Don't Ya Know: Churchyard Socials

I enjoy a good cemetery. I’m not sure why. Possibly it’s the silence, or maybe the history, or sometimes just a beautiful fence. For that matter it might be the names, the trees, the mystery, or the location. I’ve planned visits to specific graveyards, and I've stopped the car to peruse a resting ground by a roadside, or to follow arrows to old family plots here and there. I have laughed, cried, worked, and played in cemeteries.

My novel, Don’t Ya Know, has a cemetery in it that plays an important role in the story:

“The cemetery stood in a field off the turn-around where the shell road ended, not far from the Shellfoots’ land and a good stretch from Scylla’s Cove below. An expansive wrought-iron fence surrounded a motley outcropping of gravestones. Some of the island’s earliest dwellers were laid to rest there; two graves, with faded names, dated back to the 1730s. Several slates stood like tiny teeth among them. They were markers for small children.”

I incorporated the cemetery into the book after a trip to St. Simon’s Island in Georgia where a friend took me to a family plot, nestled back off a main road at the side of the property where her ancestors lived and died.

St. Simon's

My friend hadn’t been there in a while, and when we approached she let out a gasp. The burial grounds had been vandalized. The intricately-wrought, iron fence had been destroyed, parts of it stolen for salvage. Several of the grave markers had been pummeled. Recovering from the shock of the sight, my friend introduced the dead, those she knew and those whose stories she had learned. She pointed to a strip of graves at the far end of the plot. The stones were simple, just names and dates - no angels, no scrolls. This is where the family’s servants were buried, not apart from but honored within the borders of the fence. I was struck by the power of that in contrast to the disrespect dealt by the 21st century grave robbers.

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On a recent trip to New York, my husband and I stopped at the Records’ Office of Calvary Cemetery, one of the oldest burial grounds in the US which has the largest number of interments: More than 3 million, all Roman Catholics, in 500,000 plots over 364 acres owned by the Archdiocese of New York. There have been four expansions, the last occurring when graves had to be moved to build the Long Island Expressway. My mother’s family members, 8 of them, are buried in “Third Calvary.” The plot was purchased in 1902 by my grandfather, James Joseph O'Neill. A child was buried then. We found this out from a genial, office worker who actually provided great customer service. He looked my grandfather up in a microfiche database and then hauled out a huge leather binder from a vast library. There are no computer records. All information comes from the original files, so precise dates are required. He found my relatives in section 32.

Calvary

It was a misty day in June when we visited. A large, pink marble marker indicates the O’Neills’ resting place. There are no individual names for the interred, but I know who most are. Few of the dead were very old. Most were victims of immigration, tuberculosis, grief, and heredity. I paused for a moment, placing a stone on the marker and murmuring “Thank you." Later I reasoned I was acknowledging how hard their lives had been - theirs and so many of the others whose monuments rose and fell into the horizon of a settling fog that blocked the city's skyline. The scope seemed infinite.

Calvary

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Several years ago, my sister and I made a trip to Elm Springs which is my paternal grandmother’s birthplace in Columbia, Tennessee. We came on a lark to connect with our heritage, at least the part of it that isn’t second generation, New York Irish. We arrived to discover that the house we’d known from a grainy, black and white photo is an historical site, the headquarters of the Sons of Confederate Veterans. Our visit became more solemn.

Elm Springs

We learned Elm Springs, built in 1837 on an old stagecoach road, served as the Confederate headquarters of General Frank E. Armstrong in 1864. We were told by a docent that when the Yankees came, a loyal slave attempted to burn the manse down rather than have it occupied by Union soldiers. For proof, the docent opened the door to a scorched closet. This bore witness to a story our dad had told us, and at that moment we realized we really are a part of this place.

Todd Cemetery, Elm Springs

We asked to visit the family cemetery which sits on a hill to the left of the house. Walking within its stacked-stone walls, we felt an eerie sense of wonder. An obelisk rises from the center of the plot. It honors James Dick Todd, 21, the first to be interred in 1843. There are approximately 11 graves. All are clearly marked with the Todds, Looneys and others who came along. However three of the graves bear only initials: ABW, STW, and MP. There are no records indicating who they are. I’d like to think one of them honors the loyal slave who tried to save Elm Springs from the Yankees.

But I don't know. That's the thing about heritage, one takes what one finds, and unfortunately that usually involves some kind of war. Those stories are told in old cemeteries, too. My paternal tree dates back to the Virginia grave of a great, great (etc.) uncle who fought England in the Revolution. My friend's Georgia family and my Tennessee kin waged a war among cousins, North and South. The O'Neills' fight was with immigration on the streets of New York in the 1890s. And so many wars followed. Maybe that's what I like about cemeteries: At last, after all of life's turbulence, death has brought an ironic peace.

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(to be continued, don't ya know. I've visited many a cool cemetery)