At Kerouac’s Grave
By Tom Teicholz at 23 April, 2008, 4:30 pm
Lowell, Mass is famous for many things including its history as a factory town where many young women worked and who fought hard for decent work conditions and a union.
However, the first thing that comes to mind for me when you say Lowell is that it is the place where Jack Kerouac was born and where he was buried.
Two summers ago, while driving across Massachusetts, I saw the Lowell sign and told my family that I wondered if it was possible to visit Kerouac’s grave. We pulled over at a visitor’s bureau office by the side of the highway and before I could even complete my question I was handed a map to Kerouac’s grave. Turns out it’s something of a pilgrimage place for many people.
I also seem to recall that when Dylan launched his Rolling Thunder tour there was a ceremony led by Allen Ginsberg at Kerouac’s grave.
The cemtery where Kerouac is buried is a five minute drive from the highway. When we got there, we found that visitors before us had left messages, bottles of wines, matches, and other. I sat down among the detritus and communed for a bit with the spirit of “p’tit jacques” as his mother called him, the poet of “on the road” and “the dharma bums’ who led so many writers on a wild exploration of automatic writing.
My family was kind enough to indulge me in this request and I have the photo to show for it.
However, the first thing that comes to mind for me when you say Lowell is that it is the place where Jack Kerouac was born and where he was buried.
Two summers ago, while driving across Massachusetts, I saw the Lowell sign and told my family that I wondered if it was possible to visit Kerouac’s grave. We pulled over at a visitor’s bureau office by the side of the highway and before I could even complete my question I was handed a map to Kerouac’s grave. Turns out it’s something of a pilgrimage place for many people.
I also seem to recall that when Dylan launched his Rolling Thunder tour there was a ceremony led by Allen Ginsberg at Kerouac’s grave.
The cemtery where Kerouac is buried is a five minute drive from the highway. When we got there, we found that visitors before us had left messages, bottles of wines, matches, and other. I sat down among the detritus and communed for a bit with the spirit of “p’tit jacques” as his mother called him, the poet of “on the road” and “the dharma bums’ who led so many writers on a wild exploration of automatic writing.
My family was kind enough to indulge me in this request and I have the photo to show for it.
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Literarture
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