reading in a cemetery

Happiness is reading a good book outdoors. This is especially true on warm, sunny days when there is green grass to rub your feet on and a spring breeze to cool your face in.

In years past, I have always marked the start of spring by bringing books outside and reading. I've read in parks, on roofs, balconies and by poolsides. I've turned pages sitting by the shores of Lake Ontario and Lake Erie, and I've even done some serious reading on the deck of an ocean liner.

But I have never read in a cemetery -- until today.

I know it sounds creepy. I even got asked about it today, by an old woman hauling her even older mother along the gravestones. "You're reading in a cemetery?!" she asked, in total amazement. Well no, wait. That wasn't the first thing she asked me. She wanted to know where the public bathrooms were located, and then broached the subject of reading-among-the-dead.

"Yes, I'm reading in a cemetery. It's the only place nearby with some grass, flowers and where I can hear birds." And besides, I added in my head, there's walking paths and benches all over the place in this place. People jog here everyday. What's so weird about reading?

But apparently jogging is okay. As is wandering aimlessly with backpacks on your back, which is what I saw several people do. (All with glazed expressions who vanished into the restrooms for long stretches at a time.) Even holding hands and looking romantic seemed to be okay. Just ... not reading?

The woman was shocked that anyone would want to read in a graveyard. I mean, really. Horrors. I didn't have the heart to point out to her that she was far more morbid, hauling around her corpse of a mother with her. The pair trundled along at a snail's pace, with the younger one shaking her head in despair at me the entire time. I couldn't wait for them to get to the bathroom, pee, and fall into the toilet and drown.

After the Doddering Duo left, I had my shady little patch of graveyard back to myself. Sort of. I had parked myself on a bench near the main entrance, because it seemed the safest place to sit. A beautiful tree had been planted to stand guard over the bench, and flowers were blooming all along the pathway in front of me. The place was begging to be sat in, noticed and appreciated.

Birds were singing, squirrels were rustling in the bushes, and the workmen on duty were joyfully speaking to one another in Spanish. It did not feel like a burial ground at all. Even the visitors were smiling, and most weren't even dressed in black. Lots of kids running around, parents sighing, a couple or two smiling at one another.

When I had first moved into the neighborhood, the local cops had told me the cemetery was open to the public. "Lots of people go hiking in there," one of them told me. "I mean, I don't advise doing it after visiting hours, but it's safe during the day. And real pretty."

And real pretty it was. At one point I walked until I found a duck pond, and stared at my reflection in the rippling water. Ducks were honking at me and nosing by my feet for food, making me feel guilty for not bringing them bread crumbs. Spring blossoms were everywhere, in a profusion of purples, yellows and reds -- like cotton candy fluffs, electric colored and satisfying to look at.

Back at my reading perch under the tree, one of the groundskeepers walked by and gave me a big smile. A genuine one, not one of those creepy-old-man-who's-going-to-hit-on-you ones. "You picked a great day to read here," he told me in passing. He then went on to tell me other good reading spots in the cemetery, and I assured him I would explore them all.