I am a cemetery freak. On a road trip, I’m always dying to find the next good cemetery.
I’m a seasoned cemetery-spotter; my heart skips a beat when out in the middle of a cornfield, I catch sight of a group of uniform trees, a low rock wall or a high iron fence. If I’m really lucky I might even spy an arched entrance or the silhouettes of stones – simple arcs, crosses, spires, angels peaking above low rows of corn, soybeans, wheat.
During certain times of the year, cemeteries often become little islands lost in a sea of crops and weeds or blanketed altogether by drifting snow. No matter the season, I could lead you to long-forgotten graveyards all over the country.
My fascination with cemeteries isn’t morbid, merely practical. There is so much to be discovered in a memorial park: peaceful walking paths, headstones displaying intricate carvings and lyrical verse, local history. I take photos of gravestones, copy curious names and poetry down in my journal, and occasionally make charcoal rubbings.
Graveyards are the perfect place to walk the dogs. Of course, I always read the rules before entering and never take the dogs where they aren’t allowed. But still, I find the majority of cemeteries don’t ban my canine friends from enjoying the grassy grounds as long as I clean up after them.
Many cemeteries are fenced-in and have trashcans and running water – everything a dog-owner needs to take a pleasant stroll with the pooches. Often times the only shade for miles around can be found in a graveyard, making it a cool and comfortable place to relax on a hot summer day.
When I amble through a cemetery, I admire the monuments, peruse the writing. Each headstone is a work of art – an outdoor sculpture created to remember a life. Some stones are grand and complex, while others are merely names and dates etched into wet concrete with a stick – all are as varied as the people they honor.
I love to study the detailed carvings of unusual symbols derived from nature, religion, folklore, professional organizations, secret clubs – the imagery is endless. I recite the epitaphs; many quotes are taken from the works of famous authors or the Bible, while other verse is created by a loved one for a loved one – the only place you’ll ever see this writing is on the side of a stone.
I’ve discovered cemeteries are a great way to learn a little local history when you’re just passing through a town.
By reading gravestones, I catch a glimpse of the people who founded the area – when they arrived and where they came from. Just by noting the names and inscriptions, it’s easy to determine what ethnic groups once resided locally and who lives here now. I am often surprised to find certain nationalities dwelling in parts of the country I never would have imagined. Cemeteries are a reminder that the United States of America is the melting pot of the world.
A cemetery sightseer can also learn about natural disasters and historical tragedies through studying gravemarkers. I first became aware of the nation’s worst hard rock mining disaster at the Granite Mountain Mine in Butte after noting that many men in the local cemeteries all died on the same day – June 8, 1917. 168 miners perished.
Just a few nights ago, a friend and I took our dogs for a hike deep into a Morgan-Monroe State Park in southern Indiana – I knew a small country cemetery was hidden among a maze of dense hardwoods and I wanted to find it. It was raining – we stomped through the high, wet nettles and lush grass. Steam rose up from the backs of the dogs.
Finally, we stumbled across a stone wrapped with weeds. I pushed the dandelions aside with my sneaker, glanced down at the simple marker, and read the inscription out loud.
“We emerge afresh in plants, animals, and the lives of men,” it said.
“Kind of sums it all up,” my friend said smiling, water dripping from the bill of her baseball cap.
Nothing like a good cemetery.
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