Leaving behind childish stones and bones of youth, I traveled into my future. Decades later and a state away, a summer storm transported me back in time to early affections. Distant thunder rumbled as I unlocked gates of an ironwork archway. Researching family trailblazer roots west of the Mississippi, genealogical pursuits steered me to an Iowa prairie cemetery. Lightning crackled while love struck in the form of an ancestral memorial. Raindrops stained a white marble marker belonging to a great-great-grandfather's second wife. Weather worn, its surface cracked and faded, the weeping willow carving it bore had all but given up its ghost. Familiar with post-twentieth century machine-manufactured granite monuments common to my birth cemetery, the 1859 hand-carved stone enlarged my perspective by half a century. I traced the faded epitaph inscribed on the gabled slab with moist fingertips. Blackening clouds swallowed the sky as I hurriedly captured a photograph and headed for shelter. I glanced back over my shoulder at the nineteenth century tombstone that rocked my world and launched my love for a thousand cemeteries.

“You're the only one who would do this.” My teen daughter readies supplies into the trunk of my car. As I prepare to pull out of the driveway, the solstice sun winks at me in encouragement. Maps? Check. Logbook? Check. Laptop? Check. Cooler packed with lunch? Check. Camera? Double-check. Ah, summer road trips. Scenic sights. Meandering over hill and dale. Embarking for Mount Rushmore, Niagara Falls, Yosemite National Park, or Disneyland. Mailing picture postcards home scribbled: “Dear Folks, Hi, how are you? I am fine. Weather is perfect. Just visited my thirty-third cemetery of the day. Wish you were here.” Cemetery, she wrote? Cemetery times thirty-three, said she? Cemetery times thirty-three in a single day- albeit the longest day of the year? The things you do for love, someone sang.

The idea for that summer vacation came as inspiration, and was confirmed by providence as an itinerary fell perfectly into place, piece by piece. The devil may be in details, but God is in a taphophile's details. If you've never heard of a taphophile, you need to get out more. To cemeteries. That's where you'll find us. We aren't in your face and we don't go shaking our definition smack under your nose. But if you're out to find us, one Google search later and we'll welcome you to our world. It's another world where you'll find a cemetery-loving soul daring to dream of journeying to a county-full of graveyards: ninety-five to be exact. Three dusty days, multi tanks of gas, and sunburned cheeks later, my maiden graveyard tour ended and a new career began.

Four years on, my tally currently comprises 356 cemeteries in four states, thirty-six counties, and innumerable townships. I've got one foot in the grave and the other on the accelerator. I'm having the time of my life smack dab in the midst of death. Traveling the road less taken, I visit the dearly departed. Death is the ultimate leveler, it's declared. The spirits of the deceased testify it's also the ultimate tranquilizer. Eternal drowsiness washes out boorishness. There remains in earthly remains a serene spirit of sweet repose. The dead welcome the living. Consummate hosts, they are never put out when you drop by unexpectedly. Rather, they're disappointed at your departure. Put in postcard manner, they wish you were here. The stone carvers of colonial New England chiseled it best and often.