imagining cemeteries

24 June 1945

It’s amazing how a single date tells you so much about a person’s life.

Now we know: 

  • Eduardo Rusca was 72 when he died, so he had to have been born in the first half of 1873. 
  • He was 26 when Luna was assassinated, so he lived with his grief and guilt for 46 years. 
  • He lived to see the Americans come into power, the Commonwealth, and the horrors of another war. 
  • He didn’t live to see it end.

The Heneral Luna researchers also found few material on Eduardo Rusca beyond the fact that he was incredibly loyal to Antonio Luna, because historians had so little on him to begin with. What we know of him is only born of creative license; the kind of person he was in life still remains a mystery.

Even in the genealogy records of the Church of Latter Day Saints, Lira and I found only this one hit. It’s nowhere near satisfying, but it’s a start.

Where’s Rusca? 

Working on the Sta. Cruz, Manila lead, I went to Manila North Cemetery to inquire if Rusca was buried there, but they no longer have records as far back as 1945. Yesterday, the Ruscats girls went to La Loma Cemetery to ask around and found nothing on him too. 

We’re considering leads such as more sophisticated (read: expensive) genealogy tracers and digging through records for now, but there’s no guarantee that those are going to turn up anything on someone whose life and death apparently wasn’t glorious enough to make the books.

Realistically speaking, considering he died in June 1945, and WWII didn’t end in July 1945, it’s also entirely possible that Rusca could have been listed as a resident of Sta. Cruz, but traveled elsewhere during the war and wound up in a mass grave far away from Manila. Cemeteries, I imagine, weren’t meticulously kept during those years.

I’ve been made aware that better historians than us have tried to find him and failed. Is that going to stop us from searching for him? I doubt it.


In line with this, it would be nice if on Friday, 24 June 2016, we could all do something–light candles, write or make art in his memory, or at the very least just send up a prayer of thanks–to remember Eduardo Rusca. 

It’s possible that it’s been years since anyone’s commemorated his death, and he, just like all the lesser-known heroes of the past, deserves better.

He will have been dead 71 years this year, almost as long as he had been alive.

If you have grander ideas about how to spend this day, please let’s try to make them happen. Our captain, whomever he may have been in life, deserves to know that we’re thinking of him, and we do not forget the bravery he displayed while he was living.

It’s Halloween and Thomas takes you to the cemetery for a spooky evening 💀👻🎃

“Thomas, maybe this isn’t such a good idea it going to get dark soon.”

“Oh come on, love. Don’t be so afraid, it’s not even that scary.”

*noise sounds off in the bushes*

“What the bloody devil was that???”

“Not so brave now, huh macho man!! You should’ve seen your face, Thommy!”

“Quiet you.”

She Who Sits Alone

She sat alone in a large field, simple yet beautiful in a way that couldn’t exactly be described, only felt and understood. She was silent, and silence was her.

“Hey,” the tall, lean boy mumbled softly as he took a seat next to her. “I brought you these.”

He knew that his offer wouldn’t be accepted, so he simply set the bouquet of daisies on the ground in front of her. A tiny sigh escaped Stiles’ lips as he looked up at the sky, his arms moving to wrap around his knees. He rested his chin on top of his legs and stared at a lone bird fluttering about in a tree not too far away, chewing on the inside of his cheek as he thought about what he was going to say. His arm slipped down his leg, his hand flopping onto a small patch of grass. His fingers absently picked at a blade.

“I just thought I’d visit you,” he began quietly. “I’m sorry I haven’t been by in a while. Things have been a little… crazy, I guess.”

He ran a quick hand through his somewhat disheveled hair, taking a deep breath to steady himself in a way. It took quite a bit to get the boy to talk, but he knew he had to. She wasn’t going to, and someone here had to provide the conversation.

Just catch up, he urged himself. You haven’t seen her in forever. Just talk to her.

“So I actually didn’t end up failing chemistry,” He allowed a small, half-hearted smile to grace his lips. “Lydia helped me, though. I couldn’t have done it without her.”

He nodded slowly, eyes shifting to stare at one of the flowers in the bouquet.

“I brought daisies, ‘cause I think they’re your favorites, right?” He asked conversationally.

A small huff of breath left the boy’s chest and he grinned humorlessly at the ground, shaking his head with a light jerking motion. What was the point in asking her any questions? She wouldn’t talk to anyone anymore.

“Anyway… oh!” A tiny smile slowly grew on Stiles’ face, almost reaching his eyes. “Guess what Coach told me the other day?”

He pressed his lips together as he yet again waited for an answer he knew wasn’t coming.

“Well, he said I was improving a lot and that I would be able to play first line in the next game if I kept it up.” There was an obvious excitement carried in the boy’s voice, her quiet demeanor unable to  bring him down. This had been something he’d wanted for as long as he could remember.

“I wish you would come to some of our games sometime,” He said quietly, his smile fading centimeter by centimeter.

He played with his fingers in his lap as he brought his head up to gaze around the field once more, his eyes crinkling slightly at the bright sunlight.

“It’s nice here,” He commented, mostly to himself. “I wish I could stay.”

For a long moment, he stared at nothing in particular, suddenly feeling overcome with the urge to break down and cry. He missed her terribly; it was as if she’d faded from his life. From everyone’s. He leaned one shoulder against a stone, bringing a hand up to quickly swipe away a tear that had escaped and was making its way down his cheek.

“Sorry,” he whispered, not trusting his voice enough to speak normally. “It just gets hard, you know?”

He sniffled quietly and inhaled shakily, waiting a moment before releasing the breath back out.

“I should probably go,” he announced abruptly, pushing himself up off of the ground.

As he stood up, leaving her sitting in the grass, he jammed his hands into his pockets and gazed down at her, sadness in his eyes.

“I love you, mom.”

With that, he let his hand reach out and touch her gravestone, his fingers lingering for an instant before he turned around and made his way back through the cemetery.

can u imagine having to describe cemeteries to someone who’s never thought of that concept before like

there’s a field with a bunch of formally dressed skeletons buried exactly 6 ft under the ground

and we labeled them


Summary: Someone keeps stealing Castiel’s flowers, and he’s determined to find out who it is and why.

Words: 1,080

Dean x Castiel

Warnings: mentions of death, angst, tiny bit of fluff at the end

Notes: Based on the text post: “Sometimes I steal flowers from your garden on my way to the cemetery, but today you’ve caught me and have demanded to come with me to make sure the ‘girl is pretty enough to warrant flower theft’ and I’m trying to figure out how to break it to you that we’re on our way to a graveyard.”

Keep reading

When you die
I think I will request
that you be made into a tree.
Have you seen that post
circulating online?
It shows rows of tree-bodies,
fertilized with the dust of
friends, and is captioned:
“Imagine if there were forests
instead of cemeteries.”


I’d sit beneath your tree every day.
Read all the books you lent me,
repress flowers into your notebook,
and suck on lemon seeds.

I got your letter in the mail.
The petals of it are
across my bed and I am thinking,
what does it mean
to be finally understood?

Is it a moment of clarity?
Hot flashes of yellow light?
Lemon juice stinging the cuts
on my chin, there
after picking off my own skin?

Is it finality?
Is it a sigh of relief?
Is it shoulders shrugging in
Or is it knowing
that you are running down
the puddled street
while I am walking in this
suburban desert
and both of us are picking
lemon skin from our mouths?

I got your letter
and I agree,
you’re right,
there should be
a willow tree named after you.

—  I Named A Forest After You, Jancie | Lora Mathis

imagine greg helping wirt through nightmares after they get back from The Unknown

imagine wirt calming greg down during his first major panic attack

imagine greg making up lies on the spot to his teachers about why he doesn’t want to go outside for recess anymore

imagine wirt having to skip out on hanging with friends because the walk to their houses passes the cemetery

imagine greg flinching for no apparent reason in class because of the tree branches knocking against the window

imagine both of them making up excuses on why they don’t want to dress up for halloween

imagine both of them accompanying each other during therapy and counseling

imagine both of them saying hello to every bluebird they see

imagine both of them trying to face their fears by going back over the wall, only to end up causing more panic attacks and therapy



New Orleans Jazz Funerals

      In New Orleans, Louisiana, one of the most unique traditions in African American culture is jazz funerals. This ritual gathers together traditions, religion, and the power of music to bring light into death. In order to understand the significance of this type of funeral, the following must be analyzed: the origins, the ceremony procedures, the impact on New Orleans’ community, and the evolution of jazz funeral throughout time (Rogers, 2012). Jazz funerals contribute to the unity of the community and is a tradition that continues to thrive in neighborhoods and streets of New Orleans.

      The roots of jazz funeral have been established in West Africa, where tribes performed similar processions of moaning and celebrating of the dead with music. When slavery began to subside in the United States and the number of free color people increase, the need for social aid and pleasure clubs also increased. The purpose of these clubs was to collect money to pay for necessary health care cost for members since insurance was nearly impossible to obtain for African Americans during that time (Rogers, 2012). Also, this procession has become an important part of street scape of the city and plays a significant role for tourism in New Orleans (Bruggeman). 

      A traditional jazz funeral is a public burial service, which allows the entire community to be involved. The people of the community do not believe that death is an end, but a new beginning. The funeral is split into two sections – the first line and second line. The first line consists of the band, the grand marshal, the family and friends of the deceased. The second line consist of uninvited guest who join in from the neighborhoods that the funeral marches through. 

      There are two parts to the procedures in jazz funerals. The first part is a slow and sober walk to the cemetery, which is lead by the grand marshal and brass band with family and friends. The music that is played during this walk is usually low temple spiritual Christian hymns. The second part is after the burial ceremony, which takes place in New Orleans’ extraordinary cemeteries that are specially built above ground due to the high water table. The band will leave the grave site and begin to play the second line at a respectable distance from the cemetery. The second line joins in and the energy grows as the band marches in the streets of the city. The band will play traditional upbeat jazz music, while the second line dances along and celebrates life (Turner, 2009). 

      Often times in society and culture, traditions begin to fade away and diminish into memory, written down in history books to only be read but not experience by later generations (Rogers, 2012). However, New Orleans’ African American community has created a long standing tradition of jazz funerals that continues to thrive in the city. Jazz funerals have contributed to the development of the character and cultural heritage of New Orleans by bringing together communities to celebrate life. The city is almost impossible to imagine without music, unique cemeteries, and jazz funerals. 

 First part of jazz funeral: Second line: