It’s been over a week since the so-called “snowpocalypse” pounded the city, and while it was far from the worst storm in living memory, sustained subfreezing temperatures have left streets edged with icy piles as gray and crusty as the Abominable Snowman’s snot.

A whited sepulchre in the sun. RCBInviting, untrodden steps. RCBThe peace of shadows. RCB

And yet there remains a winter wonderland of quietude in the Bronx, which, according to the DOGE-battered National Weather Service, welcomed 13.5 inches of snow, less than the 14.9 inches in Washington Heights but more than the 11.4 inches clocked in Central Park and the just over 10 each at JFK and LaGuardia.

Winging toward and aiming for heaven. RCBDon’t worry, the carp go into a state of torpor in the depths until things warm up. RCBCritters have been walking on thin ice. RCBNo speeding or feeding in the graveyard. RCBChainsaw wildlife. RCB

Although Balzac did not say “Behind every great fortune there is a crime” — that was Mario Puzo, in his 1969 novel, The Godfather, paring down the French author’s original: “The secret of a great success for which you are at a loss to account is a crime that has never been found out, because it was properly executed” — we can, at the northern edge of Gotham, in Woodlawn Cemetery, still be grateful for those rich folks who endowed classical vaults that, when wreathed in snow, glimmer in sunshine like diamonds in Valhalla. While the Epstein files have again exposed the hideous lifestyles of the ultra-rich and infamous, the wealth of yore, however obtained, has at least bequeathed the rest of us a landscape for peaceful contemplation.

The sun sets on us all. RCB

This is what we wrote about Woodlawn in the October 14, 2015, “Best of New York” issue of the Voice:

 

 

One day we’ll all reach the end of the line, but until your time comes you can take the 4 train to its final stop in the Bronx and relax amid the 400 bucolic acres of Woodlawn Cemetery. There’s a good chance you’ll see a hawk wheeling above spreading willow trees and spy enormous carp undulating just below the surface of Woodlawn Lake. Sylvan paths are marked for the flora found there — Spruce Avenue, Hickory Plot — and rustling branches drown out any urban cacophony. Opened in 1863, Woodlawn is an active, nonsectarian cemetery, and while the grounds are beautifully maintained, there is also a sense here of time beyond the increments of workweek or vacation day. Some headstones tilt, lichen covers others, and a rain-streaked inscription for a child who never saw a first birthday conjures an ineffable melancholy that entwines the setting like vines embracing a mausoleum. But visit Miles Davis’s grave and hum the jazz standard “Solar,” etched on his stone, or stop by Herman Melville’s final berth for some literary musing, and you’ll be reminded anew that life may be a crapshoot, but we’re blessed to have a chance to roll them bones.

 

 

Amen. RCB

Of necessity, Best Of blurbs are short, but the alert reader might have noted in the above that the cemetery opened during the Civil War, and there is a monument to Union soldiers not far from the main entrance, on Webster Avenue. Even a few Confederates are interred on the grounds, the savage animus of that period of national strife having dissipated over time. While some Americans today — whether through violence, lies, digital manipulation, hypocrisy, or feigned know-nothingness — are pining to spark another national conflagration, in this snow-shrouded expanse, the static of news cycles and document dumps is as distant as the muffled clamor of traffic.  ❖

 

Woodlawn Cemetery
Webster Avenue and East 233rd Street, Bronx
718-920-0500
woodlawn.org