The things we'll leave behind

Friday thoughts about loss, the loss of country, and the relics of our civilization

I learned last week that China cuts much of the granite for headstones sold in the United States, and that the Chinese are widely regarded for their precision — cutting giant blocks of granite like a bread slicer within one-sixteenth of an inch, and usually even closer.

I just decided on a headstone made of African Impala granite. The stone will be cut out of the ground — I am continually reminded of this by the nice young guy with the monument company who wants me to remember that there is limited ability to control its exact appearance — and then will spend weeks on a ship making its way to China for cutting.

Then it will spend maybe two more months on a ship heading to the Port of Savannah, where it may sit at the port for a few weeks, waiting to unload. And then, an 18-wheeler will bring it to the west coast of Florida where it will be engraved, either by Kaleb or by his brother.

I didn’t really want to know all of these details and Kaleb didn’t realize, I’m sure, that it was hard for me to look at the mock-ups of the headstones he was sending by text while remaining on the phone with him and listening to him go on about the provenance of the stone and its route to the United States. I really needed to just get off the phone and not hear any more words.

Death is so final. And when you see the name on the headstone, with the dates, it is a great shock.

It’s my son’s father who died. He lived in Florida, in his hometown of Sebring, which he’d moved back to after retiring from his job in Key West.

It was in Key West that we’d met and had the baby. I was working as an editor for the Miami Herald Company, which had a small newspaper in the Keys. He was the director of tourism for the Florida Keys.

I didn’t love him. But I wanted to. I was afraid of him sometimes. He was the most dominant man I’ve ever met. Maybe this is why I’ve struggled so much in these last months in dealing with his death.

The young guy at the monument company, Kaleb, asked me what he was like, to try to help me figure out what kind of headstone would be most appropriate.

I could only say that he was the kind of man they’re not making anymore and mentioned that his favorite movie was “Jeremiah Johnson,” with Robert Redford playing the title character, a young man who comes home from the war and goes up into the Rocky’s on horseback to become a mountain man. Kaleb didn’t know of it, so that didn’t help.

Kaleb and his brother work for the family company their dad started. Their dad is old school and told them: Just put on the headstone whatever someone wants on there. Kaleb and his brother didn’t believe it should be that way. They wanted to help people figure out what to put on a headstone, and let them know what is possible. Looking at their website, I have to say, their work is… while not quite to my taste, it’s well done, and I was surprised by how moved I was reading some of the inscriptions — and looking at the faces.

Yes, they often etch whole photographs onto a headstone — headshots or even whole body shots. On headstones for Orthodox Christians and Catholics the headstones they create sometimes bear color images of the Virgin Mary or other saints and the stone is sometimes in the shape of a cross. I had never seen so many interesting headstones.

When on the phone with Kaleb the other day, he’d just finished the installation of a stunning five-person headstone for an entire family that had been killed in Plant City, Florida, when their car stopped on the railroad tracks on the way to a Quinceanera celebration and was hit by a train.

The headstone bears the five faces of the family members: Dad, Mom, two daughters and a young son, all in a row.

It will last for 500 years, or maybe 1,000 years, says Kaleb.

It’s a selling point, I suppose, when a family hesitates to pay $3,000 or more for a simple headstone, or thousands more for one that is more elaborate.

But it is something to ponder. Yes, polished granite would last 1,000 years. Why wouldn’t it?

And what will be here in 1,000 years? Will there be a United States of America? If not, what will be on this land? Who will be here?

What will they think of a headstone, made of African Impala granite cut out of the deep earth in Central Africa, sliced up like a loaf of bread somewhere in China, and stood up in the middle of a Baptist cemetery in Plant City, Florida — a cemetery that once belonged to the Primitive Baptist Church and is now a Hmong congregation?

It’s going to be difficult to unravel it all.

And then they may wonder: What was the United States of America and why did it collapse?

Many of us believe we are watching that collapse. Or is it a long slide? It seems it must end at some point. How could a society survive that cuts off the genitals of children to spite God? Should it even survive?

How can it survive when it allows secret organs of the government to plot to overthrow the elected leader, and face no consequence?

The problems seem unsolvable — not because they are so difficult that the human mind cannot conceive of a solution. Of course we can. The solutions are not difficult at all. But there are too many people profiting from these problems not being solved.

Over these last weeks, I’ve struggled to think of what my son’s father’s headstone should say, or if there should be any kind of picture on it — of something he liked.

I wish I could express something in a way that the Hispanics did on the headstone for the family of five. I’m so hurt that I couldn’t say goodbye. We didn’t know he was in the hospital until he’d been there for three weeks. By that time it was near the end.

But I realized that it wouldn’t be fitting to write something sentimental. He wouldn’t want it. It wasn’t him.

So in the end, I decided that it would just be his name, the year that he was born and the year that he died. On the polished black African Impala granite, standing tall in the old Baptist cemetery.

A final resting place for him.

But what about us? Those of us left to watch things slide ever downward?

It’s almost imperceptible, sometimes. Other times you can see how much has changed.

Among the items we brought home after cleaning out Harold’s condo in Florida is a framed black and white photo showing a man in a suit, posing in front of a home. It had been in the back of a closet.

Actually, I’d first seen it in his apartment in Key West 15 years ago. It was at the very back of the coat closet, turned around to face the wall.

Now, I have it leaning up against a wall in our living room. And every morning as I’m having breakfast I look at it. It’s a wonderful photo of Gen. Robert E. Lee, with his hat in hand, standing tall, his face solemn and a bit tired.

It’s the kind of relic of a lost civilization that I hope someone finds one day in the back of my closet.