What is Taphophilia? Reflections and Realizations by Bonnie McKeegan, Taphophile
A few weeks ago a friend told me she learned a new word and immediately thought of me. Taphophile. I’m a what? I thought. I’ve been called a few names, but never anything with -phile on the end of it. I have a rather negative association with the suffix -phile, and could only think of one word using it. Naturally, I had to know more.
She said, “You know, all those photographs you’ve taken while visiting cemeteries.”
The suffix -phile comes from the Greek philos, which means to love. Words that end with (-phile) refer to someone or something that loves or has a fondness of, attraction to, or affection for something. It also means to have a tendency toward something. (accessed June ‘24 www.thoughtco.com/biology-prefixes-and-suffixes-phile-philic-373807 Táphos means “funeral rites”, “burial”, “funeral”, “wake”; “tomb”, “grave”
On my computer, I have a list of 40 cemeteries in Nevada County I hope to visit, plus Eastside Memorial in Minden, NV, and Burwood Cemetery in Escalon, CA. Twenty-two of those cemeteries have links to Google albums I’ve created from photographs I’ve taken over the past few years. Thousands of photographs.
Why do I enjoy hours exploring family plots of strangers and photographing random graves with piled-up stones, old bricks establishing grave boundaries, white picket fences no longer white, and lichen-covered concrete headstones with no discernible data left on them? I blame my mom for my love of cemeteries and my dad for the desire to capture something with a photograph. When I was a child, walking in cemeteries was a routine experience.
My mom and I would hunt for dates matching our birthdays. She'd point out people who died long before I was born and where they were from. It was as if somehow she was honoring the lives of long-dead people she’d never met. Once she said, “See there? White picket fence.” She was trying to teach me something.
We spent hours every summer and Thanksgiving walking in Burwood Cemetery where my dad’s relatives are buried across the street from my grandparent’s farm in the humid countryside north of Modesto, CA. A stroll through the cemetery was as natural as death. Burwood’s green lawns include upright headstones and flat markers that are shaded with sprawling trees. On hot summer days, we’d lay on the cool grass in the shade listening to birds chirping and bugs buzzing. On other vacations, we’d walk in historic cemeteries looking for the oldest grave we could find.
These days, natural historic cemeteries capture my attention. I’m fascinated by the variety of grave markers and fences surrounding individual graves and family plots. In the old days, ornamental iron fences, brick, or wood were often used to mark grave boundaries. It’s all very creative and may have indicated a family’s economic status.
While we still see some polished new upright headstones in modern cemeteries, they are mostly flat for the mowers to go over, and there aren’t those rusty ornamental fences with little gates to enter the family plot. As my mom would have said, “Boring.”
Mom is gone, but there is no gravesite for me to visit. She didn't want one. Is my attraction to old cemeteries simply another connection to her? I don't know, but my friend is right; I love visiting natural historic cemeteries more than the average person. I wear the label "Taphophile "with pride.
As for the photographs, the only real question is: What should a taphophile do with all these images that seem to capture the passage of time?