Like most people, I never particularly cared for cemeteries, never would think of visiting one for pleasure or education. That’s changed. But let me go back to the beginning. Picture it: 1958. On the subway one day, going from Brooklyn to Manhattan, mom and I met one of our 100,000 relatives, Julia. It seemed that wherever we went, we met relatives. How could that be? Our family wasn’t that big and most of its members were still living in the Middle East. I speculated that maybe in Lebanon if a water pipe ran under your house and the neighbor’s, then you were related.
I think these New York relatives were what some Americans would refer to as shirt-tail cousins. There was my grandmother’s cousin’s wife, whom we had to call “aunt” out of respect for her advanced age. Currently she is 104 (if her date of birth is to be believed) and she’s still kicking – literally – no walker or wheelchair for her. There was my grandmother’s cousin’s wife’s mother whose arms still had the hint of the indigo dye the women of Yemen used to dye cloth. I remember she always colored her hair black just in case her dead husband looked down from heaven. She didn’t want him to see her with grey hair. There was also my “uncle” who was my second cousin’s godfather. There were many more, but you get the drift. It can be a bit of a mind-spin for a kid. Oddly, the mystery was cleared up when I visited the midwestern United States.
I was newly married and getting to know my in-laws. They lived in a small town in Iowa, my second husband’s hometown. It’s population is under five hundred. I grew up in an apartment complex in Brooklyn that housed at least that many people. The visit gave me some new perspectives. I had never been someplace where there were more cows and chickens than people and more corn than weeds. I found myself in the cemetery one day and was surprised to see so many people had the same last name or were married to someone with that same name or were somehow related to about half the others in the cemetery. The light went on …
For the most part, the members of our family came from a couple of small mountain villages. The people like Julia that mom said were relatives probably were related to us, however distantly. It hit me too that cemeteries where neither scary nor depressing. They offered an opportunity to connect with the past and to let it speak. That thought came back to me recently when my photographer friend, Wendy Alger, and I went to Redwood City for a photo shoot at the historic Union Cemetery, home to approximately 2,400 people who died during or after the American Civil War.
As I walked around the six acre site, the number of graves for babies and toddlers made me appreciate living in a time when infant mortality isn’t so common. I was struck by the clear expressions of love in the way graves of married couples were juxtaposed and in the sentiments carved on headstones. I was intrigued to see fresh flowers on a grave that was about a hundred or more years old. I wondered who put them there. I noted graves with a date of death but no birth date, and this is the second western cemetery I’ve visited where Native Americans appear to be buried in a communal grave. No names. I had to ask myself what it was all for … the war that is … and any war for that matter. We all end up in the same place. Maybe that’s the best lesson or the only real lesson. Life is too short and much too precious for war.
UNION CEMETERY PHOTOS
Historic Site
American Civil War (1861-1865)
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Essay and photos ~ Jamie Dedes, 2012 All rights reserved
My country also has a guilty history of communal graves. It is very, very shameful.
You and I have delighted in some of the similarities in our lives. Well my friend, here are two that are not similar. I have almost no relatives of my knowing and I have always loved cemeteries. This was a lovely slide show and great piece. Very good to see you back. I have missed you.
This is truly a well written piece. You had me thinking about the “whole” picture, here, of man being the family of man. I also like the twist on the different look at a cemetary and I think I will remember what you said, here, the next time I am in one. Thank you, Jamie.
Strange how a graveyard can reflect so much of our history…an excellent series of photos and post.
Sometimes one or more families will take on the upkeep of a cemetery or sections of one. My father and his two brothers kept one small cemetery well tended for years.
So many cemeteries…so many stories. Personally, I would love to troll all the cemeteries in NV ghost towns.
If I could, I would visit graveyards when would be spending contract time in a particular location. (Can you think of a safer place to wander at will without interruption?) The names, locations, types, conditions sometimes provided an intro to names I would be hearing throughout School District business.
Different cultures bore differences in headstones, methodologies, photos, conditions, etc. Sometimes I would just be still and watch movies – as though each wanted to tell their story.
I have not yet settled on a way to dispose of my body. Every legal approach gives me one “yuk” or another. Perhaps the gold miner who struck it rich in the far north had the right idea. He had a metal coffin built so well that it was filled with whiskey and his body – ‘sloshingly’ shipped back to England.
I actually like cemetaries and seem to have always been drawn to them. I have a couple of posts about them on my site. It is amazing when you visit that one finds the things you did and I believe all cemetaries are like that. I so agree with you about war, though, as my oldest son has been overseas now 4 times and was slated to go again but did not. He he not quite the same as he once was and I see no real usefulness for fighting except that for the human race it seems to be the nature of human beings to do so. Thank you for this post.
You are one of my favorite writers. This piece was truly lovely and thought provoking. I often wonder about my distant and sad to admit not so distant relatives, who through circumstance I don’t even know. My husband’s family has not allowed that to happen, they still gather for an annual reunion. Perhaps, this year we will actually attend. Your piece propels me that direction. Thank you.
I love your essay and wonderful photos of the cemetery, Jamie.
When my sisters and I went to North Florida for our sister’s get-a-way week recently, my youngest sister and I visited the cemetery of Apalachicola twice. We found it so interesting…and so peaceful.
Beautifully written, my friend! I myself love walking in my local city cemetery although the gravestones reading “our Lily” or “little Joe” elicit a sigh.
Great article, and photographic coverage. You don’t look old enough to have been riding in a subway with Mama in 1958, unless, you were riding in mama, of course. Yemen, Huh? Maybe you are descendant of Queen of Sheba…Bless You
paul
Thank you for sharing your thoughts and photos, Jamie. I did not know that there were so many Indian tribes buried in communal graves.
I like cemeteries, myself, and the peace they seem to exude. But you are right about the lesson…I wish more people realized that truth.
Jamie your blog is very beautiful, wow.
love the moon image on your header..
knowing that your birthday is this month, mentioned you in the post,
hope all is well.
bless you.