We went for a walk around St. Finbarr’s Cemetery. Husband gave me the tour of his ‘options’, by which he means burial plots belonging to both his mother’s and his father’s families. As a blow-in to Cork, I have no ‘options’ here although Husband was kind enough to inform me that he is sure his great-uncles will have no insurmountable objections to my joining them in their final resting place.
This graveyard is ‘closed’, in the sense that there will be no new plots opened so the great and the good of Cork are completely dependent upon their ancestors. In real estate terms, you might call it prestigious, if bijou, accommodation in a quiet neighbourhood. Well, hopefully it’s quiet. It is Halloween after all.
I keep thinking back on Chris Cleave‘s idea of a novel being like a hole that the writer fills with people, with their story (he wrote to me, by the way, Chris Cleave wrote to me!).
This place is jam-packed with stories. You only get to know the names of the main characters and a few key facts and you have to imagine the rest. It’s a bit like judging a book by its cover.
There are a few famous names in here. A couple of the inhabitants even have streets named after them and we learned their stories at school. And then, there are stories we heard on the radio and stopped dead in our tracks.
You can’t help thinking, what one line would sum up the story of my life? I’ve no idea. A good life, after all, might not be the same thing as a good story. Poor Agnes.
Inexpressible grief. Dr. Hobart managed to get his own name carved twice on the same stone.
Erected by Ebenezer Ferns, in sorrowful remembrance of his five beloved children, 1870.
God’s Finger touched her and she slept. 1870.
A broken pillar, I didn’t know this, indicates a family name that has died out. Our son carries the name of his great-granduncles who never married. Hopefully they will appreciate that when I arrive on their doorstep with my luggage.
It comes to us all.
Back on the home front, we are all set for tonight. We are fully stocked up on crappy sweets and sacrificial pumpkins. I got the Mrs Weasley jumper finished but it still drying beside a radiator. I made two gorgeous, if I say so myself, cloaks for the younger girls.
I always manage to get something wrong. This time I sewed the black fabric wrong side out so this one is slightly duller than it should be. Ah, it’s grand.
I have, in previous years, been a bit of a control freak about the pumpkin carving but this year I gave the kids free rein. I gave them each a small pumpkin and left the house.Ogres have layers…
…and pumpkins have personalities.
We all agreed that the big pumpkin should be handed over to Teenage Daughter. No pressure or anything 🙂
Oíche Shamhna faoi mhaise dhaoibh.