyboard (curse you, Non-verbal Learning Disorder! Curse you!), at least. I think the best I can do, is stop thinking about the why of things, and just enjoy being a taphophile.

Friday Part 2

Let get on with this...shall we?.

Part 2: A Beautiful Testament to the Finality of Death
We set off for our grand journey. We drove towards Brattleboro, where it was agreed that we would stop for lunch. As we drove, I decided that I would count and mentally record each cemetery I saw, throughout the entire weekend.
I am a taphophile. This means that I have a great passion for cemeteries, gravestones, an epitaphs.While use of the suffix -phile may lead one to believe that this is a passion of a sexual nature, I assure you that this is not the case. I do not get aroused by cemeteries or graves, I merely have a love for them that borders on obsession.
We drove through Westminster, where I counted one cemetery, and then we drove through Putney, where I counted a second.
I enjoyed driving through Putney, there I admired old houses (including one that we had almost bought five years ago) and marveled at the campy splendor that is Santa's Land. As we barreled down the road, Katie snapped pictures with her camera.
At one point, we got stuck in road work. Summer in Vermont is road work season, and it is not uncommon to get stuck waiting for the road crew to wave you through. It is particularly annoying, especially when it's hot out, but I feel that the guys out there working on the road have a worse time of it than the drivers do. To combat my feelings of frustration as the traffic piled up and we sat boiling in the July heat, I squeezed my bright orange stress ball. It kept my hands busy but did not soothe my mind.
Eventually we were granted permission to continue down the road, but not before being yelled at by an irate road worker (I have no idea what we did to incur his wrath). We eventually made it into Brattleboro, where we would eat lunch.

This is where the trouble began. Mom suggested McDonald's . But no one (including she who suggested it) really wanted to eat there. We couldn't afford Friendly's either. I suggested that we eat at Burger King. Of late, we had been enjoying eating there, mainly because of the little Twilight: Eclipse promo they were running, which involved winning free food and even money. I hate Twilight with a burning passion, but I love winning free food.
The catch was that Burger King was all the way on the other side of town, and Brattleboro traffic is a bitch. An unrelenting, aggravating bitch. Brattleboro is also a confusing place when it comes to its traffic, so it shouldn't have been a surprise that we got lost. It wasn't anyone's fault; like I said, Brattleboro is just confusing and annoying. We drove through neighborhoods and through downtown (which always seems shorten everybody's temper), trying to get to The Burger King. I felt guilty. If I hadn't suggested that we eat there, we wouldn't have gotten in this frustrating mess. When we finally got to the restaurant, we ended up driving past it. More frustration. We pulled into a nearby gas station, turned around and pulled into the Burger King parking lot. We were all hungry, hot and angry with the town of Brattleboro.

We entered the fast food joint. The place was festooned with Twilight decorations, including two nearly life-sized window clings of Edward and Jacob, (the promo centers around choosing between the vampire and the werewolf). While I hate Twilight, I have to admit that the actors playing the two male leads aren't bad to look at.
Burger King was crowded, but not too crowded. It was mostly old people and families with small annoying children. We ordered our food, I used the bathroom and then we sat down to eat.
But something was wrong. I couldn't eat. I felt like I had to force my self to bite, chew and swallow. I felt claustrophobic sharing a bench with my sister. The booths on either side of us were crowded with families with loud children. The bad pop music that screamed from the intercom filled my ears, relentless and invasive. My food tasted strange. I felt myself descend into a full-blown panic attack.
I squeezed my stress ball frantically, my hand clenching around the foam orb like a claw. I began to hyperventilate, and a wave of dizziness swept over me. Eventually my mother and sister noticed. They kept asking what was wrong, but I couldn't rightly answer. I felt like I was going to die. The dizziness felt like someone had broken an egg over my head and I put my head down on the table. I thought I was going to pass out. A feeling of pure terror washed over me, but I could not figure out why.
With some difficulty, I managed to explain some of what was wrong with me. The dizziness, the sudden loss of appetite, the fear. Mom thought it could be the noise and crowding of the restaurant. I wondered if it could because we were going to be around the extended family that weekend. It didn't matter what caused this inexplicable episode. The only cure was Ativan.
A couple of month previously, a doctor had obtained a prescription for me, to treat my bad anxiety. I use it whenever I'm particularly stressed out or if I'm having an attack.
Mom pulled my bottle of Ativan out of her purse (she keeps it for me, for reasons I would rather not discuss in this blog. I am sure you can figure out why) and handed me one of the diminutive white pills. I took it with some soda, and the effects seemed almost instantaneous. I calmed down enough to take a few bites of my chicken fries, though I would end up taking them in the car with me.
I still haven't entirely figured out what caused that sudden and frightening panic attack. It was one of the worst I have ever had, and there weren't any events preceding it, that would have warranted such a reaction.

We left Brattleboro, and drove west towards Bennington. We took long winding roads, where I saw old houses, cemeteries and beautiful rich green trees. The only drawback was that the people driving in front of us were slower than death. (though I often find that death, in fact moves very quickly.) Their slowness was caused by the fact that far ahead of us, was a truck that was moving at a snail's pace, in an effort to keep their cargo from sliding around and being damaged. It was all very frustrating. I put in my headphones and waited out this boring stretch of our trip.
Naturally, I do not remember every single detail of our trip. And even if I did, what would be the point of sharing it with you? I'm sure you're already bored to death with this blog, and wondering when the hell I'm going to quit this self-indulgent trip and write something with some goddamn substance. The trip was long. I counted cemeteries and listened to music. My sister took pictures. My mother did the driving.

When we got to Bennington, Mom wanted to get out and stretch her legs. She parked in front of the cemetery where Robert Frost is buried, The Old Bennington Cemetery. I desperately wanted to go in and explore, but Mom denied me such a pleasure, saying we didn't have the time. We had just ten minutes to stretch our legs. I spent my ten minutes running along the length of the cemetery's white fence, reading what epitaphs I could, and geeking out over the different carvings. Soul effigies, and vines, beautiful poems, all of them a beautiful testament to the finality of death. I even climbed the fence, in order to get a better view of a table tomb (and I don't mean that it was a tomb belonging to a deceased table. A table tomb is a marble slab supported on pillars). Inside the cemetery, I could see a family admiring the stones and taking pictures. I envied them, getting to explore more of the beautiful place than I was able to. There really were some amazing gravestones.
When our stretch was over, I reluctantly got back in the car. If it were up to me, I could have spent the entire weekend in that gorgeous necropolis.
We drove out of Bennington, and were treated to more familiar sights as we did, such as the creepy house across from the cemetery, the slabs of rocks that looked like Stonehenge and the strange metal sculptures that spun in the wind. I've said it once, and I'll say it again, Vermont is truly an amazing place.
Eventually, we crossed the border into New York. But we'll save that for the next chapter.

Coming up...New York yields some strange and entertaining sights.