I’ve always been drawn to old cemeteries. The headstones that are crooked and worn, the names fading away with time till someday…no one knows who the departed was nor to whom they were dear. There is always a note of sadness in that. I’ve had people say as long as you continue to speak of him and keep him in your heart, he’s still with you. Yes…and no. HIs memory is always and forever with me. He is not. He is gone…never to return. The finality struck me deeply in the second year of my grief journey when I was no longer numb and couldn’t pretend anymore.

What happens to these old headstones and the people they hover over? When no one ever speaks the names because they are gone from the memory of those who came after? In my genealogy research, I visited the graves of my great great grandparents. But I didn’t know them. I had never met them. The only thing I knew were maybe a couple of stories and a glimpse of what they looked like in a grainy photograph of a photograph. My children, grandchildren, great grandchildren? What will they know of them if I don’t tell them or write it down.

That is one of the ripple effects of this blog. What started out as my way of walking through a very dark valley has turned, not only into a chronicle of my life and travels, but that of the generations before me. I hope someday that my great great grandchildren will read the words I’ve set down here and see the photographs I’ve posted. I want them to know and understand their roots. I want them to know ME. Then maybe, when the letters have faded from my own headstone, they’ll have a part of me that still lives on. A legacy, as it were. 

It is a Jewish tradition to place a small stone on a headstone you have visited. That way, when others come, they know someone has been there to honor their loved one. I remember the first time I went to visit Mr. Virgo’s grave after someone left something there for him. It was a pack of his favorite cigarettes. I’ve found new stones in the circle surrounding his grave as well as the occasional golf ball or coin. It’s good to know others remember him. His family have largely cut all contact with me, so I have no idea if they ever come to visit him. They all live out of state, so I doubt it seriously.

I only go to Colorado once a year now. I always visit the cemetery as many times as I can. I clean up his grave and replace the stones in the circle. I always leave something to mark when I’ve visited. This past summer, I noticed how grown up the cemetery was because of the heavy spring rains. Yet, Mr. Virgo’s grave was weeded and neat as a pin. I stopped the groundskeeper my last visit of the trip and thanked him. When I moved away in 2014, I pressed a crisp $100 bill in his hand and implored him to look after the grave as I wouldn’t be there regularly anymore. With tears in his eyes, he swore he would. And he has.

The cemetery in this photo is in Twin Falls State Park here in West Virginia. What struck me first was the markers. There were the typical headstones…these with hand carved names indicating the poverty and remoteness of the region and the times. There were also stones at the foot of the grave. This gave a true visual of how many of these graves were occupied by children. The closer these stones were together, the younger the child. Well over half the graves were those of young children. Primitive rural healthcare, rampant infectious diseases, and poverty all contributed to high mortality in children prior to the twentieth century. I found several instances in my own genealogy research where families lost multiple children within days of each other. 

I don’t know that visiting graves is something that interests the younger generations. I was raised going. We even had picnics in the cemetery on Decoration Day where my paternal ancestors are buried. I took my kids, but I don’t know that they will continue that with their own children. Maybe when they are older and feel their own mortality creeping in. We all seem to change our priorities as we approach the finish line, don’t we?

❤️

““Where, O death, is your victory? Where, O death, is your sting?””

1 Corinthians 15:55 NIV