SPRING
On one day you may come across a trumpet fanfare heralding a US president; on another, a woman meditating cross-legged under a tree; and perhaps on Halloween, the touch of a phantom hand. Rows of neatly arranged headstones stand next to the boulevard of trees stretching softly into the sky. Now and then you come across an alcove that holds statues saluting seemingly nothing; Chinese characters swoop through various headstones; flowers scattered in front of a memorial, and, your breath catching, toys on the grave of a child, just barely three.
In springtime, trees dig their roots into grass as their branches weep over graves. They are pink and green and wholly alive. In the distance a white buggy circles the grounds.
Don Hoffman, Superintendent of The Princeton Cemetery of the Nassau Presbyterian Church, steps off the buggy. Tall and fit, he’s more upright ginkgo tree than the gnarled trunks usually associated with cemeteries. With unwavering blue-green eyes and a straightforward manner, Hoffman immediately betrays the popular conception of a graveyard keeper.
“Yeah, [people always] ask me why I’m not some old creepy guy,” Hoffman says. A laugh escapes. “I always tell them like, gimme time.”
It is difficult to place Hoffman’s age (he’s forty), nondescript as the clothing he wears: gray cap, flannel over shirt, jeans. Growing up in Flemington, just twenty minutes away, Hoffman was introduced to the cemetery through his friend, the then-superintendent’s son. Now, he’s been working at the cemetery for sixteen consecutive years (minus three years in the middle).
Princeton Cemetery is a historical treasure, an active resting place, and a memorial to lives lived and died. It’s the living’s job to maintain the place of the dead.
It’s not an easy job, but Hoffman says he can’t see himself doing anything else. “Plus I have a spot out here too, so one day I’ll be out here.” He laughs wryly, “So [I’m] never getting away.”
SUMMER
In the heart of Princeton town, next to the Public Library and the Paul Robeson Center for the Arts, the Princeton Cemetery occupies a spot as integral as it is historical. It was first established in 1757 with a plot of land bought by then-College of New Jersey (now Princeton University). The cemetery was later acquired by the Nassau Presbyterian Church as a burial ground, after it was established in 1764 as the First Presbyterian Church. The church expanded in 1801 with the bequeathment of a farm and gifts of more acres of land, adding up the now current nineteen acres.
“It’s like a stamp of history,” Hoffman says.
Notable figures buried in the non-denominational cemetery are numerous. The oldest memorial is to Aaron Burr, former vice president of the United States, and also known for killing Alexander Hamilton. In a demarcated part of the cemetery sits the grave of 22nd and 24th US President Grover Cleveland, where an annual military procession commemorates his birthday. Also buried in the graveyard are Jose and Kitty Menendez, who were famously killed by their two sons in 1989.
In the area known as the Witherspoon Jackson Community, a nondescript black gate marks the entrance to the “Colored Cemetery”, established in 1807 and containing generations of African American families and notable residents. One of them is Jimmy Johnson, who came to the US as a slave in 1890 and later started his own business selling peanuts and candy to Princeton University students. He was buried in an unmarked grave in 1809, until University students raised money for a tombstone. Other notables include jazz pianist Donald Lambert and Christine Moore Howell, founder of hair and cosmetics brand Christine Cosmetics.
The cemetery’s records date back to the early 1900s. From a drawer Hoffman pulls out an onion-skin parchment with maps of the cemetery marked with fine ink, looking like it could crumble at any moment. Another drawer holds a fragile book with beautiful calligraphy disguising grim contents: “died from accident”. The cemetery has been slowly going digital. He points to a color-coded map of the cemetery hanging on the wall, a ten-year project led by Allen Olson, a Nassau Presbyterian church member and consultant, where he surveyed every grave—over 25,000 in total.
The cemetery continues to operate, despite concerns that it would run out of space. Not even counting cremation graves and families that sell back graves to the cemetery, there are hundreds of graves left for sale. Even a graveyard can become grounds for competition, as a few years back, a newer cemetery spread the rumor that the cemetery was full.
“No matter your line of work, somebody’s out to get you,” Hoffman says.
AUTUMN
On one day in November, the boulevard of ginkgo trees sheds its leaves all at once. At six am, the tiny, violently yellow fan-shaped leaves begin to rain onto the ground. By noon, the trees are bare and the ground is carpeted in gold.
No one can predict the day the leaves fall, but when they do, Hoffman contacts a whole little list of people he has who want to see the event. People drive down from nearby towns, even flying drones, just for the occasion.
Under fire-red trees, electric blowers whirr browned leaves into a pile. Sometime later, the motors of a lawn mower. Then the thrum of an excavator, digging another grave.
As superintendent, Hoffman does everything, from meeting with clients to picking up trash and fallen branches. “There’s no job too small.”
Much of the work in the cemetery is very manual, which makes it difficult to find employees. Usually, there are two full-timers, now it is just Hoffman and a part-timer who just graduated from Rutgers. It’s also difficult to find contractors, because it’s not as simple as mowing a lawn—hitting a stone could cost thousands of dollars. Even digging is tricky, because you might accidentally touch a grave. “It’s not a job you want a rookie to learn on. Because that’s somebody’s loved one.”
Working in the graveyard requires both sensitivity and thick-skin. Hoffman describes dealing with the whole spectrum of situations: people picking out their graves ahead of time, and others reeling from the fresh loss of a loved one. One couple jokingly lay down on their grave and asked for a picture. Another time, he stood by a couple in the pouring rain as they mourned the loss of their young daughter, killed in a tragic traffic accident.
He describes trying to find a balance between not being affected by people’s emotionality, but still guiding them through the process.
“I have a lot of walls up. Some of them—especially funerals of younger kids—really are painful. But I’ve been around for a while. Not many things throw me a loop.”
WINTER
Around Christmastime, some residents bring Hoffman a bottle of wine or some cookies. After almost two decades at the cemetery, he sees some of them more than his own family. “A lot of ’em know that I go above and beyond to more than technically what I have to do,” Hoffman says unsentimentally.
Tucked into the corner of the graveyard, Hoffman’s office overlooks the over twenty-five thousand tombstones and three hundred and seventy trees frosted in white. In the otherwise untouched snow are footprints that point towards graves, and then away. Soon the sun sets, the sky dusted in blue, and the cemetery’s gates close.
“Death is the great equalizer because it doesn’t matter what you have here. It’s the same for all of us. You know. Unless somebody finds the loophole,” Hoffman says, and laughs. “They better share it.” To him, a wealthy person may have more money and buy a bigger stone, but still, everyone dies.
Soon enough, winter tips spring. Against eternity, seasons are just time passing. Hoffman heads back into the cemetery to continue his work.
“I try to treat everybody the exact same regardless, you know, obviously I want grass to grow on their grave. We don’t give up until there’s grass growing.”
Faith Ho describes trying to find a balance between emotionality while still guiding people through Second Look.