Could the pearly gates of heaven be any more elaborate than the entrance to the Green-Wood Cemetery in Brooklyn? It's a little more than half the size of Central Park and almost as pretty is some respects.
I had organized a memorial service to honor the centenary of Henry Bergh's death when I worked at the ASPCA. The event didn't attract much press attention in 1988 although it did satisfy the ego needs of my boss, a former Jesuit priest eager to be seen as more than the president of an organization that put 80,000 "companion animals" to death every year under contract to New York City. Few, if any, ended up here.
When I returned nearly two decades later, I couldn't find Bergh's grave. Embedded in the side of a slope, it resembles the pyramid known as the "Eye of Providence" on the back of a dollar bill,
Manhattan almost looks like a mirage in the distance.
Lenny's ghost can see it from his modest grave. He was born the same year as my father.
Freestyle engraving evokes more supernatural vibes.
A monogrammed fence surrounds the final resting place of Boss Tweed who once personified corruption in New York City.
Long forgotten movers and shakers marked their graves with statues dressed in the fashions of another era.
I dubbed this one, more than a little eroded by eternity, "Mr. Micawber" because it reminded me of the role W.C. Fields played in David Copperfield.
Symbols effectively communicate professional careers.
Women can't seem to break out of the angel mold.
