Where Are They Buried? (2 page)

In the fall of 1994 I retrieved my list of famous deceased and the next step became obvious: It was time to find and document the resting places of our cultural heroes—and I was just the guy to do it. The project was ideally suited to my interests in history, travel, and research and, furthermore, I saw it as an opportunity to make the world just a little bit more fair. It somehow didn’t seem equitable that some of our national icons, like John F. Kennedy and Elvis Presley, basked in the adoration of those who made the journey to the location of their well-documented monuments, while other worthy folks were relegated to the margins, cast off and all but forgotten.

I eventually cataloged the location of almost 700 famous graves, 450 of which are described in this book, and believe me, it was an enormous undertaking. There were multiple frustrations in locating many of the graves, and I pursued countless dead ends (no pun intended). However, that which did not kill me made me stronger, and I’m now grateful for my original ignorance: Had I comprehended the scheme’s ultimate dimensions, I most certainly would have come up with a different hobby, and you’d be channel surfing right now.

Nonetheless, though there were innumerable disappointments and setbacks, it seemed that I was always rewarded for
my persistence. Every blundering pitfall was supplanted by an equally elevating triumph. At a California cemetery, I suffered the wrath of some wasps whose nest I had inadvertently disturbed, but that misadventure resulted in a friendship with the groundskeeper. Later, I tapped out parts of this manuscript at his lofty Sierra Nevada mountain retreat. There were problems with rental cars: One particularly unlucky Taurus suffered a late-night collision with a near-sighted owl and, twenty minutes later, while I peeked through the new pattern of cracks in the windshield as we glided along a foggy stretch of Wisconsin blacktop, a suicidal skunk ambled into the car’s path. The skunk never knew what hit him, but I’ll bet the friendly Hertz staff in Minneapolis still cringes at the memory of that car’s return. At another point, I accidentally deposited my vehicle’s keys into a Long Island mailbox, but my idiocy was rewarded when it turned out that the mailman who arrived to retrieve them had known Mario Puzo personally. The helpful public servant showed me Mario’s current digs and, with lukewarm Bud Lights retrieved from under the seat of his government-issue jeep, we saluted the progenitor of the fictitious Corleone crime family. In Texas, I lost a few pages of notes during a horrific windstorm but, a few days later in the lonely outpost of Picacho, New Mexico, I felt compensated when I was asked to serve as a sort of impromptu pallbearer for a forgotten pauper. I never knew what might be around the next bend in the road, and for that I’m thankful. It was an adventure.

I have one last anecdote to share. It’s a little lengthy, but it’s interesting, it’s true, and it swings us full circle.

In October 1997 I was visiting famous graves in the Deep South, cutting a swath from Nashville to New Orleans when, on a dark stretch of Mississippi pavement, I came upon a traffic jam. There had been an accident and the road was temporarily closed to traffic in both directions. The midnight air was chilly so most people stayed in their idling vehicles, but I pulled to the side, slipped on my coat, and walked up to the crash site. It was gruesome, a pickup truck had clocked a bridge, and a dozen solemn bystanders gave the rescue team plenty of room. Unbelievably, I recognized the man who stood next to me in a dungaree shirt and cream-colored, flat-brimmed hat. I had to look twice, not quite trusting my eyes, but—sure enough—it was Bob Dylan. An hour earlier he had performed in concert at Mississippi State University, but he now stood anonymously in the shadows, exchanging short remarks with his personal bodyguard, a tough-looking Asian man nearly as thick as he was tall.

I casually sidled up to Dylan and offered commentary on the crash, but he was wary. His rugged sidekick eyed me suspiciously, no doubt concerned that his boss might end up like his old friend, John Lennon. My mind working at hyperspeed, I desperately sought a dialogue a notch above the typical tongue-tied, starstruck blather that Dylan most certainly detested. Knowing that he was a fan of boxing, I ventured to share a chuckle with him over the recent Mike Tyson ear-biting debacle, but the conversation quickly stalled. I dug deep. The previous day, in Montgomery, Alabama, I had visited the grave of Hank Williams and it just so happened that I knew that Dylan was a dyed-in-the-wool Hank fan. So I told him about it. And remarkably, he listened. For the first time, he looked at me while I spoke. There was something to this grave stuff after all.

The accident scene was almost cleared and the drivers that had been delayed grew anxious. Bystanders were now murmuring and pointing their fingers; Dylan had been recognized, and a state trooper interrupted us, asking for an autograph. The trooper went away satisfied, but the escort indicated that they should be returning to the tour bus. Dylan turned to leave and then paused. He asked me, “What was the name of that cemetery?”

I don’t know that Bob Dylan ever paid a call to Hank Williams’ grave, but I like to think that he did. In 1975 he had visited Jack Kerouac’s grave in Lowell and, sitting cross-legged while Allen Ginsberg chanted along in double time, he strummed a guitar for the amusement of Jack’s ghost. That was a fitting homage; such humble alms are precisely suited to the occasion of visiting a person’s resting place, whether it’s of someone famous or otherwise. My sojourns were never about being photographed in the presence of their notoriety or checking graves off in the style of a grocery list. I’ve conscientiously maintained a model of decorum and, should you choose to visit any of these sites, I trust you’ll preserve the tradition.

In the grand scheme of things, I don’t suppose that all of this talk about the deceased and their graves amounts to a hill of beans. Still, I choose to believe that keeping a flame of memory burning for them matters somehow, even if it’s in some mystical way that we cannot fully grasp. For that reason, I uphold my end of that unspoken accord. Maybe now you will join me.

—TOD BENOIT

FEBRUARY 20, 1967 – APRIL 5, 1994

With the 1991 groundbreaking release
Nevermind
, Kurt Cobain and his inventive band, Nirvana, produced in one deft stroke a new stepchild of rock and roll—alternative rock—and pulled rock away from the processed, synthetic and stale sounds of the 1980s back to something more sincere.
Nevermind’
s signature song, “Smells Like Teen Spirit,” was adopted by a disaffected generation as an anthem of discontent and cynicism, “grunge” was added to the national vocabulary, and thrift stores enjoyed a run on tattered flannel shirts.

But as an intense loner, superstardom never interested Kurt, and as the band skyrocketed, this reluctant guitar hero’s personal life became a roller coaster. He was plagued by a chronic stomach condition that caused him a tremendous amount of pain and Kurt resorted to medicating himself with heroin. His 1991 marriage to Courtney Love, the brassy leader of the punkish group Hole, brought him some security but rumors of the couple’s drug abuse were rampant; after a
Vanity Fair
article in which Love admitted using heroin while she was pregnant, child welfare authorities investigated and forbade the couple from being alone with their baby daughter for a month.

Just three years and three hit albums after Nirvana’s breakthrough, Kurt’s mental health had plunged and his already pronounced angst heightened. While on tour in Europe in March 1994, an overdose settled Kurt into a twenty-hour-long coma. Even though 50 doses of a Valium-like prescription drug called Rohypnol were found in his stomach, the couple called the overdose “an accident.” They returned home to Seattle, but matters only worsened.

At the end of March, Kurt checked into a Los Angeles drug rehabilitation clinic and, while he worked on dislodging the monkey from his back, Courtney settled into a hotel across town to work on an album. But Kurt sneaked away from the clinic and returned to their empty home. On April 5, Kurt barricaded himself inside a greenhouse above his garage, shot heroin one last time, then shot a shotgun one last time. Three days later, an electrician who had arrived to work on the home’s security system discovered a very dead body. It was presumed to be Kurt, and he was ultimately identified through his fingerprints.

Kurt left a note, but therein lies a minor controversy. Kurt’s suicide note reads like the draft of a speech announcing a retirement from the music business—only in the last four lines is there any allusion to the idea that he might also be retiring from life—and here’s the kicker: The lines were added after his signature, and are
written in a hand that’s similar, but different. Of course, through a short leap of logic, some now believe that Kurt was murdered and that his ruthless killer, finding Kurt’s retirement address, simply added a few lines to turn it into a suicide note.

But it’s all pretty unlikely. It seems quite clear, instead (to this writer anyway), that the note may have been originally intended as a retirement speech but, when it came time to end his life, Kurt figured that the draft could serve as a serviceable suicide note as well. In his tormented state of mind just before killing himself, perhaps while strung out on smack, he scribbled a few personal lines to his family and was done with it.

The note is readily available on the Internet and you’re free to draw your own conclusions. They never do just fade away, do they?

At 27, Kurt was cremated. It’s since been reported that his ashes have been scattered, well, almost everywhere.

APRIL 4, 1979 – JANUARY 22, 2008

Before dancing and smirking his way through the teen comedy
Ten Things I Hate About You
and being feted worldwide for his performance as a lip-locking gay cowboy in
Brokeback Mountain
, Heath Ledger had worked hard at becoming a substantial actor.

He’d come from a well-to-do Perth family of high romantics and was named after Emily Brontë’s Heathcliff. After picking up the game of chess at the all-boy Guildford Grammar Academy, Heath won Western Australia’s junior championship at age ten. He soon switched gears and opted towards more physical endeavors such as skateboarding and surfing and, with the guiding hand of his racecar driver father, won several go-kart champion titles.

Beyond all this, there was art, and at eleven Heath took the lead in a theatre production of Peter Pan. Idolizing Gene Kelly, he taught himself to dance like his hero and at fifteen choreographed a 60-strong Guildford team to the first all-boy victory at the Rock Eisteddfod Challenge, a national dance competition. During his teens, Heath acted in a series of forgettable Australian productions but one astute casting director finally took notice and in 1997 Heath had his big breakthrough as Conor, a loincloth-clad Celtic prince in the medieval fantasy,
Roar
. A strong performance as a low-grade hustler in
Two Hands
led to an audition for the lead part opposite teen-of-the-moment Julia Stiles in
Ten Things
and, as that high school romp took flight, so too did Heath’s star power.

Scripts came pouring in for film’s newest heartthrob but, instead of cashing in with a series of brainless teenage frolics, Heath
assumed an uncompromising stance and waited out Hollywood for offers of more serious productions. The move paid off and in quick succession came prime roles in
The Patriot
,
Monster’s Ball
,
A Knight’s Tale
, and
Ned Kelly
. In 2007 Heath was one of six actors who embodied different aspects of Bob Dylan’s life in
I’m Not There
. Predictably, Heath had become big news around town and high-profile flings with a variety of prospects including Heather Graham and Naomi Watts stoked the tabloid fires. Nonetheless, after
Brokeback Mountain
, Heath settled down and with his on-screen wife from that film, Michelle Williams, though they were separated after just a couple years of matrimony.