The cemetery is in a town called Springfield Pennsylvania, about twenty minutes from Philadelphia. It is off a "throughway" called Sproul Road. I got there by a combination of the Greyhound bus (from New York), subway through Philadelphia, and bus to Springfield. Then the walk up Sproul to the cemetery is a fifteen minute stretch without a sidewalk. At some point, I thought I would be a good candidate for the cemetery!
Here is my visual collage of my visit, and my trip.
Woods on the road to Philadelphia
Entrance
Aerial view of the cemetery, showing the surrounding woods and Sproul Road
The chapel at the far end of the cemetery's entrance
Drive through into the cemetery, with beautiful lawns and tall trees
Closer view of the chapel, which was closed when I went
American flags, waving in the Veterans section
The Irish flag reminded me of Larry's love of Yeats
Sculpture of St. Paul, in the area where Larry is buried. I believe the grave is the one
I've photographed here. It is underneath an oak tree, as indicated here.
Pressed oak leaf I collected from the grave site
Three independent identifiers were able to verify for me that this plot is Larry's (the receptionist in the chapel, who told me to look for a plot in the corner, next to a tree and in front of a statue of St. Paul, and two groundsmen, who counted the plot from their grid map of plots).
To the best of my knowledge, this is Larry's plot. It will acquire a stone within the next six months, according to the receptionist.
Statue of St. Paul, facing Larry's grave
The writings on the marble are from the Racolta:
Thou art the Vessel of election, Saint Paul the Apostle, the Preacher of truth in the whole world.Larry would have also liked the Latin version:
V. Pray for us, Saint Paul the Apostle, R. That we may be made worthy of the promises of Christ.
Let us pray
Almighty and everlasting God, Who, of Thy Divine mercy, didst instruct Thy blessed Apostle Paul what he should do that he might be filled with the Holy Ghost; by his admonitions directing us and his merits interceding for us, grant that we may serve Thee in fear and trembling and so be filled with the comfort of Thy heavenly gifts. Through Christ our Lord. Amen.
Tu es vas electiónis, sancte Paule Apóstole, prædicátor veritátis in univérso mundo.It was a quiet and magical day. I was the only one around Larry's grave. There were a few cars driving in to find their plots. Groundsmen were present, but unobtrusive. It was quiet and peaceful.
V. Ora pro nobis, sancte Paule Apóstole, R. Ut digni efficiámur promissiónibus Christi.
Oremus
Omnípotens sempitérne Deus, qui beáto Apóstolo tuo Paulo quid fáceret, ut implerétur Spíritu Sancto, divína miseratióne præcepisti; eius dirigéntibus mónitis et suffragántibus méritis concéde, ut serviéntes tibi in timóre et tremóre, cæléstium donórum consolatióne repleámur. Per Christum Dóminum nostrum. Amen.
As I stood before the grave, a sudden cacophony of cicadas overwhelmed the serene and quiet place. It lasted for about a minute, or forty-five seconds. The cicadas must have been in the nearby maple tree.
Song of the cicada, in ancient mythology:
Socrates: But let me ask you, friend: have we not reached the plane–tree to which you were conducting us?It was eerie, strange but beautiful. More so because cicadas have a very long life cycle of about seventeen years, and I was there to hear them proclaim their presence. [More on the cyclical appearance of cicadas here].
Phaedrus: Yes, this is the tree.
Socrates: By Herè, a fair resting–place, full of summer sounds and scents. Here is this lofty and spreading plane–tree, and the agnus castus high and clustering, in the fullest blossom and the greatest fragrance; and the stream which flows beneath the plane–tree is deliciously cold to the feet. Judging from the ornaments and images, this must be a spot sacred to Achelous and the Nymphs. How delightful is the breeze:—so very sweet; and there is a sound in the air shrill and summerlike which makes answer to the chorus of the cicadae. But the greatest charm of all is the grass, like a pillow gently sloping to the head. My dear Phaedrus, you have been an admirable guide.
Phaedrus: What an incomprehensible being you are, Socrates: when you are in the country, as you say, you really are like some stranger who is led about by a guide. Do you ever cross the border? I rather think that you never venture even outside the gates. [Phaedrus: Written by Plato. A dialogue between Plato's main protagonist, Socrates, and Phaedrus, an interlocutor. The Phaedrus was presumably composed around 370 BC - source: Wikipedia]
But I simply thought it was Larry, communicating to us (or if I can be a little conceited, to me). I suspect the sounds and sights from beyond the grave are nothing like what we know here on earth. And Larry's sonorous voice would need sturdy and strong carriers to travel those distances.
I posted part of Yeats' poem The Song of the Happy Shepherd in my post I must be gone: there is a grave, with my photograph of daffodils, and later on in the post an image of Larry reclining, next to a photograph of mine I took of a tree in the Cloister gardens in New York.
I wrote:
I have juxtaposed a photograph of a tree with one of Larry leaning back as though resting on the trunk of the tree, with the paradisaical gardens of the Cloisters within his arm's reach.
I must be gone: there is a graveI could substitute the American flags, right across in the Veteran's section, for the daffodil and the lily, which were gently waving in the breeze.
Where daffodil and lily wave,
And I would please the hapless faun,
Buried under the sleepy ground,
With mirthful songs before the dawn.
[From “The Song of the Happy Shepherd” by W.B. Yeats]
Presence of Deer
I saw these droppings in front of Larry's grave, and asked the groundsman if they were rabbit. He told me they belonged to deer, which apparently frequent the wooded cemetery.
I thought it was apt, and they reminded me of Herbert Howells' Like as the Hart (from Psalm 42), which I have sung many times as a chorister.
Psalm 42, King James version:
As the hart panteth after the water brooks, so panteth my soul after thee, O God.
2 My soul thirsteth for God, for the living God: when shall I come and appear before God?
3 My tears have been my meat day and night, while they continually say unto me, Where is thy God?
4 When I remember these things, I pour out my soul in me: for I had gone with the multitude, I went with them to the house of God, with the voice of joy and praise, with a multitude that kept holyday.
5 Why art thou cast down, O my soul? and why art thou disquieted in me? hope thou in God: for I shall yet praise him for the help of his countenance.
6 O my God, my soul is cast down within me: therefore will I remember thee from the land of Jordan, and of the Hermonites, from the hill Mizar.
7 Deep calleth unto deep at the noise of thy waterspouts: all thy waves and thy billows are gone over me.
8 Yet the Lord will command his lovingkindness in the day time, and in the night his song shall be with me, and my prayer unto the God of my life.
9 I will say unto God my rock, Why hast thou forgotten me? why go I mourning because of the oppression of the enemy?
10 As with a sword in my bones, mine enemies reproach me; while they say daily unto me, Where is thy God?
11 Why art thou cast down, O my soul? and why art thou disquieted within me? hope thou in God: for I shall yet praise him, who is the health of my countenance, and my God.
Like as the Hart Desireth the Waterbrooks
Herbert Howells
Choir of St. Paul's Cathedral
All the photos were taken by me, except for the aerial map of the cemetery.
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Posted By: Kidist P. Asrat
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