don't fear the reaper

While we were in Baltimore I threw out the idea of visiting the Edgar Allen Poe House. However, after researching the site and conferring with the friends we were staying with, we decided not to. The house is in a bad area of town, and walking there could be potentially dangerous. Instead, we visited the graveyard where Poe was buried, which in many ways was much more exciting for me.

For most people the words "graveyard" and "exciting" never enter the same sentence. They never even enter the same paragraph. But for me, graveyards are exciting.

OK, maybe exciting isn't quite the right word to describe my fascination. I find graveyards beautiful. They are peaceful and quiet. Each is unique, with a personality that can be read the moment you step into them. Whether it's a crooked mishmash of historical cemeteries or the geometric lines of a military site, I can't help but take photos.

My fiance finds this extremely weird.

He understood seeking out Poe's grave. After all, the man is famous, and it seems fitting to visit this particular writer's final resting place. The cemetery and adjoining church are in the heart of downtown Baltimore, but once inside you hardly notice. There are also huge crypts and other unique grave markers that made it a nice photography experience.

He was less thrilled to enter the Copp's Hill burial ground in Boston, but since the Freedom Trail passes right by it, we went in. That proved to be a very interesting stop. We learned about common pre-colonial grave stone motifs and saw a black cat. Yes, an actual black cat was hanging out in the graveyard. Spooky.

He was, again, less than thrilled to visit the cemetery in Salem. But by now he knew I was "kind of into cemeteries" and suggested we go before our tour at the Salem Witch Museum. I was thrilled to recognize some of the motifs I had learned about at Copp's Hill. It's always fun when little pieces of information overlap the places we visit.

By the time I voiced my desire to see Benjamin Franklin's grave in Philadelphia, my fiance was resigned to the fact that this is just another one of my lovable quirks. At least, I hope that's how he sees it. He did navigate me to Franklin, which I doubt he would have done if he was morally opposed to hanging out in a cemetery.

I fully acknowledge that my love of graveyards is strange. Maybe even a little morbid. But it is what it is-- a hobby that I enjoy, even as if creeps the people around me out.

And I'm probably not alone. Our tour of the Mark Twain House was mostly comprised of couples over 55, but there was one family with a daughter no older than 11. At the end of the tour, the guide asked if anyone had any questions. Without hesitation the girl piped up, "I saw in the movie downstairs that one of his [Twain's] daughters died in this house. What room was that in?" This girl posed her question with such earnest reverence that I couldn't help but smile. I half expected her to ask the guide if she could lie down in the bed where it happened. It was so odd, funny, and at the same time adorably cute.

Even my fiance agreed on this.

my huckleberry friend

And so we come to what is, for me at least, the highlight of this trip: The Mark Twain House & Museum in Hartford, Connecticut. Odd that this would be so high on the list, having visited what most people would agree are much more exciting sites. But for me this is very, very exciting. My fiance is just along for the ride.

Mark Twain has long been my favorite author. I freely admit that when I was much younger (10-early teens), I latched onto this curmudgeonly Missourian because I thought it made me seem smarter. More mature. My friends could read all the Goosebumps and Sweet Valley High they wanted; I was a true literary connoisseur.

A funny thing happened during these years. The more Twain I read (and reread), the more I genuinely liked his work. My appreciation of his novels, short stories, and essays grew as my knowledge of history, politics, and literature grew. I advanced beyond Tom Sawyer, reading A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court, Innocents Abroad, and the classic Huckleberry Finn. I reveled in his wit and wisdom, loving how he seemed to have a quote for every situation. I dreamed of traveling the world, and maybe even writing about my journeys, as he did.

But the thing I began to admire the most about Twain (and when my family reads this I'm sure a lightbulb will go off in their heads) is that he wasn't shy about sharing his opinions. He shared his thoughts on what he firmly believed was right and wrong in this world, and didn't seem to give a damn if someone disagreed with him. His works shined a light on the human condition, illuminating the hypocrisy and injustice that is so often ignored. And he did this so well, that even now his works ring true. (Which is sad when you think about it, only because that means the world hasn't changed much in the past 100 years.)

Visiting the home where Mark Twain wrote his most influential work was for me a sort of pilgrimage. A chance to peer into the private life of a personal hero. To see where he worked, where he told stories to his children, where he slept-- at the foot of the bed, so he could admire the intricate carving on the headboard.