This is a fairly old (by American standards) graveyard, seemingly lost in a small clearing halfway up a mountain in Ryerson State Park, about twenty miles from our town. Most of the markers are too old and worn to read in their entirety.
From a distance, the stones seem as if they're merely littered around between trees. Many of them are falling over in the rich soil, packed about with rotting leaves and loam, but of course this is not the case. . .somebody must care for the cemetery; trees are sparse within the running fence and none of the stones have cracked in two as a result of tree trunks.
My sister and I used to hike back to a cemetery in North Carolina, and that one had a gravestone so old and neglected that a tree had hewn it in two and left it crumbling into the soil. When we visited the same neighborhood as adults, we found that the miles of our forest--tall pines, thick dogwoods and other deciduous trees, shady creeks with clear water and sandy bottoms perfect for wading--were long gone, given way to an enormous housing development. And our graveyard, the one where we used to sit on a gravestone and eat our packed lunches? Well, that was now in the middle of the development, on the top of a fenced hill with a proper little path.
I have a feeling it will be an age before Pine Box Trail meets the same fate. As we walked among the gravestones, Beatrix plunged her fingers into patches of thick green moss, the same type of moss that we'd walked over at the base of the trail; it had stretched before us into the darkness of the woods, unbelievably lush and springy underfoot.
In the glory of a rainy autumn day with the colors of changing trees glowing around us, we imagined a party of pall bearers, or more likely, a mule, dragging a coffin up the wide mountain path.
"I feel as if we should sing them a song at least while we're up here," I said, to which Martin's friend, Jeff, countered,
"I think just reading the stones pays respect to the people buried here," and I had to agree. Anyway, the trees did more singing than I could have--a song of seasons, age, regeneration, beauty. A good song.
*Martin Cockroft took all the photos.
3 comments:
I was so interested to read your post. A couple years ago my sister and I went on an incredible genealogical journey to Pennsylvania to try and trace our ancestors who had immigrated there in the 17th, 18th and 19th centuries. We had some sketchy information on the graves of some of them near Allenport, and by driving around the area and asking local residents (always very friendly and helpful!) we actually found the graves. They looked similar to the ones you found. Tumble-down, abandoned, in a patch of forest surrounded by new housing developments. During a visit to the Washington, PA, historical society, we learned that there is no protection for such gravestones. If the property is bought by a developer, they are just plowed under. I'm glad to hear you are honoring the graves you found!
Barbara,
Thanks for the comment. Washington, PA, is far more developed than our rather rural town (though only about 20-30 miles away). It's crazy that cemetaries can just be bulldozed--in fact, I just heard a story about such a thing happening years ago down the street from us. Apparently, somebody has the marker stones worked into their patio now.
I'm glad you tracked down the graves; there's something really good about finding evidence of your roots.
Most developers around here are more sensitive. When they realize they have stumbled across an old graveyard, the effort is made to move it. Or they go around it if possible.
Sometimes if it is really old, and the markers small and decayed no one knows.
Sad, but that is the way of man on the earth.
"Ashes to ashes, dust to dust."
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