It’s an open secret inside my family that I developed an obsession for stones. Shortly after my father died, a flap broke out when my mother heard about my leaving way too many gifts on the headstone where he rests at the Jewish cemetery in Concord. As for mother, she insists on planting flowers.
Our running conflict between two obsessive wills matters. Because on Yom Kippur, considered the holiest day of the year for Jews also covers a lesser observed service called Yizkor. Self-reflection and honoring the departed with a pebble or a stone is how most elect to show respect. When adorning a grave with sediment, how much is too much?
In the wake of Dad’s passing in 2014, I paid him frequent visits, gifting him with granite shards, oftentimes from the golf club property where he loved playing. On a 1,500-mile road trip to Nebraska, I zealously amassed a garden variety of different shapes and colors from every stop along Interstates 90 and 80. Nearly 80 graves, including my Nana and uncles, are now unwitting recipients of something special. My sister-in-law refers to my handouts as the Santa Claus for Jews.
In July, someone spread a row of upright violets along the base of the tombstone. Neither Torah nor Talmud – the authoritative work of Jewish law – prohibit anyone from beautifying cemetery grave markers. Some scholars rationalize that pretty plants may bring temporary pleasure because they comfort the living to deny reality’s decay.
Rabbi Allan Lehmann, who teaches at Hebrew College in Newton, Mass., shared his position. Laying down flowers allows mourners to project onto their beloved solace to mix among the living. Yet flowers live a remarkably short life. Fellow mourners, warned Lehmann, may interpret these heartfelt gestures as mocking death.
Precious minerals placed on graves serve two purposes. One, bigger is better. Piles of rocks heighten a grave’s stature to visitors. An impressive tower guides us to gaze upward to the heavens instead of down into the abyss. Second, depositing these hardened tokens benefits the bereaved and the esteemed. We rejoice their past deeds. In the form of a credit, each additional stone to the dead emits more energy for them to care for the living.
This custom affirms my relationship with Dad in keeping his memory and the family history alive. Despite his noble aim to provide for mother and my four siblings, our household was oftentimes stormy. Lacking the appropriate coping skills, I lashed out at my mother’s unpredictability. Back then, I reasoned that open rebellion would embarrass my Dad’s inability to manage a fragile peace. Everyone held distorted versions of what well-defined personal boundaries meant.
To compensate, Dad expressed his love with education, clothing, autos and other fancy perks. By my early teens, I’d completely lost my inner compass despite Dad doing his extra best to course correct me through a mix of support and enabling. For peace of mind, I imagined some fathers would have traded in their kids and wives. But Dad hung in there. At bare minimum, re-examining my own guilt, I find myself repaying my debt through the Earth’s finest ornaments.
Multiple cemetery visits bearing unlimited stones is perfectly acceptable but praying aloud to the dead is paganism. Judaism taught me to redirect my conversation with “the Holy One of Blessing” to guarantee Dad’s passage onto eternal life. Otherwise, he might be stuck somewhere undesirable.
In psychological terms, we must let go. To his core, I speculate that Dad’s final message had to do with attachment. On his death bed, Dad called me out. “Alan, when will you stop bobbing around the waters?” Void of any clear calling for the life ahead of me, I felt shame with Dad’s parting words. We shook hands. Within two days he let go, and I believe that’s what I needed to do to individuate.
Co-dependency is convenient, but clearly toxic. For 400 years, Jews toiled under Egyptian bondage that bred a disempowering rapport with their masters. When freedom came, they inherited responsibility. Now as I navigate to the Jewish New Year onto the day of introspection, a similar kind of a wake-up call from Dad regularly jangles my psyche to reclaim an authentic calling.
Inching closer to spiritual awakening, I strive to commit acts of kindness toward others, called Mitzvot. It’s is my way to honor my imperfect parent who faithfully remembered his lineage on Yizkor and the weekly Sabbath remembrances that summon us to reflect on our ancestors’ pact with the Torah.
Stones will always be my calling card to remember my tribe whose commandments I observe. On that note, Dear Lord, next time you see Dad, remind him why I honor him. I promise to limit the next unloading of rubble to a few.
(Alan R. Segal is a fourth-generation native of Concord and a former employee of Sanel Auto Parts Co., his family-owned business since 1920. Segal is a now contributing columnist for “Aftermarket Business World” magazine and a market research consultant in the automotive aftermarket industry.)