It’s October (or maybe early November when this reaches you), a time of year replete with significance. The days are shorter, the air brisker, and the tomatoes are just about done, all signals that the seasons are changing. There are yard signs everywhere endorsing candidates for mayor, city council or school board.

This column will not be taking a stance, making an argument or seeking to persuade you about a political position. Thank god, right?

On a day that is clear and cool and not rainy, autumn and the fall are a time of harvest and haunting, pumpkins and Halloween. And cemeteries... or graveyards. This is where I confess to a fascination with gravestones and cemeteries, and the lore around a season of reaping and gleaning and storytelling.

As a woman of Irish descent, I take pleasure in knowing that some of the most notable natural celebrations — of solstices, of all hallow’s eve, of full moons and eclipses — were big freakin’ deals for the ancient Celts. Those folks know (knew) how to throw a party, and even many centuries ago could discern that the mystical world held a special power that the temporal world did not.

But when yards all over the area are decorated with styrofoam grave tablets (in addition to political yard signs), it feels slightly disrespectful to the deceased to “decorate” with fake headstones. Cemeteries are places of solace and remembrance. Some people may not like, or don’t feel comfortable in, cemeteries, but I find them endlessly fascinating. They are also a place of pilgrimage. On election day every year, people visit the grave of Susan B. Anthony in Rochester, New York, leaving messages and flowers. My friend Patricia’s dad is buried at Mount Auburn Cemetery in Cambridge, Massachusetts, which is a true sanctuary for birds, every imaginable type of tree and plant, and grieving humans. My own parents lie in rest at Wildwood Cemetery in Massachusetts on a piece of real estate (as I call it) that both cheers me and gives me comfort when I visit them there.

For our prehistoric ancestors, death had to be common — and natural. Primitive humans would, and could, succumb to injury or age (old and young), could be hunted down by man-eating critters, or become disabled by weather or the elements. There was probably not enough time to mourn, so bodies were buried to prevent scavenging by animals. Families or clan members might be buried together for company or companionship, and at some point, rock cairns marked the spot where someone was buried.

And then at some point, many hundreds of years ago, people decided that individual and engraved monuments of some kind should mark the spot where a person was buried. The Christian cross was an obvious marker, and it is still employed even now for those of the faith.

It is, alas, the human impulse to indicate class and status even in death. Very early on, grave markers signalled a person’s (and a family’s) status, station, and standing. Those with means could commission (and afford) stone or marble to mark their burial place, and pay to have that stone engraved. There might be a single headstone or there might be a monument, both of which communicated a certain privilege and position. If your budget was more modest, and the demands of your life as a farmer or cooper or farrier were pressing, you might have fashioned a wooden Christian cross, written out a name with charcoal, or carved that name in the wood and stuck it into the ground at the site of burial. And in twenty years, both the cross and the name would have deteriorated entirely, making it essentially an unmarked grave. Google images of “early American graves” and you will see there the images found on such graves: the weeping willow, a quite obvious skull, angels, and those lovely and distinguished names of old: Elspeth and Ethel, Thaddeus and Samuel. At each grave is a story, and I am so curious to know those people and their stories.

We lived for a time in a log cabin seven miles out on a dirt road. Great night sky, incredible wildlife, unbelievable — truly unbelievable — weather. Also, random markers and memorials in unexpected places. In an open field, all by itself, was a grave for a woman who was the consort to a man. The grave was more than 100 years old, and as I understand the meaning of consort, there was not any royalty in the area of far eastern New York state / western Vermont. Ever. Who was she, and who buried her there? In that same area was a man-made obelisk to remember a young man who had died in a hiking/biking accident. His friends hauled stones to construct a tall, lovely, obelisk for him in a spot where he was often found and which was dear to him. That was more than twenty-five years ago. Is it still there? I don’t know.

I took a history class back in the day on World War I and wrote a paper about the many thousands of memorials that sprang up all over Europe after that war to end all wars. If you travel to Europe, take a moment to note those memorials. The loss of life in that grievous conflict was astounding at the time, and the psychic damage was profound. Early twentieth-century civilization wrestled mightily with the consequences of that conflict and sought to make meaning, somehow, of it. Those many memorials were (are) part of that project.

On my bucket list is a trip to visit the American military cemeteries in Europe and Asia, where the soldiers, sailors, and marines who fought in World War II are laid. I will get there. Have you ever seen the Vietnam Veterans Memorial in Washington, D.C.? I wrote a story for the Manchester Journal about the traveling Vietnam Veterans Memorial and spoke to men who had served there. Remembering is hard, even painful, but the work of Maya Lin at the Vietnam Memorial is a powerful gut punch. I can mostly hold myself together, but the last time I was there, I could hardly stop weeping. The items left behind, the hand-written messages, the enormity (right in front of your face) of all those names. Such loss — found in Washington, D.C., in a field in Vermont, in cemeteries all over the country and world — can be managed in our minds and in these places of remembrance.

Locally, we have Mountain View Cemetery, which is shaded by rows of mature trees and plots that are well-tended by the city and by families. It is a snapshot of a town that became a city and a place of progress and prosperity. It is also a microcosm of our national identity: local people, transplants, immigrants, seekers and searchers. In one corner of Mountain View are the dignified and honorable graves of our Japanese American neighbors. Taking a walk around Mountain View is, for real, inspiring.

This weekend, we mark both Halloween and the Latino/Catholic celebration of El Día de los Muertos (All Saints’ Day). Amidst all the fun and festivities, take a few moments to reflect and have a visit with those who have passed on — and celebrate them.