When I see an ancient headstone, I often wonder, “Who was the last person who was aware of who that person was?” “Who was the last person who knew them?” How long after someone is “laid to rest,” does anyone remember them? At what point are their lives and legacy lost to antiquity?
I was reviewing older pictures recently, and one stood out. The photo was of Mom and Dad and a small number of our family visiting the place where we had laid my little sister for what seemed to be an extremely long nap. The place where we laid this precious one-week-old baby has been sacred to our family for over fifty years. Many years and visits have cemented in my mind the details of this garden.
Stately old trees once surrounded this place, but now they are all gone. Folks began to “rest in peace” here in the late 1800s. This small garden of stones is beautiful, with different shades of gray and a few splashes of color. It’s approximately one acre of land, and each row is positioned orderly, so everyone knows their present or future spot.
Many of the family names I knew from years ago are here. I can see the headstone for Mr. Brownlee. Mr. Charles Brownlee was always present at church (he was Baptist, but his sweet wife was Methodist). On “workdays,” he would bring his push lawnmower to mow the church grass, and if it didn’t start by the second pull, he would begin dismantling it because he always expected it to start on the first pull. My close childhood friend John and I would make bets about which pull it would crank.
The marker for my childhood Sunday School teacher, Mrs. Francis, is here. Years ago, my wife, my sons, and I were in that community taking a drive (families used to get into their cars and drive without a destination in mind.) While we were driving, I saw Mrs. Francis sitting on her porch. I turned around and said, “I need to speak to that sweet lady.” I told Mrs. Francis I had fond memories of her teaching me and my friends the Bible. I’m not sure she remembered me, but she kindly said, “Thank you for stopping by; tell your folks hello for me.”
The headstone of the man who oversaw the construction of the “new” church building is towards the back. The resting place of a sweet young lady who tragically took her own life is here. Over to the left is Mrs. Mildred Daily’s spot. She drove a Ford Maverick at thirty-five miles per hour everywhere she went.
I have memories of Dad and me taking our family’s turn mowing and weeding this place. Back then, church members took turns cleaning the church and maintaining the church property. This was before we knew what a weed trimmer was. It was all done by hand. Our task usually took two or three hours (depending on how well the last family did their job.) For some reason, I was afraid somebody lying out there would reach up and grab my leg, so I kept moving with a close eye on where Dad was. As soon as we finished, I was in the car, ready to go.
Back to the picture, Dad was standing on a plot of grass where we would lay him in a few years. In 1971, Dad planted centipede grass around my sister’s resting place, and during these years, that grass carpet has spread and now covers the entire garden.
A few weeks after Dad died, while our tears were still falling and grief was heavy, I went to the spot where he was now resting and planted new sod where he once stood. Today, the grass he planted decades ago and the grass I planted a few years ago match perfectly. I think he would be proud.
Interestingly, families who are close in life are often separated in death, for I will not “rest” in this garden. Only three places are allotted to bear my family name here.
I’ve done my best to share the stories of these people and the importance of their lives. Yet, I wonder when their lives will no longer be remembered. Many stones bear the name “infant” and their family name. These little ones never walked or talked, and they never heard someone call their name. How could anyone remember them?
I’m convinced that every person resting here influenced everyone who followed them. I know the short life of a little sister and a man I was blessed to call Dad has…
Dirt Road Diaries 