In Grave Sightings, we visit graves of interest and curiosity to pay respects and ponder about life, death, and the bizarre things in between.
Picture this; you’re driving along a two lane county road somewhere in the Finger Lakes. It’s an unseasonably warm October, so the windows are down. To the right of you are thousands of withered cornstalks. To the left, a sagging sunset over Lake Seneca the color of yolk. The moment couldn’t be any more idyllic. That is until your car crawls slowly into a village called Interlaken. Without the inflatable Halloween decorations in front yards and a lone fitness studio, you’d never guess this place existed in modern times. There was a stillness, a sense of calm, that you’ve missed for so long. Upon entering, there is a dairy farm sprawling over acres in the distance. The smell of manure lingers in the air. The library is a small, white-washed building that boasts a genealogy department. Its sign is hand-painted in an elegant, careful script. There is an A-frame sign propped up in front of a brick building. It’s blocky letters spell out, “Halloween Party at the Fire Station.” A looming historical home casts a huge shadow onto the road. This is the Glass Magnolia Bed & Breakfast. It has vacancy. Just past this is a small road that leads to Lakeview Cemetery. Its black wrought iron gates stand open, an extension of the welcoming farmhouse that shares its land. Following the narrow, winding drive to the right, you come upon a grave. A nondescript slab the color of stormy skies, you see that it’s decorated by an array of tiny objects and dead flowers. An American Flag sways behind it. This is the grave of Rodman Serling: creator, producer, screenwriter, and narrator of The Twilight Zone.
A native of Syracuse NY, Rod Serling was born on Christmas Day, 1924. His family moved around New York State, spending his adolescent years in Binghamton. After graduating high school, Serling began his military career in the US Army. His experiences in combat affected him deeply, stating “I was bitter about everything and at loose ends when I got out of the service. I think I turned to writing to get it off my chest.” He was a decorated veteran after his discharge in 1946. From there, he enrolled in Antioch College in Yellow Springs, OH, where he studied broadcasting and earned a Bachelor’s in Literature. It was in this time period that he began his writing career in earnest. His first job as a radio show scriptwriter was at WLW in Cincinnati. He switched from radio to television, working at WKRC-TV. He eventually quit and started freelance writing full time. He hired an agent, and he and his wife moved to Connecticut. He wrote scripts for the television show Kraft Television Theatre, which garnered him massive attention for the episode ‘Patterns.’ The positive reviews for Rod came flooding in. By 1957, the Serlings (now two daughters-larger) moved to California. On October 2nd, 1959, The Twilight Zone premiered, and the rest is television history.
Rod is buried in the village of Interlaken, NY, where his grandmother kept a summer home. Upon entering the gates, follow the path to the right until you can go no further. The Serling section is close to the path. GPS coordinates are recommended and can be found on Find A Grave.
I’ve never had a lot of heroes in my life. I found the adoration of someone I’ve never met to be trite. I’m a cynic that way, but really I’m terrified to have my heart broken any more than it needs to be. But while reflecting on my own journey as a writer, I saw how Serling was more integral than I realized.
The SyFy channel always aired two Twilight Zone marathons; one on New Year’s Day and the other on July 4th. I was there for both, baby. It was the only black and white program I didn’t mind watching. There was something mesmerizing about those opening credits. It didn’t need Technicolor. I liked the twists in the episodes. I liked the summarized moral lesson at the end. But what I loved was the narrator. The show wouldn’t start until I saw Rod Serling standing there, suited up and cigaretted. Sometimes he’d appear after a few minutes, stepping around a pillar or waiting patiently for the camera to glide over to him. Sometimes it would just be his voice, and that was okay, too. It was him that drew me in. The science fiction and horror elements helped, sure. But what I sat down for was the story that he and his chosen writers delivered. It was their words and how they chose to say them. I think I have Rod to thank for my love of witty intros, anthologies, and poignant sendoffs. He was humbly genius.
The pilgrimage to his grave felt like an episode of The Twilight Zone when I rolled into that quaint town. I was reminded of neighborly affection and children kicking cans, of homecoming parades and ice cream socials. I was shown a world that he actually existed in, almost frozen in time. It was like peeking into an active set, except this time it was in color.
It was high autumn in the cemetery. Leaves blanketed the grass in the thousands, rich in their oranges and unapologetic in their reds. I breathed them in like an unctuous perfume. The sun had followed me from the road to the cemetery. It peered through trees tops to see if I was staying or leaving. I grinned when I found Rod’s headstone. You can see from the photo how many others have made this same journey. I left my purple pen there among the other tokens of appreciation. It didn’t feel like enough, but it had to be. It’s strange to meet someone whose moved you to tears countless times. That’s why I visit their graves instead. It’s normal to cry at a grave. I’ve visited many cemeteries that are breathtaking in their beauty. There was too much here. I was numbed by it, overwhelmed by the perfectness of this place on earth. I couldn’t feel anything but content.
As I labored to recall this brief moment in my life, it’s still too much to convey. So much of it will have to stay in me because it won’t risk being inadequate. Sure, it was just a detour to a cemetery in New York. I get that. I didn’t think it would be a big deal, either. You just had to of been there. The day, the place, the temperature, the timing. Everything aligned for me to have this special moment with a person I didn’t know meant so much to me until I was faced with their grave. I guess I do have a hero.
Haunted by Deadlines 