— A Sunday visit to Ferncliff’s Cathedral of Memories, where Hollywood’s brightest stars—and one unforgettable legend—seemed to whisper through the marble.
I had no idea that just a short drive from where I grew up stood one of the most remarkable resting places in New York—Ferncliff Cemetery, home to generations of brilliance from stage and screen to music and activism.
Among those interred here are Christopher Reeve, Oscar Hammerstein II, Jim Henson, John Lennon, James Baldwin, Thelonious Monk, Betty Furness, Ed Sullivan, Judy Tyler, Cornell Woolrich, Yul Brynner, Malcolm X, and Moms Mabley—a constellation of creative souls who shaped American art and culture.
But on this quiet Sunday afternoon with my fiancé, my heart was set on visiting one star in particular—Joan Crawford.
Ferncliff’s oldest mausoleum, the Cathedral of Memories, was built in 1928, and stepping inside truly feels like walking into another time. The marble corridors stretch endlessly, lined with stained glass and the names of icons etched in stone. The air is still, almost sacred—like the hush before a curtain rises.
We spent hours wandering those halls, map in hand, chasing after names from Hollywood’s golden age. Even with digital kiosks and maps, the place is enormous—beautiful, but easy to lose yourself in.
And yet, somehow, I found Joan right away.
She rests beside her husband, Al Steele, her name carved in simple elegance. A small bench sits before her crypt, inviting you to linger—and I did. I sat quietly for a long while, just gazing at her name. Then I reached out and touched the cool marble, whispering a silent thank-you for her talent, her movies, and her indelible mark on cinema.
That’s when something strange happened.
The moment my fingers brushed her name, I heard a faint knocking—coming from inside the wall. I froze. Then I touched it again. Knock. Knock. I tried the same with other nearby crypts—nothing. Only hers replied.
Was it the building settling, or something more? I’ll never know. But it felt oddly comforting, as if Joan was letting me know she was still very much present.
Ferncliff was once the original resting place of Judy Garland before her remains were moved to Hollywood Forever Cemetery in 2017.
Each name we found felt like opening a new reel in a never-ending film—one filled with art, music, and history. I didn’t capture any photos of the grounds themselves; at first, I felt a bit uneasy taking pictures there. Some places are meant to be experienced in quiet reverence, not through a lens.
But I did take a few photos of the incredible souls who helped shape the golden age of entertainment—artists whose light still flickers on the screen, even now.
Among them was my birthday twin—Sherlock Holmes himself, Basil Rathbone, whose elegant intensity and unmistakable voice defined an era of mystery on screen.
Nearby, I paid my respects to director Preston Sturges, the genius behind some of the sharpest, most sparkling comedies of Hollywood’s golden years.
I also found Conrad Veidt, the hauntingly expressive actor who gave us The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari and Casablanca’s unforgettable Major Strasser—his presence as striking in rest as it was in life.
Close by was Jerome Kern, the legendary composer of Show Boat and countless timeless melodies that still drift through classic cinema.
Then there was Lya De Putti, the tragic silent-era beauty whose career burned brightly but briefly. I couldn’t help but linger there a while, thinking about how fleeting fame can be, yet how art always endures.
Side by side in eternal partnership rest Ossie Davis and Ruby Dee, one of Hollywood’s most powerful and inspiring couples—actors, activists, and symbols of love and purpose.
I found one of my favorite silent actors, Richard Barthelmess.
Star of Broken Blossoms and Way Down East, his quiet strength and expressive eyes helped bridge the art of silent film into the age of sound.
Ona Munson — Beloved character actress best known as Belle Watling in Gone With the Wind. A Broadway favorite whose warmth and wit shone brightly on screen.
Finally, I stood before Hugh Marlowe, a familiar face from All About Eve and The Day the Earth Stood Still,
and Paul Robeson, whose deep voice and unshakable dignity transcended stage, screen, and history itself.
And as I left those marble halls behind, I couldn’t help but smile at the thought that somewhere, in her own glamorous way, Miss Crawford was giving me one last close-up!
