Whispers from the Past

After my folks split up Dad moved to an old stone farmhouse his city-dwelling brother owned. Dad was more or less to be the caretaker of the buildings and property. It was one of the original farmhouses in that area, nestled in a snug valley like a pendant in an ample bosom. Up on one of the hills in the pasture was the family burial ground. There was a low, crumbling stone wall with chestnut trees at the 4 corners. Inside were the limestone grave markers going back as early as Colonial days. Several were in German. Many were worn beyond readability. Many times during visits with Dad I'd hike up the hill to sit in the shade of the trees or look at the old stones as I wondered about the people who rested there. It was my thinking place, my dreaming place, my listening place. I will admit to having a very overactive imagination as a young kid so as Halloween approached my visits became less frequent. I was afraid perhaps the dead might rise and carry me back to darkness with them. Once the dangerous date had passed though I'd resume my trips to the quiet place to imagine the lives of the people resting there.

When I was a little older my grandfather took my brother and me on a field trip of sorts. It was an unusual thing for him to have us by himself and I can't recall the circumstances leading to that arrangement but I do remember the day. He said he wanted to take us to a couple of cemeteries to meet some relatives. My brother and I must have looked a little shocked because Pop-pop asked us if it was going to give us bad dreams. He was well aware of my overactive imagination and how hard it sometimes was for me to shut it off at night. I told him I'd be fine. I understood this was an important day. We spent the afternoon going from graveyard to graveyard. Pop-pop never had to look very hard to find the headstones he wanted. I think he visited often. At each one we'd pause in a few moments of silence before the stories began. Pop-pop would tell us who each person was, how they were related. He'd tell us a bit about the person's character and then give the most memorable stories from their lives. I knew it was a solemn day of acquainting us with his side of the family who we could only know in this way. It wouldn't be until years later that I appreciated the depth of those moments. I have wished many times I had been able to make that trip with him again as a grown person. So yes, I've had a bit of a thing for old cemeteries for a long time.

My trip to Boston motivated me to finally get myself to one of the original cemeteries in my own town. The old Moravian cemetery is the resting place of the town founders. I've been meaning to pay them a visit for a long time but just never had since they are not located in an area of town that is a place where one usually parks and walks around. It's a thoroughfare where busy cars speed past. Friday night I stopped.

The first thing I noticed was the way the tree by the gate beckons you inside if you walk past rather than speed by in a car.

One of the first headstones I found was Susana's with a poetic epitaph at the bottom. I can't read the first line but the last 3 read,
"She was our joy and pride.
We loved her ah perhaps too well.
For soon she slept and died."

Nearby was this headstone. Certainly such sadness was more common a couple hundred years ago but it's never the natural order of things for a parent to outlive a child. I said a prayer for those folks I know personally who have endured this pain.

Here we have John Brown who apparently lived to a ripe old age. 1746-1827. This was the stone with the earliest dates that I found or was able to read. I took note that the flag holder marks him as a Revolutionary War veteran.

Several of the stones seemed to have this flower carving on them. This was the one which still had the clearest image. So many were terribly eroded.

This was the most ornate headstone I saw. I wondered if Mary was a woman of refined tastes or just so beloved that her family wanted her marker adorned like this.

I strolled among so many more stones which were too worn to read. Some were large, others very small. Some were broken. As you see with Mary's, some were quite ornate. There was also a section of very rough cut stone. I was intrigued by how simple and small they were. H.A. Lee's was less than a foot tall.


Finally, as the sun set, I left the graveyard. I thanked the occupants for providing me a quiet place to think. I thought perhaps I heard a whispered a thank you for the visit. The trees standing guard waved me on my way.