GRAVEYARDS: SIGN OF CULTURAL BOUNDARIES.

Byline: Mary Helen Ponce

THE more I travel East, the more clear it becomes that California culture is quite different from that of our Eastern states. Not better, just different, and in some regions, easier to detect.

For example, while on a recent visit to my son, and a quick tour of old Boston - a few churches and one cemetery - I see where in this region, grave markers are devoid of adornment, a product perhaps of the Puritan ethos that in the early 18th century frowned on ostentation. Or, it could be that the pilgrims were so stressed out from tossing tea parties and warring both with Indians and King George, that once they recited the 23rd Psalm, they merely popped their dead into shallow graves, then stuck in a cement headstone with a crude inscription.

Still, from what I see, it's apparent that upper-class Bostonians could afford more cement - and had the means to hire a stonemason. Their grave markers are larger in size; the inscriptions easier to decipher.

In Mexico and Latin America, el panteon, as a cemetery is called, might be considered by proper Bostonians to be steeped in paganism. There, the graves, especially those in Mexico, are festooned with so much stuff it's difficult to remember that one is in a graveyard, and not at a fiesta.

If, for some Mexicans life was a vale of tears, death is the great equalizer. There is little to differentiate between the tombs of los ricos and those of the poor, because most plots display some sort of decoration.

Throughout the year folks here give vent to their creativity to bring life to their dead. Come Nov. 2, even the poorest of the poor make sure their departed are remembered with special breads, skeleton candies and fresh flowers.

Graves in Mexico are festooned with flowers, ribbons, homemade ornaments and photographs of the deceased. Mexicans would sooner die than allow the tombs of la familia to be unadorned. The plots where ninos rest are often the most winning. Bright balloons in pink, green and red are attached to a headstone; they fly back and forth in the breeze. Tinny whirlwinds are poked in the ground, while nearby lies a child's favorite toy truck or doll.

Often photographs of the youngsters - decked out for a first Communion or confirmation, faces frozen in time - are embedded in the stone.

In fact, throughout the American Southwest, California in particular, most cemeteries are just that: a resting place for los muertos. But, in New Mexico - where I studied for four years - even in conservative Santa Fe, el camposanto (the holy camp) reflects the artistry of manitos, native-born New Mexicans. In small towns like Nambe - as in Boston - where the tradition was to bury folks in the churchyard, gravestones differ not so much in decoration, but in size.

Tall headstones share space with small crude markers that offer rambunctious kids a chance to train for the high hurdles. Others look like milk stools and offer visitors a place to rest. But it's the names that are the most arresting; many are to be found in dusty historical tomes. To those of us steeped in Southwestern history, the burial place of those, who in the late 1890s resettled this state, can be awe-inspiring.

Anthropologists consider grave decorations as material culture; a part of the baggage we leave behind which helps define who we were, what we did and the things we valued.

A recent study based in the Deep South found that among African-Americans - as in Mexico - cemeteries serve several purposes, other than a place to bury the dead. They give folks a place in which to socialize. Some erect fancy gardens: tiny plots with miniature lemon trees and flowers enclosed by a miniature fence. Others hang tiny birdhouses and plastic birds to brighten up an otherwise dismal place. But, in Boston, where folks are most proper, there is little room for frivolity. A burial ground is just that. Try as I might, I cannot imagine a toy airplane atop Paul Revere's grave.