That may strike you as an unusual occupation, but I assure you I had a valid reason and genuine goal.
Actually, I didn’t. The truth is that I had a little time to kill before I needed to be home, and Fairmount Cemetery was on the way. I used to live fairly close and rode my bike on its quiet lanes many times. I’ve moved now, moved to about fifteen miles away. The ride is a bit long for this old man, particularly since it would be fifteen miles back again.
I suppose I was just curious to see what had changed.
As you’d expect, there’s not much different. After all, this is a resting place for the dead. Wild parties are not expected to break out. Further, Fairmount is one of the oldest cemeteries in Denver. Many early notables are found listed on the monuments and cenotaphs, but new internments are fairly rare. They exist, but for the most part they take place in these large open buildings, sort of apartment houses for coffins. There’re efficiencies for the dead, too.
This simple mausoleum caught my eye, partially because of its occupant’s last name, Hamburger. If one of my grade school classmates had been blessed with that surname, his life would have been hell. I can imagine the chants and nicknames and cat calls. And if the kid had been a bit overweight, his torture would have been even worse.
This Hamburger died in 1917, though, and apparently was a man of means. Did he, too, suffer indignity from his name? I’ll never know.
Personally, I’ll take this as a warning about my diet. I’m putting on the pounds, and I do tend to visit McDonalds regularly. Now I can tell myself where a Hamburger can lead.