A Birthday, a Grave, and a Stumble
If the title of this post makes sense to you, you are a very strange person (and I would probably like you a lot). But those of you who still insist on being “normal” will be wondering what it’s all about (as well you should), and I am about to tell you.
Today, July 24, is the birthday of Zelda Fitzgerald, wife of F. Scott Fitzgerald. Zelda, who would become Scott’s muse, was born in 1900 and met her future husband in 1918. The couple had their first date on this day in 1918. Scott and Zelda became a great Jazz Age couple. By all accounts, they were more than a little wild. Zelda unfortunately suffered from schizophrenia and spent the last years of her life in and out of psychiatric hospitals. She died in a fire in a hospital when she was 47.
I bring this up mostly because the Fitzgeralds are buried in Saint Mary’s Cemetery in Rockville, Maryland. This is just down the road a ways from my home, and I have indeed visited the site. The visit occurred mostly by accident, one evening when a friend and I had an hour or so to kill in between dinner and a house concert. (If you have no idea what a house concert is, ask and I will tell you!) We were in Rockville, Mary (the friend) said something like, “Hey, let’s go look at F. Scott Fitzgerald’s grave,” and I thought that sounded like a wonderfully odd thing to do after a Greek dinner and before a folk concert. I should also mention it was dark out.
We drove to the cemetery and, after some minor difficulty, found our way through the gate. After a few minutes spent roaming around, our way lit by a wind-up flashlight, we successfully located the grave and gazed down upon it in a moment of respectful silence. I resolved to read The Great Gatsby again, because I read it once in high school and don’t really remember it. And then we turned to leave. It was then that Mary, in full stride, bashed into a low concrete marker and nearly fell down. I successfully did not laugh. She ended up with a lovely bruise on her shin to mark the occasion.
And there you have it: a birthday, a grave, and a stumble.
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