Translation=Estonian cemeteries
Today while hundreds of Lutherans throughout Estonia sat quietly in their fur coats listening to the Sunday sermon, I was wandering through Pauluse Kalmistu. Wandering is not entirely correct. Rather, my father and I were systematically searching for the gravesite of my great-grandparents, the Reismanns. I will admit to you, my friends, that we had visited the selfsame cemetery two weeks before and had no luck finding the Reismann headstone.
After consulting with our local relatives, we set off again this morning with renewed hope. The sun shone brilliantly today, bouncing off of the foot of snow that has collected throughout the long winter in the cemetery. We each made our way down our prescribed lanes, leaving boot-sized footprints in our wake. I thought if Sherlock Holmes were on our tail, he would not have to work too hard.
Again, we paced up and down the aisles between the headstones. Ilves, Puusepp, and Ola were to be found, but where was Reismann? A middle-aged Estonian woman who earns her daily bread selling floral arrangements to cemetery visitors noticed that we were lost (and maybe she recognized “those crazy Americans” from two weeks back) and tried to help, but my great-grandparents had passed away in the late 1930s and she was not quite that familiar with the cemetery.
I kept thinking, “Please let us find it,” to whomever was listening. And finally I heard dad triumphantly yell my name from a couple rows away. I ran with high knees through the deep snow. We had finally found the Reismann headstone. We had certainly each walked by it a handful of times, but we simply had not seen it. We were both looking for what we thought was a blacker and shinier headstone, but time and moss had worn its way into the groves of the stone, rendering it almost illegible from any significant distance.
In Estonia it is common for relatives to visit the family gravesites once a week, (but maybe less in the winter months.) This tradition affords the cemetery a “lived in” feeling. More than forty percent of Estonia is covered in forest and trees have a major place in old Estonian traditions and myths. (Tamm (translated as Oak) is the most common last name in Estonia today.) So it seems obvious that the final resting place for Estonians is situated in nicely wooded areas. When American cemeteries shun trees for their interference and natural unpredictability, Estonians welcome, nay require, them. Estonian cemeteries appear to be much more at home in their respective cities and communities, more a part of the continuous landscape than those in America.
According to Estonian tradition, I have a lot of visits to make up for.
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