Where Are They Buried? (36 page)

Star Trek’s
optimistic view of the future found an adoring mainstream audience while it’s fanatical cult faction took on a life all its own. Aboard the
Starship Enterprise
, the dauntless Captain Kirk and his pointy-eared comrade Mr. Spock became cultural icons that spawned a major entertainment industry. Legions of zealots known as “Trekkies” inspired a cottage industry, flocking to conventions dressed as out-of-this-world travelers to socialize with other intergalactic pilgrims and debate the merits of such futuristic hardware as “transporter beams” and “phaser guns.”

The magnitude of the
Star Trek
phenomenon surprised everyone. And today, after four sequel television series, numerous feature films, dozens of books, and countless other forms of merchandising, it shows no signs of slowing. Even Gene never imagined such a future. Instead, he wished merely to “demonstrate that television need not be violent to be exciting. Neither promiscuity, greed, or jealousy have a place in
Star Trek
.”

Gene died of a massive blood clot and heart attack at 70.

He was cremated and, in April of 1997, a bit of his ashes, along with those of Timothy Leary and 22 other space enthusiasts, were blasted into space from Vandenberg Air Force Base in the world’s first space funeral. Celestis, a Texas-based company, organizes such ventures and piggybacks the ashes, sealed in lipstick-sized capsules, aboard commercial satellites. On May 20, 2002, after 28,132 orbits around the earth, the capsules reentered the atmosphere over Papua, New Guinea, and burned up in a fiery finale.

MARCH 20, 1928 – FEBRUARY 27, 2003

For thirty years, Fred McFeely Rogers came through his front door and into our living rooms singing, “It’s a beautiful day in the neighborhood,” as the unlikely television star of his easy-paced children’s program
Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood
. Despite a complete lack of animation on Mister Rogers part, and “action” that consisted of either a tour through the Neighborhood of Make-Believe on a cheesy little trolley or maybe, if you were lucky, a low-budget puppet show, the program won the hearts of millions, and today, one of Mister Rogers’ signature sweaters hangs in the Smithsonian.

The key, of course, was Fred Rogers himself, a caring fatherly figure who always has time for children in spite of an increasingly busy world outside. And when Mister Rogers addressed
his young viewers with his safe and moderated voice, they responded in kind and flocked to their unhurried cardigan-clad mentor. From the security of his comfortable little home, he taught children simple, soothing lessons about life’s ups and downs including the importance of sharing, how to conduct yourself if you happen to get angry, and even why it’s silly to fear the bathtub, assuring the kids they’d never be washed down the drain.

And by all accounts, Fred’s persona was no act. There are no stories of him turning into a raging tyrant behind the scenes and it seems that off the air he really was the same soft-spoken and earnest person that millions of children, and not just a few adults, admired. Though he was an ordained minister, Fred was careful never to introduce religious beliefs into the show, though he did genuinely believe his lot was to be part of the drama of loving and serving people.
Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood
became the vehicle for teaching kids how to love themselves and others, and for learning the lesson that compassion and kindness never fall out of style.

Admittedly, it all sounds kind of schmaltzy, but it seems he really was on to something. After his death from stomach cancer, thousands and thousands of heartfelt condolences arrived in the mail from viewers young and old, and I think this right-to-the-point note from a 7-year-old offered the best summation of good old Mister Rogers: “You taught me to be nice to others and to hang up my coat.”

At 74, Fred was buried at Unity Cemetery in Latrobe, Pennsylvania.

CEMETERY DIRECTIONS:
From the intersection of Routes 30 and 981, follow Route 981 north for a mile then turn left on Monastery Drive. Bear right at the “Y” and then make a left onto St. Vincent Grove Road and then, at the next intersection, the cemetery entrance will be in front of you.

GRAVE DIRECTIONS:
Enter the cemetery, turn left at the Chapel and then take the second right. At the next intersection you’ll see the Given mausoleum on the corner and, though you can’t enter it, you can sneak a peek at Mister Rogers’ hiding place by peering inside.

NOVEMBER 5, 1911 – JULY 6, 1998

OCTOBER 31, 1912 – FEBRUARY 7, 2001

During the 1940s, ’50s, and ’60s, the Roy Rogers and Dale Evans husband-and-wife, cowboy-cowgirl entertainment team was the most recognized anywhere. They made some 400 recordings and 27 films together, had a hit television program, and their personas were immortalized on everything from western wear to lunch pails. But even before their union, both Roy and Dale had separately enjoyed their own successes.

As Leonard Franklin Slye, Roy got started in the music business by playing at square dances with his cousin Stanley. In 1937 he became Roy Rogers and his big break came the following year when he was cast to replace Gene Autry in a film following a contract dispute. With his trusty palomino Trigger under him and his dog Bullet at their side, Roy made scores of films and gained an enormous following for his gallant exploits in the then-popular musical-Western genre that romanticized the Old West.

As Frances Smith, Dale took a more indirect route to showbiz, but ultimately her singing and songwriting abilities were recognized. Pregnant at 14, she eloped with an older schoolmate and, after their son’s birth, took a secretarial position at a Memphis radio station. Upon discovering she could sing, the station manager put her on the air and she eventually ended up as Dale Evans, a jazz singer in Chicago supper clubs during the music’s heyday.

After a stint as a USO trouper, she found herself a California agent and repackaged the Dale Evans persona for the Hollywood publicity machine. Seven years were shaved off her age, she no longer wore a wedding band, and her selfless devotion to her teenaged brother Tommy was extolled. (He was, of course, actually the son she’d had at 14.)

In 1944 Dale was offered a role alongside Roy in
The Yellow Rose of Texas
, and the Western film showcased an irresistible chemistry between them. The on-screen chemistry quickly spilled over to an off-screen friendship and romance and, after Dale divorced her third husband and Roy’s wife Arlene died following complications from childbirth, the two were married on New Year’s Eve 1946.

As the “King and Queen of the Cowboys,” Roy and Dale became emblematic of all-American family values and domestic solidarity and found great success in film and records.
The Roy Rogers Show
aired in 1951. It ran until 1957 and was then revamped and reintroduced in 1962 as
The Roy Rogers and Dale Evans Show
. Dale was an especially prolific songwriter—she claimed more than 200 credits in her lifetime—and she penned the show’s theme song, “Happy Trails.”

In contrast to the couple’s blissful professional life, their family life was marked by tragedy; the only child they had together died from complications of Down Syndrome before her second birthday and though they eventually adopted four other children, one died in a 1964 church bus accident, and the following year another choked to death.

As an active Evangelical lay minister, the tragedies inspired Dale to write moving motivational books, and her first,
Angel Unaware
, was applauded for raising acceptance of retarded children in an era when most were institutionalized their entire lives. She wrote a total of twenty inspirational and religious-themed books and they led to a Christian program,
A Date With Dale
, that she hosted until her death.

Roy died of congestive heart failure at 86 in 1998, and Dale died of heart failure three years later at the age of 88.

They are buried at Sunset Hills Memorial Park in Apple Valley, California.

CEMETERY DIRECTIONS:
From I-15, follow Happy Trails Highway (Route 18) east for 5½ miles, then turn left onto Dale Evans Parkway. Two miles later, turn right at the “T” and follow Waalew Road for four miles. You’ll find the cemetery on the left.

GRAVE DIRECTIONS:
Enter the cemetery and Roy and Dale’s plot is immediately on the left beside the reflecting pools.

Also, there is the Roy Rogers and Dale Evans Museum in Branson, Missouri, which is filled with Roy and Dale memorabilia, as well as some of their costars: their horses, Trigger (who died at 33) and Buttermilk, as well as their faithful dog, Bullet, were stuffed and mounted for posterity after their natural deaths.

MAY 7, 1950 – JUNE 13, 2008

A powerhouse of broadcast journalism, Tim Russert made interviewing both an art form and a contact sport. After attending Woodstock “in a Buffalo Bills jersey with a case of beer,” and putting himself through law school by whatever means required (including earning a small score by booking a 1975 Bruce Springsteen concert at his alma mater), this son of
a Buffalo garbage collector worked as special counsel for New York senators and governors. In 1984 he was hired to work on special news projects for NBC, gaining reputation quickly for arranging an appearance by Pope John Paul II on the
Today
program the following year.

It soon became apparent that Tim had a gift for making complex political machinations understanding and compelling. And in 1991, entirely on the strength of his political banter among colleagues during conference calls, Tim was tapped as the new moderator of
Meet the Press
despite the fact that he had never hosted a program or, for that matter, had never even once
appeared
on television. Reformatting the then-43-year-old news show’s sleepy reputation, Tim ditched its long-winded encounters between reporters and political hacks and instead compiled an issue-dense program focused on in-depth interviews with high-profile guests. A stickler for extensive preparatory research, Tim gained renown as a formidable super-informed interviewer inclined to pressing his guests with their past statements and positions that were in direct contradiction to their present-day talking points. Yet however rugged the exchanges, the stout-faced Russert arched his thick eyebrows and ended with the same gentlemanly closing: “Thank you for sharing your views.”

At the offices of WRC-TV in Washington where he was recording voiceovers for a Sunday edition of
Meet the Press
, Tim collapsed after uttering his last words, “What’s happening?” as a greeting to an arriving associate. Co-workers immediately began CPR and paramedics, arriving a few minutes later, attempted to defibrillate his heart three times to no avail. Forty minutes later he was pronounced dead at a local hospital. An autopsy showed the journalist had an enlarged heart and that cholesterol plaque ruptured an artery, causing coronary thrombosis.

At 58, Tim was laid to rest at Rock Creek Cemetery in Washington, D.C.

CEMETERY DIRECTIONS:
This cemetery is three miles north of Capitol Hill. From Route 29, turn northwest on New Hampshire Avenue then turn east onto Varnum Street at Grant Circle. Make a left on Rock Creek Church Road and the cemetery is a short distance on the left.

GRAVE DIRECTIONS:
This cemetery is a maze of confusing drives and pathways and you’d do well to get a map at the office. Otherwise, proceed as straight as possible, stay left at the chapel, pass the line of mausoleums, and then, at the intersection near the pond,
make a right and stop. On your left in Section C is the nine-foot-tall Clagett monolith. Four graves north of the monolith, in front of a hardwood tree, Tim’s grave is marked by a collection of empty Rolling Rock bottles.