A Stroll Through Time

Every year, on the first Saturday night in October, the old city cemetery here in Gallatin comes alive for one night only. A bold sign at the gate declares this elegant and mysterious place off limits after dark. But on this magical evening that sign is ignored, and we are invited in by the soft glow of paper lanterns lit by the spirits themselves.

We meet about a half-dozen spirits every year, each with a poignant story to tell. They wait for us at their final resting place, embracing a rare opportunity to be more than just a name carved into a stone.Their stories resonate with life and love and laughter and loss. They remind us that once, they were just like us. And that one day, we too will be a forgotten name carved into a crumbling stone.

It seems to me that every year, the weather turns cold in Gallatin just in time for the cemetery tour. The wind kicks up and the clouds hang thick and you can feel the spirits listening. Call it coincidence if you like, but I think they want us to know they are there.

Years ago, I lived in an apartment right in front of this old cemetery. People used to ask me all the time if it was creepy to be so close to all those dead people. Maybe it should have been, but it wasn't. I was young and newly divorced. My life was in turmoil in many different ways. It was late May when I moved into that apartment, and there were many nights that summer when I crossed my back yard in bare feet and a nightshirt to stroll through the cemetery in the dark, even though it was supposed to be off limits and is within a stone's throw of a not-so-great part of town. But it was the one place in the world where I could go to find peace. No one would find me there, I knew. I could turn off everything else and clear my mind. That place is where my love of cemeteries was born.

These images are from the Gallatin Cemetery Tour in 2010. Forgive the poor quality! In the two tours since this one, I have never been able to get a picture worth posting. They never turn out well on tour night. Perhaps the spirits would rather be heard than seen.

 

 

In the weeks to come, I will be posting more pictures and stories about some of my favorite cemeteries. Come back and have a look! I hope you'll learn to love and appreciate them the way I do. Its amazing what they can tell us about the past.

Cities of Silence

Call me weird, but I love cemeteries. I love the grandiose tombs left behind by wealthy egomaniacs, still determined to show off, even in death. I love finding faded and forgotten ephitaphs which resonate with sorrow and loss. You get the tiniest glimpse of someone's life...someone who's been gone for a very long time, perhaps. Someone who no one remembers anymore. It gives you an idea of who they were and of how deeply their loss was felt by those they left behind. It brings them all to life for a moment.

I like hand-made monuments most of all, I think. They represent for me a very pure kind of love. A reluctance of a loved one to leave the grave of their beloved unmarked, simply because they could not afford a fancy stone. I've seen stones that look like they were made from Quickcrete poured into a mold, with the names, dates and epitaphs scrawled in with a stick while it hardened. For some of these poor departed, that stone may be the only tangible record left of their life; one that may have been as full and rich as any life that was ever lived, for all we know.

I especially like discovering old stones that are almost unreadable, that have faded with neglect and take time and effort to be deciphered. It's like finding a lost treasure, reading those words which perhaps no one has taken the trouble to read in decades. Thats what happened with this stone, which I stumbled across in an old cemetery not far from where I live.

While on a walk last summer, I passed this old churchyard cemetery, which is not all that remarkable at first glance. What drew me to it was the dead black cat lying in front of one of the graves. Can you see it there, in front of the obelisk-shaped tombstone? I thought to myself then, how strange for a cat to choose that particular spot to die. I wondered if maybe someone had put it there as a morbid sort of joke.

This is a close-up of the poor cat, looking quite a bit worse for wear in the humid midsummer heat of Tennessee. If not for this little guy, I would never have looked twice at this old cemetery, least of all at the unattractive, broken obelisk that marked the grave where this unfortunate feline met his end.

The side of the stone facing the road (I think this would be the west-facing side) reads as follows:


(the top of the stone is broken off or has crumbled away, there is unfortunately no way of knowing how much of it is gone or what was written on that part of the stone)

                                                           ........the mortal
                                                                 remains of
                                                          JOHN WEATHERED
                                                              who was born
                                                            in Chesterfield County
                                                                  Virginia on
                                                           the 13(or 18?) day of
                                                                February 1773
                                                                   and died on
                                                                  the 5. day of
                                                                December 1857
                                                                 Aged 84 years.

                                                           West-facing side of obelisk
                                                             


The side of the stone facing the church ( the east-facing side, I think) bears the epitaph, which is one of the most moving I have ever seen anywhere, either before or since. It reads:


                           (continuation from upper portion of stone which is missing)

                                                              .......is erected by
                                                                   his neighbors
                                                                    as a tribute of
                                                                     their respect
                                                                     and veneration
                                                                  it needs no inscription
                                                                    to commemorate
                                                                 his virtuousness(virtues?)
                                                                  they are embalmed
                                                                       in the hearts
                                                                      of those who
                                                                     knew him and
                                                                    their influence
                                                                    will be felt long
                                                                    after this stone
                                                                      shall crumble
                                                                    and mingle with
                                                                          his dust.

                                                     East facing side of obelisk, with epitaph


I was so moved by these heartfelt words, left behind by the friends of this elderly man who died more than one hundred and fifty years ago. He must have been a remarkable man, but this stone is all that is left of him. I wonder how long it has been since anyone has thought about him, or read his name aloud. But al these years later, we can still read these words and get a sense of who he was.
 I love that.

Last month I spent a week in Savannah, GA, and visited Bonaventure Cemetery. This is perhaps the most beautiful cemetery on earth. My next post will contain some of my favorite monuments from there.

The book is on indefinite hold, since writer's block has held me in the palm of it's ugly hand all summer long. Now that fall is here, I hope to finish the damn thing before long. In the meantime, enjoy my cemetery pictures. That's all I got to show for a summer spent enjoying myself and not writing a lick.