By E. Richard Stiehm
February 21, 2009
On the first day of my pediatric residency in New York, my Ivy League roommate asked me where I was from. When I told him “Wisconsin,” he pondered that and asked, “So your father must be a gentleman of the soil?””No,” I said, “My father wasn’t a farmer. He was a doctor. But now he is a gentleman in the soil.”
Indeed he is — buried in the soil of Evergreen Cemetery of Johnson Creek. The “Crik,” as locals call it, just 30 miles east of Madison, was my father’s hometown. Before moving to California years ago, I visited the cemetery regularly, finding it a quiet and comforting space.
The cemetery is on a hill just outside of town. The only structure visible was the spire of the town’s Lutheran church. In every direction were rolling hills plotted with corn and wheat fields and framed by rows of elm and maple trees.
After visiting my parents’ grave, I always took time to stroll through the cemetery. Buried there are my uncle Ewald (from whence the E in my name cometh) and my aunt Aden (who changed her last name from Becker to Baker to avoid the stigma of being German during World War I.)
Further, the deceased Stiehms in this cemetery probably outnumber all the living Stiehms in most telephone books. Dating from 1845, many headstones are in German, with Mater and Pater lying side by side.
But the main attraction over time has been the adorned tombstones. Not content with biblical verses and the usual fare such as “Rest in Peace” or “Together Forever,” many have pictorial engravings reflecting the passions of the deceased.
My cousin, “Coach” Howard Stiehm, has a football soaring toward the goalposts.
Daniel F. has a Green Bay Packer football helmet and crossed golf clubs, indicating how he spent his weekends.
First Lt Robert S. has a four-engine Air Force bomber, reflecting his WW II military assignment.
Bruce A. has a single engine Piper Cub winging it way through the clouds towards heaven.
Dale K. has a heavy-duty diesel truck while spouse Donna M. has a dove in flight, possibly escaping the roar of its engine.
My all-time favorite is a two-foot-high Tom Turkey perched below a red heart on the Hartwig family headstone. The Hartwigs — you guessed it — owned the defunct Gobbler restaurant.
But after seeing the cemetery last summer, I have decided not to follow my mother and father into the Johnson Creek soil.
For one thing, its tranquility is now interrupted by the hum and hubris of the nearby Interstate 94. The Johnson Creek turn-off leads to an outlet mall in one direction and the site of the now-demolished Gobbler in the other. That forlorn birdhouse has been awarded the gold medal of architectural kitsch.
And now the cemetery is surrounded by industrial buildings and a Mexican restaurant. Even the pristine view of the church spire has fallen victim to suburban sprawl.
The deal-breaker was a new sign: “No fresh flowers.”
So I shall have to settle for a long stay in Madison’s Forest Hill cemetery. After all, I used to rake leaves there, and it’s right next to my old high school, West High.
Better yet, I won’t die.
Stiehm, 76, is a professor of pediatrics at the UCLA School of Medicine. He grew up in Madison and graduated from the University of Wisconsin; estiehm@mednet.ucla.edu.