Tombstone(s)

Yesterday I buried my last grandfather.
(That may sound strange, but I found out two years ago that my maternal grandfather was not my blood relative.)
My grandpa Tony was born In Dec. 22, 1916. He was approaching his 95th birthday this year.
He lived in Tombstone, AZ. Yes, the namesake of the movie, but cinema does not do this "town that refused to die" justice. An hour and a half drive from the nearest city, Tucson, dirt surrounds everything. I walked from the rental car to the American Legion Hall where the viewing was and my black shiny shoes looked like they had been left out in the desert for days. The town was desolate with the exception of things that I would describe as novel. Horse-pulled wagons, a single convenience store, saloons, every one room shanty with a wooden porch complete with matching rocker. The old high school is the size of a large house.
My grandfather was the oldest living member of the American Legion; 64 years of continuous service and membership, including leading the annual parade. There was something both beautiful and tragic about having a service led by his frail, disoriented comrades. As we drove through the tiny town in procession, it was something cinematic. The town is quintessentially western and and so are the people. The church bells chimed for grandpa Tony, the shopkeeper came out of the shop and placed one hand on her heart as we passed by. The ladies that lived in the same senior living building came out with lawn chairs and fans, sobbing as they watched the procession. The town bikers, (that weren't carrying flags in the procession) pulled over and removed their headgear in deference. The world may not know who Anthony T. Perotti was, but every single living thing in this town did.
As we arrived at the grave sight the meaning of the town name became evident and palpable. The graveyard is nondescript, just like every other part of the southwestern desert. Dirt, rocks, weeds, cacti, and desert inhabitants all around make this hallowed ground seem desolate and empty. You would never know this was a place for the dead to rest were it not for one identifier: tombstones.
Among the dust and land are placed beautiful tombstones. Some of the more modern and common type, placed flat on the ground, usually marble or quartz or some other hard durable rock. But more common in this place were the traditional Roman-Catholic cement coverings of the grave sites. Floors of concrete, engraved with the details of a humans' existence placed atop the caskets to protect. Angels and rosaries accessorizing the graves. The stones identifying the dead seemed to stretch for miles across the uneven desert.
I don't deal well with death. I find it morbid and traumatizing to sit in a room with a corpse for hours on end, simply so that friends and I can "pay my respects". If you cannot show respect to your fellow human being during life, if you cannot find a way to show your thanks to someone who defended your country and protected your liberties, if you can not show honor to someone whose life experience far exceeds your own, then you have no business mourning their death in private or public. The essence has left this rotting flesh and the empty shell left in front of you, will not hear nor heed your post-mortem cries of regret.
I will be glad to leave this town. Although I appreciate the richness that it provides for my own personal history, I find myself feeling hollow and desolate, as if I should have my own tombstone.

Verum Vitiosus

Normally there is some sort of an introduction. Some clever or insightful quip explaining why the blog you are about to read is unique and quirky. Why the author has chosen to lust after the billions of voyeueristic weirdos' attention via the www.
Narcisssism.
The truth is, this is for me and, at some point (many I imagine) I will contradict myself. Unapologetically.