For the last two and a half years or so, I have been spending time at Bronswood Cemetery. It has become part of my routine to stop by for a visit.
That probably sounds strange to some people. Most folks think cemeteries are only for burials, final farewells and flowers. Places to visit out of obligation once or twice a year before hurrying back to the noise of everyday living.
Bronswood has become something different for me.
My father-in-law, PopPop Bergmann, is buried there. I like stopping by with a cigar, a couple shots of bourbon from my flask and whatever thoughts are rattling around in my head that week.
Sometimes I talk to him about the Shepkid. Sometimes I talk about work. Sometimes I talk to him about his daughter. Sometimes I talk about God. Sometimes I just sit there quietly and let the wind and the trees do most of the talking.
Not far from Mr. Bergmann rests Stan Mikita. If you grew up a Blackhawks fan in Chicago, you know exactly who Stan the Man was. One of the greats. A legend resting quietly just a grave away from regular people who loved each other and fought with each other. People who struggled and carried on just like the rest of us.
Bronswood itself feels alive in a strange and peaceful way. The cemetery rolls gently across hills lined with enormous old trees that have probably watched generations come and go. Some headstones date back to the 1800s, weathered and softened by time, while others bear dates from the 2020s. Still carrying that fresh grief of families learning how to move forward without someone they loved. Walking through reminds me that grief is not new and neither is love.
The seasons change the cemetery the way Antonio Vivaldi might have imagined. Autumn covers the grounds in burnt orange and gold. Winter strips everything bare and quiet. Spring arrives carefully, bringing green life back to the hillsides, and summer settles in heavy and warm beneath the shade of the old trees. The cemetery never really stays the same, yet somehow it always remains familiar.
That is one thing cemeteries can teach us quickly. In the end, all the titles disappear. The hockey legend, the labor lawyer, the banker, the mother, the neighbor down the block, the grandfather, the brother gone too soon and the father-in-law.
Eventually we all rest shoulder to shoulder.
I think about how short life can be and how quickly people become memories.
Bronswood has become important to me because it has taught me that cemeteries are not only for mourning.
Sometimes they are for maintenance. Maintenance of memory, maintenance of family and maintenance of the soul.
The older I get, the more I realize that I want to end up there someday. Not because it is fancy or expensive. Truth be told, I have never really lived in an expensive house or a high-end neighborhood during my life.
I want the Shepkids to have one place where the family can gather.
One place where they can visit their grandparents, their mother and their father.
A quiet piece of ground where they can come and think about life, talk to God, remember where they came from and maybe sit long enough to hear their own thoughts.
That idea means more to me now than it once did. Life humbles us that way.
Maybe part of growing older is understanding that even after divorce, disappointment and mistakes, family still matters. Maybe more than ever.
Because someday the Shepkids will walk those paths without us. I hope when they do, Bronswood gives them the same thing it has given me… Perspective.
The grabber section chalks out that we are approaching the second full moon of the month, a Blue Moon.
Don’t let that blue moon catch you standing alone without a dream in your heart...
