Harolding in Mount Pleasant Cemetery

Harolding involves spending one's time hanging around cemeteries taking in the ceremony of death. A neologism seemingly made for the Urban Dictionary, the term's etymology derives from the 1970s cult film Harold and Maude in which the protagonist's obsession with death leads him to frequent graveyards and attend the funerals of strangers.

My initial exposure to the term came courtesy of Douglas Coupland's 1996 collection of non-fiction Polaroids from the Dead, in which he shares his youthful experience harolding in B. C.'s Capilano View Cemetery.

Although the word was new to me, reading Coupland's narrative had quite the impact. For it was then that I realized that, for better or worse, harolding was something that I'd been doing for some time.

It started when I was given my first real bike. A snot-green Fuji with 21 gears, my mother thought that a little indulgence on this purchase might keep my activities clean over the impending -- and my first -- unregimented summer. Less a gift than an unspoken promise, the purchase of this bike was a pact between the two of us that I would keep my hands firmly affixed to the handlebars and not upon whatever other trouble presented itself.

So, as my friends headed north to summer camps, I was left city-bound and primed to explore the world at my wheels, the Toronto of a 12-year-old.

Living at Yonge and Davisville at the time -- and having a relatively limited geographic range -- I was drawn to Mt. Pleasant Cemetery. Not only was it an excellent place to hide from cars and other traffic, its many turns and undulations made it the perfect place to enjoy my bike.

I spent the entire summer in the cemetery that year, getting to know more than just its roads. Although it may seem slightly odd now, it was a remarkable place to explore. From my early discovery of the Eaton family mausoleum to my later location of an entrance into the neighbouring ravine, there was a wealth of fascination to be had within and around the cemetery.

And, of course, there was also the occasional funeral.

One doesn't spend so much time in a graveyard without encountering a few of these silence-inducing ceremonies. The first time I happened upon one I was quite taken aback. I immediately felt like an intruder. The carefree "park" I had become accustomed to was, of course, no such thing.

The final resting place of more than 168,000 people, I now find it rather remarkable that I had been so cavalier about treading its grounds. Although I had spent day after day there, I was certainly not a harold.

But even after witnessing the act of mourning a few times, I continued to return to Mt. Pleasant Cemetery. And though I still stuck to the roads, refusing to get off my bike and explore the areas off the beaten-track, I began to be captivated by the tombstones.

I had always been aware of them, but I had never really taken note of their meaning or significance. So as the summer neared its end, I started reading the epitaphs. Still so young, I'm quite sure that I was yet to understand the gravity of these inscriptions -- and yet I was intrigued by the lives and stories they summarized and gestured to.

As school resumed, I frequented the cemetery much less. Not only was I occupied by activities with my friends -- none of whom were big cemetery-dwellers -- but that entrance to the ravine I had found led to an obsession with mountain biking that would turn me off paved roads in general.

It was not until many years later that I returned to Mt. Pleasant Cemetery. I was in grad school and living on Woodlawn Ave. Suffering from bouts of anxiety at the time, I would walk in the ravine near my apartment to relieve stress. On one such walk, I found myself at the very entrance to the cemetery I had discovered so long ago.

Walking around the place as an adult was quite a different experience. Both familiar geographically and unfamiliar psychologically, the cemetery now engaged me as someone who spent a tad too much time considering my own mortality. But, being on foot, I only explored a small area of the grounds that day. This reacquaintance, however, lead me to return with a careful regularity. As much as I enjoyed my contemplative walks, I didn't want to indulge my harolding habit too much. Despite their calming effect, it was still easy to get depressed when spending significant amounts of time there.

So I spent the fall of that year studying modernist literature and harolding on the weekends. But, eventually this phase passed as well. Who knows if it was the onset of winter or simply the fact that I grew bored of my cemetery-dwelling -- either way, it was once again a long time until I returned.

My latest visit to Mt. Pleasant cemetery was made primarliy so that I could write this narrative. I happened to re-read Coupland's account of his harolding days, and decided that I wanted to take some of my own experiences down. Knowing that I would likely publish it here, I also decided that I would photograph the place for the first time.

This was far more difficult than I expected. As I drove along the roads I still knew so well, I was hesitant to get out of the car and reveal myself and my camera. I once again had the feeling of being an intruder. Although I had used the cemetery for years, I had the profound sense that this was a private place not meant for photographs.

Who were these people, after all? George Pears? Captain Fluke? Intriguing and mysterious are the lives behind these monuments, but also so distant. Surrounded by tombstones bearing the names of strangers, there was something alarmingly voyeuristic about the act of snapping away.

It was not until I happened upon the gravesite of former prime minister Mackenzie King that I started to become more comfortable with the camera in my hands. His grave is marked by an official government plaque and is obviously welcoming to those who wish to pay their respects.

While Mackenzie King's tomb can't be compared with Jim Morrison's, it nevertheless dawned on me that the majority of cemeteries aren't really private places at all. Sure, most are technically private properties that grant access to the public, but that's not what I mean. No, what I'm driving at is the fact that they are places of commemoration. Perhaps this is an obvious observation, but as I was trying to shoot the many tombstones I felt it come upon me as something of an epiphany.

There will always be a discomfort in capturing, once again, what is already a monument to fixity. But, that word -- monument -- it reveals so much. A tomb is a reminder, a record, a narrative condensed into a figure of the lived, now gone -- but not forgotten when looked upon, when witnessed.

So I must cast out my shyness, this fear of the shutter-trips.

I'm here.

And the act of sharing is a testament not just to those interred at Mt. Pleasant Cemetery, but to memory itself.