In a little town in the western United States is a small-town cemetery. To walk or drive-in, you must traverse over a cattle-guard left over from when the cows roamed free closer to town.
In this place, I am connected. It is a strange feeling to feel connected to a graveyard.
Are there cemeteries where people know half of the residents buried there anymore? Because this is that cemetery for me. Each time I find myself in town, I am drawn to it.
Upon entering, my first stop is always to visit the grave of my childhood next-door neighbor. She died at the age of 15 after her stepbrother accidentally shot and killed her. On one side of her, is her little brother’s grave who died several years later in a car accident. On the other side is her grandmother’s headstone, Rula Spencer, my 3rd-grade teacher. But she’s not my only teacher buried there. My Kindergarten teacher lies here, as well as Sunday-school teachers.
Moving just a couple of graves over is my paternal grandparent’s graves. I was there as we laid each of them to rest. Nearby are a set of my great-grandparents, an uncle, an aunt, a great aunt. And let’s not forget her husband, Uncle James. I love to tell the story of Uncle James. Several years before he died, his leg was removed for health reasons. But he was worried about making sure that he could find his leg in the resurrection. It was not going to be thrown away with other medical waste. He took it to the cemetery, had it buried, and there lies with its own marker, James McInelly’s Leg.
So many people I knew now reside in this cemetery.
A man who some would label as the town drunk, before he died used to ride his bike to the cemetery and sleep amongst the graves, begging to be taken so that alcohol wouldn’t tempt him any longer. This story has always stayed with me.
Years ago, teenagers were having a little too much fun and decided to shoot the lamb’s heads off all the children’s headstones. I can’t imagine how that felt for the families. I was part of a group that helped to cast new heads for the lambs and restore the headstones.
Late last year we laid to rest my Aunt Mary. As we were saying a prayer at the grave, a heavy metal pipe from the awning they place over graves for the service to protect the family from the elements, fell and hit her sister on the head. More than one person asked her sister what she had done to make Aunt Mary so mad at her she’d come after her with a pipe from the grave.
So many lives were laid to rest here. So many stories.
I wonder.
Is this normal?
Do people have cemeteries where they know half of the inhabitants? And are related to another third?
This cemetery pulls me back no matter how far I wander from it. It calls me home frequently. I heed the call when I can.
These people-
Sherilyn Piquet
Andy Robinson
Helen Shurtz
Mary and Vern Lyman
Randel and Gwen Lyman
Milton Woolsey
And so many more
Their stories live those who knew them. They are part of the fabric of my life. Each played a part in who I am. My life experiences.
Somewhere in the western U.S. lies a cemetery. . .
I love this!! Only because I can relate to the story on so many different levels. As a child, living in Wasilla. Long before what it is now; it was a four way red light, Teeland’s was the only store, Iditarod elementary was actually all the way thru 8th grade and one high school. (lol..can you tell I am old?) I used to peddle my bike down that gravel road to the cemetery. The green from the trees, the old markers, I knew no one, I was a kid who didn’t even understand death. But that place held something magical for me. I wasn’t afraid. It was beautiful. I might just make a special drive to see if I can find that place now, things have changed so much out there. If I am back in the village, I know way to many that are buried there and I know their stories, I know their secrets. I visit and pay respect. Small town cemeteries are the best. They are comforting, they hold histories. Lol, now you have me questing me; am I strange?
Not strange! Love it!