Of Monuments and Masonry
Tuckpoint whistled a simple tune as he rummaged through the large supply shed that housed all of the grounds crew’s equipment. Basic gardening tools, extra water hoses, cleaning chemicals, and a plethora of scrub brushes all made their way into the metal cart nestled in its usual spot on the right side of the shed. To that he added his metal tool chest, which he carefully floated over and set down in the center of the cart. After shifting a few things around to balance the cart’s weight, he quickly double checked that he had everything he needed.
He couldn’t help but chuckle at how much the fresh rubber tires stood out against the rust and the faded, chipped paint that adorned the rest of the cart. Like so much around him, the cart had seen better days. But one repair at a time, it would get a bit of itself back. ‘A new lease on life’, some of his human coworkers might say. Tuckpoint always marveled at how the humans never seemed to grasp the irony of that statement, considering where they all worked.
After downing the last of the coffee in his thermos, Tuckpoint magicked the harness off the wall, attached it to the cart’s tongue, and slipped the contraption over his back. There was a small motorized tractor he could have used instead, but he preferred to pull it himself whenever the weather allowed. It helped Tuckpoint get some extra exercise in, plus he could tell from the way the breeze hit him on the streetcar ride over that it would be relatively mild, at least as mild as a summer day could be here.
Today was a Tuesday, so he’d be working ‘inside out’, beginning with the heart of the racetrack turned-burial grounds, and working his way to the outer ring.
Tuckpoint’s first stop was what the locals called “Millionaire’s Row”. Lining both sides of the cemetery’s main entry drive, it was one of the most photographed and talked about sections of the entire place, and it was easy to see why. The tombs here were as large as they were extravagant, dotted with statuaries and covered in polished marble, stained glass, and incredibly intricate stonework.
In many ways they reflected the wealth and grandeur of the people who did, or would one day, occupy them, and reading the names on the tombs would be like reading a ‘who’s who’ list of the most famous – and infamous – people to ever call Orleans Parish home. Yet despite all that, they were as prone to weeds, bugs, and mildew as anywhere else on the grounds. And like always, Tuckpoint made sure to pull every weed, sweep out every spider web, and wash away every speck of mildew. Along the way he kept his tool kit at the ready, tightening door handles on tombs that had them, or filing down small burrs or rough edges in the stonework.
If nothing else, it’d make for nice pictures when the next tour bus lumbered through on its way down to the Quarter.
Tuckpoint picked up the whistling again as he made his way toward his next stop. He crossed the old stone bridge and, as he sometimes did, stopped and looked out over the lagoon. The water was mostly still, only catching an occasional ripple from the morning breeze or the splash of a small frog. He thought again about how this all might have looked hundreds of years ago, when the picturesque lagoon was but a small pond that jockeys used as a watering hole for their horses before returning them to the paddocks.
The more he thought about it, the more he understood why his coworkers thought it ironic that any pony, much less a unicorn, would work on the site of a former horse racing track.
He resumed his whistling, switching to a happy, formless tune as he made his way through the next few sections. The tombs became slightly less extravagant but also older, and with age comes increased needs. Here Tuckpoint put his muscles and his magic to work, repairing chipped or worn masonry with his magic while his hooves scrubbed away layers of dirt and moss. The tombs situated underneath the ubiquitous oak trees benefited from the shade they provided, saving their stonework from fading and cracking. But it came at the cost of sometimes immense amounts of mildew and muck generated by the moss that hung from their majestic branches. Left unchecked, it could – and often did – completely obscure peoples’ names.
His coworkers hated that particular work more than anything else, but Tuckpoint was happy to take that job off their hands. Before crossing through the mirror from Equestria, he had made a living repairing and restoring brick and stone surfaces. Few things pleased him more than stepping back and seeing an old, tired surface take on a new glow with a fresh coat of mortar, and he felt much the same after restoring another name to its former brilliance.
With the sun high in the sky, Tuckpoint stopped for lunch. He meandered to his usual spot, a small alcove in the shadows of one of the largest monuments on the grounds, and secured the cart in the grass on the other side of the pathway, careful as always to avoid putting the wheels on top of a grave site.
As he munched on a cheese and tomato sandwich, Tuckpoint examined the monument again. It was a large barrow, with a concrete path leading to a stone archway that seemed to now have been wholly merged with the grassy knoll itself. A wrought-iron gate stood guard at the entrance, barring entry to the inner sanctum and its handful of residents. Atop the barrow was a bronze statue of a soldier on horseback, while another figure stood on the ground beside the archway, an unrolled scroll of paper in his hands.
According to the books he’d read on the history of this place, the monument was home to people who were apparently somewhat important in a war over a century ago, one that pitted one part of this country against the other. Equestria too had seen its share of violence and upheaval, especially in its early days. The Tomb of the Unknowns on Mount Canter and the forever frozen ice sculpture commemorating those lost defending the Crystal Empire from Sombra were proof enough of that.
What puzzled Tuckpoint the most, however, was the fact that this monument in front of him, like many others in this cemetery and around the city, stood in honor of the losing side. The harder he thought about it, the less sense it made. Princess Cadance memorialized the defenders of the Empire, not its assailant. So why would his human friends’ ancestors do such a thing?
“Y’all sure are strange sometimes…” he muttered before taking a gulp of ice cold sweet tea. It, along with the local jargon, was one of many things he’d grown to like since coming here from Baltimare.
Yet this monument, and the others like it, puzzled him to no end. In a way it felt like these humans were constantly at odds with themselves – keeping one eye on the horizon and one hoof firmly on the past, refusing to let it go. Like they welcomed the transition to the future with one hand while trying to tie it down with the other. “Just going to get yourselves stuck in the mud forever doing that,” he said between bites of his sandwich. “Time only goes in one direction after all.”
After lunch Tuckpoint resumed his rounds, moving from one ring of the grounds to another. Occasionally he’d hear the sounds of construction equipment heralding the birth of a new tomb.
It was mid-afternoon when he arrived at his final section for the day, a moderately sized mausoleum on the far end of the grounds. Though the cemetery was originally intended for the upper crust of the Parish, the growing size of the city demanded the addition of burial sites for people of lesser means. And so this mausoleum was the first of many added on this site. Still, its simpler design, and the more modest means of the families who bought in at the time, meant it was built well out of sight of the Millionaire’s Row, and well away from the soaring oaks and lush gardens that filled in so much space around the larger, wealthier tombs. What’s more, many of the families whose members resided in these forgotten corners had long since died off, meaning many of these tombs would see few visitors, if any.
Much like the monument of the defeated soldier, Tuckpoint never saw the point in such segregation, especially in a place like this. This was perhaps the one place in this grand old city where everyone was truly on equal ground. And as such, each tomb, no matter how big or small, deserved the same care and attention.
So Tuckpoint began his work, starting with a quick pass around the immediate vicinity for weeds, twigs, and any litter that might have blown in from the busy road just outside the perimeter walls. He swept up the leaves and loose dirt, then used his magic to dust all of the plaques in the mausoleum, one row at a time. A quick trip to the small storage locker at the opposite end of the structure procured a ladder, which he used along with the hose and a bucket of soapy water to carefully clean the more caked-on dirt on some of the plaques. The names, the long ago birth dates, many of them were somewhat familiar now. In a way, it was like visiting old friends and asking how they were doing.
“Alright, cleaning done,” Tuckpoint said, smiling confidently at his work. He brushed a lock of his sweat-matted mane out of his eyes and took another gulp of water from the jug he kept on the cart. “Now for the finishing touch. Flowers.”
Tuckpoint magicked over one of the trash bags from the cart and dumped its contents onto one of the low benches set out for visitors. Many of these flowers were slightly wilted and likely on the latter end of their useful lives. Platinum “Perpetual Care” contracts mandated that every tomb on Millionaire’s Row received fresh flowers every two weeks, but they didn’t say anything about what to do with the old ones. So Tuckpoint gathered them up and brought them back here to the forgotten corners of the cemetery, the outside racing lane that was so far out, no horse worth its bits would ever run in it.
Sure it felt good to reuse otherwise good flowers, but it was more than that to Tuckpoint. For him it was his small, small way of ensuring these families, these humans, weren’t forgotten. Maybe Tuckpoint was the only visitor they ever saw, but one was better than none, he concluded.
On his way back to the storage shed, a long day of work complete, Tuckpoint heard the familiar sound of music drawing near. Not just any music. Jazz.
A moment later a large crowd turned the corner off of the public street and began marching down the entryway, right past the Millionaire’s Row. Tuckpoint moved to one side and unhitched the cart, then sat and watched the group approach.
It was an event unique to this city, one that to his knowledge had no equivalent in Equestria. The humans called it a “second line”. In a way it was like a small parade, complete with a band, banners, and even dancers. Though they were all dressed in black, many in the crowd carried elaborate parasols decorated with frilly trim and sequins. Others carried posters and banners covered with pictures of what he assumed was the recently deceased. The band played not a dirge but a ditty. The marchers cried out not in sorrow but in celebration. And as they marched by they waved at him, some even going so far as to invite him to join in the celebration, to add his voice to their song.
As he always did, Tuckpoint politely declined. He'd celebrate this person in his own way in the coming days, months, and years.
The procession moved past and made the turn towards the funeral home that occupied the north end of the property. The music faded as they moved away, but never entirely. As he hitched back up and began the final stretch towards the storage shed, Tuckpoint found himself whistling again, but this time the tune matched the one played by the band moments ago.
A song about mourning and celebration. A song about transition.
A song about life.