I love exploring cemeteries and the mountains are full of them. Sometimes, one or two straggling graves off to themselves, sometimes quite large enclosures. Often I wander by to our community cemetery to visit, as it is full of memories and stories. Some known and some unknown. I always talk to the residents as if they are still living. Before you ask, I will tell you that if any of them answer me, then I will probably be laying among the tombstones with them. I don’t expect them to answer, but somehow I always feel they can hear me. “Look Lucy, someone has gotten mud all over your stone and your flowers are laying down flat. I’ll fix it for you.” “If only you hadn’t of had to drive that icy night John, then maybe you would have still be with us.” It is a whole wealth of emotions and memories that return as I wander from grave to grave.
There is Vernie, I remember Vernie so well. He use to ride his mule by our house when we were children. Maybe I should say the mule use to bring Vernie by our house. Vernie had usually had a wee too much to drink and the mule would come up the road with Vernie rocking back and forth on his back, bouncing from first one side and then the other. We always watched him until he got out of sight as we had a bet on if he would fall off or not. It looked probable, but he never did. That left me to wonder if upon arriving home he slept on the back of the mule, or fell off and slept on the ground. Maybe some kind person drug him in the house and put him to bed.
Over there is Roby. I never actually knew Roby, but always heard about him. It seems he wore one of the men’s fur raccoon coats favored in the 1920’s. But Roby put on his fur one night and he too had too much to drink. Being a little unsteady on his feet, Roby got down and crawled across the foot log which can never lead to any good. Then it happened, in the poor light, someone shot Roby for being a bear. Luckily, Roby lived through the shooting incident and hopefully didn’t drink alcohol anymore when he wore his fur coat.
A smile breaks across my face as I spy Jack. Jack loved the music and dancing. He may not have been the best, but was certainly among one of the most dedicated. At every hoe down someone had to play “Whoa Mule Whoa” as Jack loved to do the braying part. When the mule solo came up in the song, Jack would rare back his head and give such a powerful, loud “hew haw” that you would swear you were in the barnyard. He could do a fairly good mule and made everyone smile. It made his pretty happy too. He was a mountain man, that Jack.
Over there is William, with the rest of my family. William might be among my kin folks, but I better not say and then tell the memory I tell of him. William was known as a good dancer in the community. His main claim to fame, that he danced for Eleanor Roosevelt when she came through on her tour. His family was right proud of this little fact until they spoke to someone who was there. It seems, they reported, that William had knocked anyone else, who tried to dance with him, off the stage. I guess that kept the competition down a bit. Then there was the story of him at the community dance when he wasn’t allowed to dance. I don’t know the reason he wasn’t allowed. Maybe the other dancers wanted to stay on the stage. Anyway, he hired the band, loaded them up on the back of a truck and went off down the road dancing away. I guess the community dance couldn’t continue without a band. All I know is, if William was dancing you should probably just leave him alone.
There with no tombstone, but just a plain stone is Lee. I was said that Lee returned from the Civil War with a festering wound on his leg. His father had to hold Lee’s leg in the ice cold water of Helton Creek to try and numb the leg, so he could cut away the dead flesh. The pain and anguish of that act would be unbelievable. As hard for the father as for the son.
There is a long line of plain field stones arranged for the family who lost all members to typhoid. A sad sight to see as you think about the whole family being lost, their names never to be known. As is the grave of a small six year old whose family must have left the area and been forced to leave him all alone. It was a common during the time to maybe never be able to return to the grave of a loved one.
So much sorrow, so much happiness, so much life now all quietly tucked away in their resting place. Memories fading away of lives lived, adventures explored, sorrows endured. Life goes on and people are never forgotten, they continue to exist as long as they are remembered.
