Mementos for loved ones pile up at Anchorage cemetery  
Subhead         From Gummy Bears to pizza and beer, tributes can be a chore    
Run Date        7/20/2002      
Day     Saturday       
Page    A1     
Section         Nation 
Edition         Final  
Length  Medium 
Illustrator     Photos By Marc Lester Anchorage Daily News     
Story Byline    By Sandi Gerjevic Anchorage Daily News 

Who knows why someone left a bottle of Crown Royal whiskey on one of the graves in Anchorage Memorial Park Cemetery. Ditto on an offering of pizza and beer. Don Warden, the cemetery director, has no problem disposing of such ''grave goods'' that appear from time to time. It's the teddy bears, jewelry, dolls and toy trucks that give him pause. ''All of these items are symbolic,'' said Warden, who is charged with keeping the cemetery clean, mowed and decorous. TX: But here and nationwide, the practice of placing personal memorabilia on grave sites is creating a problem for Warden and other cemetery keepers unsure of what to do with summer's annual flotsam of everything from Gummy Bears to marbles to chains of peppermints and Tootsie Rolls. Ignoring the adage that you can't take it with you, survivors leave gifts or mementos in a practice that seems almost Egyptian in nature. Only the mourner can know the meaning behind tokens like a six-pack, a plate of ribs or a few dollars cash. Naturally, new graves and the graves of children attract the most goods. On the stone of a child born in the fall and deceased in winter, someone left an Easter basket. To one young person's gravestone, loved ones attached a rainproof notebook, in which visitors have written melancholy entries. On other graves in other cities, mourners have left Christmas trees, cigarettes, a graduation announcement, a pink flamingo. At one young man's stone, someone dropped off a set of car keys. As poignant as such tributes are, cemeteries have guidelines about what is and isn't allowed on graves. At Memorial Park, handouts of the cemetery's 17-point rules are displayed in a plastic box at the main entrance. Fresh flowers are fine. Balloons, whirligigs, mobiles, clothing, candles, stuffed animals, toys and food are not. Yet just about all of the above can be seen in the cemetery on any given day. Out of respect for families, Warden leaves the goods in place as long as he can, usually until the balloons poop out or the teddies look washed and weathered. But then what? Reluctantly, Warden revealed a dusty side yard to a grounds maintenance building, where a pile of stuffed animals lay in a tumble. Sealed letters -- one addressed to ''Daddy'' -- were tossed onto the ground with a scattering of ceramic angels, candy, pinwheels and rotted markers. And this was just the chaff of a recent sweep. Warden must continually evaluate the significance of such items, as he clears them out of the way of cemetery mowers -- tight little riding models that can zip around gravestones in nothing flat, but can also churn a glass vase into whizzing shrapnel. Warden is worried about the safety of workers and visitors (glass is removed immediately). But he's also mindful of how the cemetery looks. The 22-acre property on the edge of downtown, established in 1915, mirrors Alaska's mix of race, class and culture. Here, at last, is equality. Amid the screeching sea gulls and hiss of sprinklers, an Alaska Native shares ground with a Swedish immigrant. A famous artist is buried near an unknown. There are war veterans and housewives and gold prospectors. Catholics, Jews and skeptics all rest together. Some would say that's as it should be, but diversity can lead to conflict, even in the hereafter. Warden recalled one grave piled so high with goods, it might have been mistaken for a yard sale. What, he asks, does he say to the family of the neatnik, buried one plot over? One person's memento is another person's trash, and even in the great by-and-by, people need to respect their neighbors, said Warden. Most of the items he removes have no monetary value, although once a widow railed bitterly against Warden after an expensive watch she'd left on her husband's grave went missing. Later, she apologized. It had just seemed right, she said, to leave her husband's jewelry on his grave. Warden gets about one complaint a month regarding the subject of grave goods. He wouldn't say he's particularly versed at confrontation, but has gotten better at it since taking the cemetery job in 1998. In summer, he must shoo away skateboarders, bicyclists, dog walkers and joggers. One time he admonished an entire softball team, whose players had been warming up in a green stretch where infants are buried. ''The cemetery is not a recreational park'' Warden gently reminds offenders. ''It's a place for healthy grieving.'' Some believe the trend of grave memorabilia springs from national mourning that took place after the dedication of the Vietnam Veterans Memorial in Washington, D.C., in 1982. At the long, dark stone, covered with names, a nation exercised its grief with an outpouring of letters and combat boots, Purple Hearts and photographs. In the interest of history, the National Park Service began removing the heart-wrenching haul at the end of each day and warehousing it. But small-time cemeteries just can't do that, said Warden. Most of the items tossed into Memorial Park's side yard will be thrown out by fall, he said. That includes the cushy, white teddy, sealed in a plastic bag; the bright yellow Matchbox truck; the glass Halloween pumpkin. The fact that Warden keeps removing such goods doesn't stop people from leaving them. On the grave of a child, someone recently left bubble gum and a ceramic ornament. The aching party had also left one of Warden's rules handouts, stating what cannot be left on graves. It had been carefully folded into a paper airplane.