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By JEFFERSON WEAVER
Staff writer
I’d spotted the graveyard once or twice before, briefly, but it always evaded re-detection like the mythical town of Brigadoon.
People told me it was there, nestled among the trees a few yards from a sleepy country road. They’d seen it, and at least one fellow told me he’d attended a burial there years before. I’d even been inside the old family homeplace, a wonderful, rambling combination of antebellum, Victorian, and utilitarian architecture built to be lived in, now just a home to memories and mice.
But I couldn’t find the burial ground, until a late winter morning when spring was more than a bright spot of hope on the horizon. The sun broke gloriously through the late blue of the dawn, silhouetting the gravestones .
In terms of quantity, it was a disappointment, since only a handful of graves mark the earthly remains of a mother, father, two daughters and two sons. The fence is half block, half woven wire fence of a kind once popular for cemeteries and flower gardens.
I’ve always found cemeteries fascinating, even restful (no pun intended). Tiny as this one was, forgotten and all but overgrown, it was no exception.
The mother and father came of age in the time of the War Between the States. I haven’t checked to see if the father served, although his age is about right.
I’ve been told the couple was married in 1864, when he was 17 and she was 15; while such ages are unthinkable for newlyweds now, that wasn’t the case in a time where 40 was old.
As I cast about the wall, looking for evidence of sunken or forgotten graves, I noticed pieces of a large whelk shell atop the youngest daughter’s grave. A treasured souvenir from a rare, pre-auto trip to the beach, one which started on a riverboat and finished on a trolley or horse-drawn wagon?
Perhaps her children took her to the coast or “the city” as her years advanced and she was alone near the family place.
Or maybe someone just happened to find the shell and place it there on her grave.
I wondered why, since at least a couple of the siblings married and had children, there were no graves other than the six in the little plot. Two generations have passed since the last grave was dug there, so I’m sure someone else has passed on to their final reward.
So where are the husbands and wives and children who often met with unfortunate, early deaths back when the house was only middle aged?
The farm was once a producer of tobacco and corn, turpentine and cattle; now the house is but an embarrassed remnant, a seedy old lady whose once-swept yard is overgrown with pulpwood trees and deer trails, with cars that were junked two decades ago buried under pinestraw and broken limbs.
Scavengers, vandals and thieves have stripped mantelpieces and the staircase from the home, and what doors remain have long since been used for target practice. A fancy, hand-operated wringer washer that, according to an old catalog, cost $19.95, plus freight, is now little more than a rusted container for pine cones and one very angry copperhead.
The grapevine where the lady of the house once grew the base of jams and jellies sags in hopes of being forgotten amidst the weeds.
But the little cemetery stands alone, the sandy soil of the ridge not good for growing much more than moss. Scrub oaks and pines surround the burial ground, and someone took the time years ago to tighten the fence with a piece of baling wire, plant a couple of rose bushes, and clean the tombstones.
They need cleaning again, of course, but I doubt the family cares. They made their mark with a home once known for happiness and hospitality; the parents tore the farm from the forests, working day and night (and not having their first child until they’d been married six years).
Apparently they had enough of an impact on their children’s lives that, even after obeying the biblical injunction to cleave unto a spouse, the grown children wanted to be buried with their folks.
Do we still have families like that? I hope so.
While nature is slowly tearing down the farm they built, nature is protecting the graveyard as well, hiding the old fence and whelk shell from any save those who are determined to find the cemetery. As I left, I noted that the gate hinges were sticking, and I promised myself to oil them the next time I passed by. I figured it would be polite.
Even though that graveyard may disappear from time to time, hidden by tight schedules and a tighter forest, travelers occasionally find the place. I hope they too, will wonder about the love of a family, and the secrets hidden behind a rusty gate.
Weaver is a staff writer at The News Reporter. He may be reached via e-mail at jeffweaver@newsreporter.biz, or via telephone at 642-4104, ext 227.
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