Once upon a time, I googled my real name on the internet. Come on! We've all done it, or at least considered it.

Anyway, my name is rather unusual, so I only got a page of hits. Most were either about discussion of satirical editorials I wrote to my university paper, or listing me as surviving my father in his obituary. However, there was one which was different.

It was a catalog of names from a small cemetery (about two acres) in rural south-west Arkansas. Apparently there was a woman with the same name as me who died three and one half years to the day before I was born.

So recently (just before Halloween of course) I had the opportunity to visit my own grave. Mind you, this was not just a tombstone --although I have some acquaintances who have their stones already engraved but for the end-date. This was the real thing.

Was it strange? Yes, and it was kind of eerie in a macabre way. It certainly gave me insight into my own immortality (metaphorically speaking of course).