Gypsies in the English Cemetery

In 2008, I visited The English Cemetery (also known as the Protestant Cemetery) in Florence Italy. My wife and I had just seen Michelangelo's "David" at the Accademia and decided to spend a few hours on individual missions. Mine was to continue walking about a half mile to the Piazzalle Donatello, site of the only cemetery in Florence.

The only traditionally Victorian cemetery, that is. Since these tend to have more statuary and other ornamentation than do the catacombs, I wanted to see it. Florence and Rome each have such an above ground outdoor Victorian cemetery, but most of the cities' dead are buried in catacombs. The name "Victorian" implies that the cemetery was designed during the era 1837 - 1901 (the reign of Britain's Queen Victoria). Owned by the Swiss and managed by the English, this cemetery originated as an ecumenical burial spot for non-Catholics and non-Jews  (who were previously not allowed burial in the city of Florence).

On approaching the grounds, I noted with dismay that the gates were locked. As I tried to figure out how to get in, I noticed a woman in a light blue habit scurrying around the cemetery buildings. A nun! I headed over to talk with her and she was most gracious--even though the cemetery was closed, she let me in to photograph the statuary. I spent about an hour amidst the magnificent artwork (as you can see by the life-sized skeleton, American sculpture can hardly hold a candle to Italian craftsmanship), before asking her where Elizabeth Barrett Browning's grave was.

The nun--who turned out to be the accomplished author Julia Bolton Holloway, PhD-- was the most amazing host! Caretaker of the English Cemetery, Julia is from Britain (her PhD is in Medieval Studies). She retired from academics as Professor Emerita to join an Anglican convent. She explained to me the history of the cemetery, as well as its curious upkeep. It seems that Julia routinely affords sanctuary to gypsies traveling west from Romania (it is illegal for them to be in Florence). She educates their children, while in return, the adults spend the weeks restoring rusted ironwork (see photo of ancher) and rebuilding stone walls and monuments. She marvels at their abilities and explains that this is the predominant method of restoration here.

Julia took me to where Browning's monument stood. As you may be able to tell, the grave monument (essentially a catafalque) is rather large--possibly the largest in the cemetery. I was of course embarassed that I'd walked right past it--several times! Afterward, Julia offered to show me the "historic" photographs. We went into the gatehouse, through a library where 4 or 5 monks pored over architectural drawings of the cemetery, then into a darkened room with framed photographs on the walls. Each piece had a small curtain over it to protect it from light degradation. You had to pull the material aside to see the image. All were original black and white images of the cemetery, made in the late 1800s. On the way out through the library, I noticed all the childrens' crayon drawings on the walls. I asked her why some of the gypsy children's artwork involved helicopters. She told me that police raids and arrests by helicopter are a common occurrance among the gypsies.

I also noted a small stack of copies of  the book, "Aurora Leigh and Other Poems of Elizabeth Barrett Browning." I mentioned that it seemed like a good idea to sell copies of such things here to raise money for the cemetery. Julia modestly stated that she was the editor of the text! I purchased a copy and asked her to autograph it for me, which she did. You can see the book by clicking the icon at left. As a fitting end to my visit to the English Cemetery, my proper British host called me a cab on her cell phone and bid me good day. For more information on this most amazing place, please visit The English Cemetery's website.

Stranded in the Cemetery -- Another Saab Story

In the early 2000s, it occurred to me that I should revisit certain local cemeteries during different seasons. Wind and rain wear down the statues, moss and lichens grow on the marble, and snow tends to create a whole new mood. So over a year's time, the statues have worn. Seasonal changes tend to affect the character of the statues--for example, autumn leaves surrounding the architecture or wet granite during a rain.

One snowy and frigid day I took my car to the local cemetery to shoot for a while. It was so cold that I would keep the car's engine on and the heater blasting, run out into the cemetery with an umbrella to keep the falling snow off the camera lens and shoot for a few minutes until my fingers went numb. Then I'd plod back through the drifts to the car, jump in and hold my aching fingers over the hot air vents.

I did this a few times until finally, on returning to the running car, I realized I'd locked myself out!

Panic builds character, but survival has a greater payoff. This was in the days before cell phones, so I trudged my way through the cemetery and down the street to a laundromat, where I called AAA from a pay phone. Ever call AAA for roadside assistance? They want to know where to find you. It was a little embarassing --"Well, I'm near the intersection of Azalea Path and Orchis Lane, near the Halcyon Lake." Long story short, I'd maxed out the annual towing rider on my Saab, but they did allow me this one "lock out" visit as part of my plan.

The image you see above is from this cemetery, Holy Cross in Yeadon, PA. I really like the snow falling on the statues. This cemetery bordering Southwest Philadelphia is most resplendent with angelic stone figures, more so than any cemetery in the entire city. You'd have to go to Baltimore to find one that was better stocked.

Stone Angels

A celebration of t...

By Ed Snyder

Book Preview

Freddie Krueger

Somewhere in the past , back when wishing was still of some use (possibly 2004), I found a rundown cemetery in Northeast Philadelphia and ventured inside with my camera. Groundskeepers were busily whacking weeds and mowing grass. It was a hot and sunny Saturday afternoon, not at all the conditions under which one might have the wits scared out of one.

I roamed around a bit, photographing the busted up statues, when I came upon a grand old stone building half built into the earth, half out. The outer half said "Receiving Vault 1870," over its long-sealed doorway.

Receiving vaults were used in the olden days to store bodies of people who died in the winter months before motorized hydraulic excavating equipment like the backhoe became available. Sometimes it was just impossible to manually dig a grave in the frozen ground. Come spring, the bodies would be buried.

Infrared Image of Receiving Vault

So there I am setting up my camera on its tripod to shoot the grand entrance to the receiving vault amidst all the noise of the mowing equipment, weed whackers, etc. Bright sunny day, I'm not thinking at all about the corpses fading in the cemetery all around me (as Baudelaire would say). Suddenly, Freddie Krueger is standing next to me dressed in jean overalls, a plaid shirt, and straw hat -- holding a pitchfork! I was rather startled by his size more than his clothes and accoutrements. I'm six-foot-two, so he must have been six-six -- an imposing figure covered in bits of grass and hay. He says something to me, but I can't hear him clearly over the sound of mowing equipment. With all the noise, he could kill me and no one would hear my screams. I ask him, "What did you say?"

He repeats, "Are you with us or against us?" Um, well, hmmm....not much opportunity to run unless I want to leave my camera and tripod behind. So I say, "I'm sorry, I don't know what you mean." He repeats in a steady tone, "Are you with us or against us?" Ok, so now thoughts of Marathon Man are flooding my brain, specifically the part where the Nazi dentist is torturing Dustin Hoffman while repeatedly asking, "Is it safe?" (If you've never seen this movie, and have a strong stomach, feel free to watch the scene here.)

I have a strong urge to reply,  "Oh, I'm totally with you on this," and beat a hasty retreat, but I bite my tongue. He repeats the question a couple more times until Freddie finally drops the intimidation act and realizes that I'm not his enemy. He explains to me that his company just bought the cemetery and is restoring it. As part of the renovation, they're planning to build a crematorium on the grounds and the neighbors are up in arms about it. Hence the question "Are you with us or against us?"

Whew. I make some small talk with him (as much as I comfortably can after peeing my pants), and then say goodbye, good luck, or something ridiculous like that. I left and I've never been back to that cemetery. I wonder if they ever built the crematorium? If anyone reading this knows, please add it as a comment! I can only manufacture so much history, you know.

Johnny Thunders Dead in New Orleans

Back in 1999, I was speaking at a medical conference in New Orleans, and I hit a few cemeteries to photograph while there. In addition, one of my stops was the "St. Peter Guest House," destination death spot of one of my guitar heroes, Johnny Thunders of the New York Dolls.


Back in 1977, after the Dolls crashed and burned, Thunders left the band to eke out a living as a solo artist as well as fronting various other bands. Toward the end of his life, he took up permanent residence at the St. Peter Guest House on St. Peter Street, near the French Quarter of New Orleans. In 1991, he was found dead of a heroin overdose in his room. Rock and Roll lost a minor deity that day.

So anyway, I was walking to the St. Louis Cemetery No. 1 to see Voodoo Queen Marie Laveau's tomb, and decided to stop in the Guest House, just because I could. I walked into the tiny lobby and was face to face with a woman at a desk. I explained that I didn't really want anything, that I was just a New York Dolls fan and...she cut me off and said, "Oh, that Johnny Thunders." I nodded and she said, "Wait here, I'll go get Royce. He found the body."

Imagine my surprise...I said thanks, and waited tentatively a few minutes until Royce, the maintenance man, came in. He was about 60, tall and lanky, and just started talking to me about Johnny. He said rock and roll fans check into his room all the time. Royce explained to me that he felt it was murder, not suicide, because when he went in and found the body, all Johnny's guitars and clothes were gone. He felt that one or more of his "friends" (not meaning members of the Dolls) most likely shot him up with a lethal dose and made off with his belongings. Truly, the man was "Born to Lose," as he sang in one of his best solo pieces. (You can hear this on Thunders' best of album "Born to Loose: B.O..")

Royce found Johnny on the floor next to his bed with the bedsheets crunched in a deathgrip by his stiff hands. By his solemn tone, I could tell he was affected by this experience, and was quite mistrutful of the media's and law enforcement's handling of the incident. Warm and friendly, Royce invited me to stay at his home in the French Quarter next time I came to town. Unfortunately I've never been back, but my next trip happened to be to NYC, where Manhattan's Hard Rock Cafe had one of Johnny's Les Paul Jr.s hanging on the wall. Strumming the strings as I walked by made me think of his song, "You Can't Put Your Arms Around a Memory," a song the Dolls would sing in homage to him after the band regrouped in 2004.

For a good read on the Dolls and demise of Johnny Thunders, check out Nina Antonia's book, "The New York Dolls: Too Much Too Soon (Omnibus Press)."

Weeds

Mount Moriah Cemetery in West Philadelphia is probably the largest (somewhat) abandoned cemetery in this area.  Although the grass does get cut on a regular basis, there appears to be no trust fund money to keep the majority of damage at bay, e.g. the mausoleum graffiti you see here.

I'd visited the cemetery (which is bisected by the Cobbs Creek Parkway) many times over the past decade. It's one of the first experiences I had seeing black urban cowboys. I was playing my guitar sitting on the steps of a blocked-up mausoleum and I heard the clip-clop of hooves! Imagine my surprise when five guys on horseback, decked out in cowboy outfits, trotted past me! Its one of those things you experience that you, um, don't tell anyone about until you've verified that it wasn't a hallucination or otherworldly experience. Click here for proof of their existence: Urban Cowboys!

Mt. Moriah is one of the few cemeteries in the Philadelphia area that is not gated and locked at night. Therefore, certain things may happen there that don't happen in a guarded, locked cemetery. One such thing, my friend Krista and I discovered back around 2002. At that time, the cemetery was much more overgrown than it is now (volunteers have cut down a lot of the trees growing out of tombstones and continue to cut back the high weeds--by the way, if you get benefit from visiting cemeteries for any reason, consider stopping by the office and donating some money to help with their upkeep!).

Krista and I were making our way through the five-foot high weeds to the back of the cemetery to see if there were any monuments worth photographing, when we came upon a perfectly manicured clearing about 12x12 feet in size. This was the home of rows and rows of well-kept and cultivated marijuana plants! People can be so creative....

Death and Burger King Fries

Back in 2006, I was photographing in some Baltimore cemeteries with my good friend John. John has been involved with cemeteries long before he began photographing them. In fact, I have him to thank for telling me about this statue of the little girl in the rocker that I subsequently photographed in a Washington D.C. cemetery. Creepy, huh? Anyway, John worked his summers as a grave mover while in high school and college.  We used to call him "Deadman" at Penn State.

John had great cemetery stories like the one about him and another guy carrying an old wooden coffin across the cemetery to be reinterred elsewhere--and the bottom fell out! I'll save that one for another time. As I was walking around with John this one summer day in Baltimore, he told me one I'd never heard.

Once he and a work crew were tasked to dig a new grave for a burial to occur later that day. The guy operating the backhoe misjudged the location of the concrete vault to one side of the new hole and cracked the lower corner off it. This was only 5 feet below ground, the vault belonging to the spouse of the person they were going to bury that afternoon!). Fluid poured out of the vault into the freshly dug hole. Not a good thing. Here's why:

This is a photo of what vaults look like--each is a big rectangular concrete box that holds a casket . Why use a vault? Several reasons. The main one being to "preserve" the fancy casket and remains. Why would you want to do this? I'm sure funeral directors make it a big selling point, but the only practical reason for having one is to prevent the ground from collapsing as the coffin disintegrates (forming a "sunken" grave, or a depression in the ground). Another reason is to keep the casket from exploding from the gases released by the decomposing body (see Mitford's book above if you don't believe this can happen!).

Now think about this--the body rots and turns to juice, or noxious effluvia as it was referred to in the Victorian era. It seeps out of the casket (usually not waterproof) into the concrete vault, where anerobic bacteria thrive in it. Nowhere for this liquid to go until...the corner is broken off the vault!

So, John tells me the crew goes to get the boss who is furious because the burial is planned for that afternoon. He tells the guys they have to get down in the unbearably putrid "mud" with hydrostatic cement and patch up the broken vault. Then they have to dig further down and backfill the hole to cover the mud. John and a veteran gravedigger draw the short straws--they get down in the hole.

Hours pass and they get the job done in time. John and his co-worker are across the street about to eat lunch at Burger King. Sitting across from each other, John takes a ravenous bite out of his Whopper, then realizes his fingers smell like the goo from the grave. He says, "Omigod! I didn't wash my hands!" The veteran gravedigger across from him says without batting an eye, "I never wash mine. Makes the fries taste better." They both went on eating.

Bessie Smith's Grave

The 1920's blues singer Bessie Smith's famous song, "Gimme a Pigfoot and a Bottle of Beer," (Available on The Essential Bessie Smith)  is most appropriate for this posting as pork products have become increasingly popular in Philadelphia and this week marks the beginning of Philly Beer Week 2010.

Smith is buried along the outer edge of woodsy suburban Mount Lawn Cemetery in Darby, PA (on the southwest border of Philadelphia). Smith, known as the "Empress of the Blues," was a hero of Janis Joplin. After Smith's death in 1937 (the result of a high-speed automobile accident), her grave remained unmarked for a variety of reasons. In 1970, Janis Joplin had the tombstone you see here carved and placed on Smith's grave.

In 2002, my brother wanted to see the grave, which was near my house. We drove into the cemetery one day and circled around to the left where he thought the grave was. I parked my car and we both got out to begin our search. Immediately, four armed police helicopters appeared in circular formation above us, locked in the most threatening nose-down position you can imagine! I said to my brother, "You go look for the grave, I'll wait under the car."

The last time such a thing happened to me was when I was nipping a few flowers off Elizabeth Taylor's hedges outside her Beverly Hills home as a souvenir for my mom. But then that was only one helicopter. Bessie Smith warrants four? I realize that Smith was so popular in her heyday that 10,000 people came to her funeral, but why so much security now, 50 years later?

After bravely jumping in my car and speeding off, my brother and I found out that neither we nor Bessie Smith were the reason for the helicopters. The police were conducting a manhunt for two kidnappers who'd escaped into the woods bordering the cemetery. I guess they realized we were not those two guys and just let us drive off.