The Menendez Coffin in St. Augustine, Florida

Is it a casket or a coffin? This question is an old one that is guaranteed to make any funeral director raise an eyebrow and sneer if answered improperly. My impression was always that a casket is the newer style of burial container, the ones that look like fancy boxes. The coffin usually refers to a plainer box with a shape to it, like a toe-pincher. I love them both.

When I was a kid growing up in Tallahassee I had to go on a field trip to St. Augustine just about every year when I was in elementary school. The obligatory stop was the Fountain of Youth and the Mission Nombre de Dios, the site of the first Mass in St. Augustine in 1565. The Mission was always my favorite. The churchyard had beautiful old oaks and was on the water, so there was always a nice breeze and a pretty view. Even then I loved the lichen-covered headstones and the smell of the inside of the chapel, like incense and candle wax. It’s a magical place, so please be sure to visit.

Inside the onsite museum is the casket of General Pedro Menendez de Aviles, who came here to colonize the land for Spain and to convert the Indians to Christianity; he essentially brought Catholicism to the U.S. His casket is actually a cover, he is now in an urn in Spain. The outer casket was inside the entrance to the church gift shop when I was little, and to be honest, I really miss my view of it when I was eye level with it.

The coffin is painted a glossy black with gold lettering over the entire surface, and skulls and crossbones decorate it as well. The lock on it is huge and formidable, and I’ve wanted to see the key to it my entire life but never have. While my classmates were wreaking havoc on the grounds and chasing squirrels and screaming I would stand and look at the casket, quietly and respectfully wondering about it. I think even as a kid I understood that I would be working around death one day. I still love caskets and casket hardware, though with an appreciative eye rather than a morbid one. When a fancy one comes into the funeral home now I’m starting to recognize the brands and know the features, something I never expected to say about myself.

This casket is certainly befitting the first governor of Florida. He died of typhus in Santander, Spain in 1574. The original coffin was presented to the city of St. Augustine in 1924 by Aviles, Spain, where his body now lies. Well, his remains, anyway. He was moved around a LOT for various reasons, and now what’s left of his body is in a marble urn placed on a wall near the pulpit in the Parish Church of St. Nicholas. And it’s a bit odd, but he is on Find A Grave with photos of the coffin inside the museum listed as grave photos, but as I mentioned it’s actually empty.

If you get the chance please visit St. Augustine to see this beautiful coffin and stroll through the grounds of Mission Nobre de Dios. While I like the Fouintain of Youth park, I’ll admit that I can still remember the taste of that foul water. But go drink it anyway -because you never know. The last time I got to visit was on New Year’s Eve, thankfully before the afternoon cocktail hour. I visited the Ice Plant on Riberia Street for the upstairs bar view and something fancy to drink, and then spent the rest of the afternoon trying to keep my balance as I walked around. I’ll admit though that it’s nice to see that city through a haze of alcohol. I highly recommend it.



Surprises on Clean-Up Day

Our cemetery clean up on September 29 was fantastic; it was the first time when I was really able to step back and see a dramatic change on the property. We were so fortunate to have so many wonderful people and groups there, and also to have the assistance of the city Parks Department. When we heard ahead of time that there was going to be a grounds crew there I got pretty excited. When I saw these men at work I was beyond thrilled. They attacked the place with chainsaws, machetes, and mowers and raised the tree canopy by several feet, making a tremendous difference.

Page Jackson is full of beautiful old oak trees that spread, nearly touching the ground in some places. They are lovely to look at but do tend to cause some problems for us here in Florida, especially since we’re in the middle of hurricane season. Heavy limbs can fall and crush or topple gravestones, and since so many in the cemetery are handmade repairing them is costly IF it can be done at all. The crew thinned the trees a bit, trimming the lower limbs, and for the first time since I’ve been working there we had a clear line of sight to the back of the cemetery. We’re hoping that this will help with the crime that takes place out there and also help the police when they drive through. The very back still has a large amount of underbrush and trees that need to be removed, but this was progress.

The volunteers worked on headstone recording, cleaning, and repair, and we finished a large front area, leaving crypts and headstones gleaming in the sunshine. People tended to work in pairs and got to know each other, which was really nice to see.

At the end of the day I went to ask Robert from the city if he was about ready to call it quits. He was. But he had something to show me.

In the back section there had been what looked like a small island of trees and thicket, and the grounds crew had gone in with machetes flying. In the process of clearing the land they found five graves there dating back to the 1950’s. More than that, three of them were covered with plastic grave covers.

If you’ve never seen one (I had not) they’re definitely an oddity. These were a faded peach color and moved easily when you pressed down on them, which I did several times because I could not believe what I was looking at. I did a Google search and got all kinds of interesting things, but nothing like this. I’m wondering if it was just a trendy and inexpensive funeral item in the 50’s. Apparently it scared the crew half to death when they pressed on it and it briefly caved in before bouncing back into shape with a thump! Understandable. To date they are the only ones we’ve seen out there or in any of the surrounding cemeteries. We plan to get the funeral records just to see if there’s any info on them that could tell us anything about them or their cost. I’d love to know where they were manufactured. If you’ve seen any of them please drop me a line and give me cemetery info.

As I stood there marveling at them we found out that another volunteer was cleaning a headstone and found needles. We walked across the cemetery to her and sure enough, there were two capped syringes at the base of a grave where they had been hidden by some leaves. The police were called and came out to take photos and write a report. Apparently people use them and then bury them by a headstone that they feel they can recognize so they can go and use them again later. I’d never heard of anything like that and it gave me a shiver. I was just happy that our volunteer was safe and now we know for next time to encourage everyone to use gloves if they’re cleaning headstones. I know that people have rampant sex in this cemetery, but this was really the first time I’d seen evidence of drug use as well.

After everyone had started packing up I walked through the section we had worked in and noticed that now that they were clean, we could see that some of the crypts had been painted with what looked like a lime wash. I had never been able to see it before, but the D-2 solution from FPAN had cleared away so much grime that the brush strokes were now visible.

The final surprise was at the very front of the cemetery when volunteers found a walkway leading from the road into a family plot that had at one time been cordoned off with chain link and concrete posts. The posts were still standing, but the chain was gone. Very close by there was one headstone with 9 names on it and it looked like they may be the ones buried in that plot. Putting in a walkway would not be an easy project, and it appears to be the only plot that has one. I looked at Emily and said, “Let’s get a shovel,” meaning, let’s pull back some of the grass and reveal more of it so we can figure out where it led to and if it was made of any specific material, like brick.

Nearby, Robert raised his eyebrows in surprise. I think he thought I was going to dig somebody up for a minute there.

We left the walkway for next month, when I hope to wear knee pads and just pull the grass up by hand to reveal all of it.

Before I left I got a video of the plastic grave toppers, still amazed by them, and sent it to Jennifer, who did a ton of work that day (and on many days since then) with her son, Austin. She’d never seen them either. I can’t wait for the next visit to get some more answers. So far, Page Jackson Cemetery only raises more questions. A very sincere thank you to everyone who came out, and to Smoothie King in Lake Mary for their kind donation. Also, thank you to Pamela who does genealogy work for us from afar, your research is making a tremendous difference.

I just got back from a 2 week trip to Tampa for job training, and I was able to visit some stunning cemeteries during my free time. More on that later.

 

 

Hollywood and Lincoln Cemeteries, Volusia County

Sometimes when I’m running around these places I look up at the beautiful blue sky and the fluffy while clouds and think to myself, you know, I’d really like to see something different for a change.

I miss cooler temperatures and think nostalgically of Virginia in the fall, when I would go outside early in the mornings to feel the chill of the air on my cheeks and have the horses breathe on my hands. Or Charleston in the spring, and the marshy, salty smell of the air and the cooler nights. I think I’m just over the heat and that blue sky constantly glaring down at me.

This day was no different. The sky was brilliantly blue, the clouds were high and white and didn’t seem likely to drop any rain. There wasn’t a breath of wind anywhere in the cemetery when I got out to look around. Oh my goodness, it was hot. After ten seconds I wondered why I’d put on makeup that day.

Hollywood Cemetery is in Orange City, not a place where I’ve spent a significant amount of time, but when I’d pulled up cemeteries there I saw a few that I’d never heard of and decided to go take a look. It wasn’t a long drive, and I needed to get out of the house and start seeing what it was like to feel freedom again. The cemetery entrance is very beautiful, with a wide avenue of palm trees and an attractive gate. I drove to the back and got out of the car at the oldest section.

When I got out the first stone that I saw was one with a small floating angel on it, a motif that I’ve seen one other time, and is actually one of my favorites. Instead of looking imposing and stern, these little angels are small, childlike, delicate, and done in profile so you can see the small wings stretching out behind. I think they’re magical. As I walked I noticed that there were a lot of large, expensive newer monuments here as well.

One of them was for a family, mom, dad, and two older kids, and it was extraordinary, made of black granite in a very modern style, and the kids on either side had etched portraits and also their signatures. Sadly, their children had passed on before them.

Nearby was a small cremation garden, with tiny plots and small plaques for each person. Most of the plots had vases of flowers, and it was a bright, pretty spot to look at. I continued down that aisle and saw an area fenced off with black iron and I knew before I got there that it was Babyland. It was small and completely tidy, filled with grave sites that had small, creative headstones. There were teddy bears and writing that looked like crayon, like a child’s. I saw angels and dollies. I stopped and leaned on the fence for a time, reading what I could from where I was, but I didn’t go inside the enclosure. I will say that this was the nicest baby section I’d ever seen. A crow was sitting on the fence, and he cawed at me a few times, as though encouraging me to step inside.

The whole time I was in the cemetery there was an elderly man at the very front, standing in the first row. Because he had on a white shirt and had white hair and was so immobile I had actually mistaken him for a statue when I drove in. He was standing with his hands behind his back and staring forward at one of the newer graves, not moving. I can seem to feel when people are praying or talking to their loved ones, so I assumed that’s what he was doing and parked well away from him for that reason. He left just before I did, so he was there quite awhile in that same pose.

As I was walking back to the car I saw it, beckoning to me.

The back fence made of chain link, separating this cemetery from the other one on my list, Lincoln. Lincoln was the African-American cemetery and was the one I had really wanted to see, and it was right there, I recognized it from the photos online. I looked up and down the fence- no gate. I looked on the other perimeter, but there was no gate there either. I eyed the fence and thought, I can totally climb over that. And that part was true, it wasn’t tall at all. However, it wasn’t like hopping a cattle gate where you have room for your foot to turn on the rungs. Nope. At the top I had no choice but to sit to get my foot out of one side and put a foot in the other side, and while I was doing this I caught a barb from the top of the fence on my rear end, through my shorts, and shredded my hindquarters and the back of one thigh. The fence, of course, was fine.

When I got down the first thing I did was check for blood, and thankfully, there wasn’t any that I could see or feel running down my leg. It was a nasty scratch though and quite painful. I wondered how I was going to get back over that thing and decided to worry about it later as I limped off into the headstones.

Lincoln Cemetery is fascinating, with lots of handmade tributes and markers, including a whole little arbor built over the top of a single grave. There are also a lot of marked graves here with no names, so it was interesting to look around and wonder about them. My favorite grave was near the fence, covered with creeping jasmine and made of concrete. The name and dates were long gone, but it was so small and delicate I felt like it belonged to a child. A small angel in a blue gown had been laid at the base of it. It was very beautiful. Next to it was a piece of broken marble with an enamel cook pot holding it up, and the pot was planted with flowers that had died, but weeds were thriving in it. It was another person’s grave.

Lincoln is in use and maintained, and they’ve done a good job of protecting it, especially with all of the handmade markers. It’s obvious that people come here.

I loved this little bit of history…in 1870 the Wisconsin Land Company donated the ten acres of land to be used as a cemetery, and then it was segregated, with half for whites (Hollywood) and half for African-Americans (Lincoln). Burials began in 1876, so they go way back, though I didn’t see anything that old. Hollywood was actually Holly Wood, because of the holly trees on the property, but it was changed to just Hollywood through the years.

At the side of the cemetery I found a spot by the hearse road where I could go over the fence where the barbs had been bent down a bit more. Did I make it? NO. This time I got stuck on a hidden piece of fence on the other side and hung there limply, my shorts stuck on the wire, wondering what I should do as my legs dangled a couple of inches from the ground. Finally I dug in my heels and managed to unhook myself. I dropped down. The fence was fine, thank God. I would have been horrified otherwise.

I drove to Publix to check for damage in their bathrooms. Just a few big scratches. No tetanus shot needed on this trip.

Seneca Cemetery in Lake County

Maryanne and I turned to look at each other in front of the locked cattle gate blocking our path. It was so hot that we’d both pulled our hair back, and hers was wet and slicked back from her face. I could feel mine sticking to the back of my neck, so I pulled it down and then put it back up into a higher ponytail so it wouldn’t be touching me at all. We eyed the gate warily. Hopping one in your 20’s is one thing. In your 40’s, it can be a challenge. We were already tired and sunburned from trying to navigate another cemetery earlier that day.

We conquered it and made it over, Maryanne laughing because she was so short that her toes wouldn’t reach anything once she had her leg over the top. She floated for a moment, a foot twirling in the hot air before she finally found the next rung. I’m so long-legged that it was just up and over for me, but I didn’t like the wobble of the gate so I went slowly, trying to keep it from moving too much. We started the walk into the cemetery, which we were unable to see from where we’d parked.

The road in had been paved, but heat and lack of maintenance had caused the asphalt to buckle over and over again, and it would have been horrible if not impossible to drive on it. I was in sandals  and wished for something more substantial, since there were weeds coming up out of the cracks and we were surrounded by a grassy field. Up ahead the road curved slightly, and we were able to make out grave sites and a small building. I prayed for it to be a mausoleum. The air was literally wet, and we went slower because it was too hot to breathe easily. Florida in June is brutal. Florida in the middle of an open field in June is just stupid. Thankfully we’d hydrated with huge Big Gulps on the way.

When we got closer we saw that it was actually a small concrete block shed, but the graves were incredible, peeking from the high grass everywhere we looked. Many were modern, which surprised me. We were in the middle of nowhere and I had expected this to be a very old cemetery with no modern additions. But I actually liked it that it was still in use.

In the distance we could hear a rhythmic squeaking noise and as we got closer we saw a horse being exercised on the adjoining property at the back. He wasn’t able to stop walking, but he watched us curiously every time he made a turn, his eyes shaded with a fly mask but his face always turned toward us. On the property to the right there were two mares and their foals, all in fly masks, and they walked close to the fence and stared at us. I stopped to speak to them; I can’t pass a horse without speaking.

At the front of the property was a beautiful black granite headstone in a plot surrounded by a perfectly white picket fence. The plot was large but there was just the one headstone, and in the middle of the bright green grass it was striking. As I stood looking at Mr. Smith’s marker I heard a rumble and noticed that the sky ahead was darkening. Then when I looked back at the headstone another horse appeared, this time right behind the headstone in the adjoining field. His stance seemed almost protective, so I acknowledged him and kept walking.

The cemetery was a loop design with most of the graves placed outside of the central circle. I stopped at the largest headstone I saw and read that it belonged to Viola Alter and her daughter. Down at the bottom it read ‘Mother and babe!” They had died in 1885. Maryanne appeared next to me and we contemplated it together.

“I wonder what happened?” I mused. My mind always goes to the epidemics in the area, but this should have been obvious.

“Mother and babe”

“Childbirth,” she said, looking straight at me. I shivered despite the heat. Childbirth has always been one of those things that I can’t even think about, and dying in childbirth has always been a huge fear of mine. Sometimes I think it’s why I don’t have children. The thunder rumbled again. The headstone had at one time held a piece of ornamental ironwork, but it was long gone, with just the small rusted pieces of the frame sticking out of the marble. There was a perfect, ornate floral wreath carved into the stone, and I looked for a maker’s mark but there was none, so I stood wondering if this stone had been brought down the St. John’s from Charleston like so many others in the area.

I thought before I started researching the cemetery that Viola would be the oldest burial, but she wasn’t. It looks like it was a Jane Sower in 1845, which really surprised me. I think because I compare everything to Page Jackson, and this place was already in use 40 years before Mister Jackson started waving at people as they passed by his land with a coffin in a donkey cart. Eustis and Sanford were connected by the St. John’s and both were used by steamboats as ports, because they were both agricultural communities. Sanford grew celery and Eustis was known for oranges.

I tried to look up Jane Sower but was unable to find her in the census records from 1830 or 1840. The cemetery site says it was established in 1884 and it had a busy period all through the 1920’s.

The cemetery is small, with only 157 burials to date, and almost all of them have been photographed. There used to be a group that had something called an ‘open gate day’ where you could come in and help with maintenance, but the last date was from 2011, which made me a little bit sad. It’s a beautiful place. There must be a group still coming out periodically but it would be nice if they still recorded their work on the site. There’s a huge dead tree near Viola’s grave that needs to come down, it’s dropping limbs already and endangering some old gravestones. The tree, however, looked so much like the blog logo that I had Maryanne take my photo with it.

Pretty soon we saw lightning in the black clouds that were getting closer and closer, and the energy in the air changed from benign to fierce. The mares went and stood under their shelter with their young. We clambered back over the gate and left, saying we’d come back this fall when it wasn’t so hot- and when I had on boots. We had just pulled out of the drive when the rain started pelting the windshield.

I don’t get out to Lake County much but there are 2 other cemeteries in Eustis that I want to get to, so I’ll be going back soon.

 

 

Buying Funeral Antiques

 

I was fortunate enough to go to an Oddities Market recently here in Orlando. Well, maybe not fortunate. It was about 98 degrees that day, the heavy cloud cover made it feel like a greenhouse, and most of the booths were outside when the event had been advertised as being inside of a brewery. Lies. It was so packed we could barely move, and we managed to snake past the couple of indoor booths at a pace that made me frantic since I like to keep things moving. Gus is still training his service dog, and the dog proved to be practically bombproof in that insane crowd, stepping carefully and licking a leg or a knee gently when one was close by.

I collect embalming bottles. I love them, but they didn’t have any at the market. My first one was for Rochester Germicide and is printed upside down because it was used for gravity embalming. After that I got several from the 1930’s with the original labels, including instructions, which can be horrifying on the cavity embalming chemicals. The first time I read the back of one I felt oddly lightheaded, but it passed and I ended up with the collection anyway. It’s slow to grow, since I don’t seek out new ones every payday, but if I’m in an antique mall and I see one, I’ll usually buy it. I try not to pay more than 25 per bottle, but would be willing to break this rule if it included one from Dodge, Pierce, or Frigid, since they are some of the more widely known companies that provide chemicals and are still in operation.

 

I also like caskets and coffins, but do not live in a place where collecting them would be realistic, and I also don’t want to terrify any future acquaintance that may come to my house. I heard recently that there were 2 in an antique shop in Mt. Dora and I went to have a look. Mt. Dora is an old city, very small, that dates back to 1880. I love any excuse to go there. Sure enough, in one of the antique malls I rounded a corner and saw two coffins laid on a large dining table. One was a toe-pincher from the Civil War era that had once held a glass viewing plate so you could look down on the deceased after they were tucked away inside. The other was for an infant, also in the traditional shape, and made of dark wood. That one didn’t interest me much. For one thing it lacked any hardware or way to close it unless it was nailed shut, which is fine but not interesting. Also there was the possibility that it was only a salesman’s sample. I focused on the big one and got out a flashlight.

The hardware was beautiful and made of some sort of darkened metal, with small handles that had been screwed onto the sides and painted black, which could have been a later addition. The inside (because I put my head into it through the opening where the glass used to be) was lined in a rough unbleached cotton that was padded with straw. The lining was heavily stained and damaged, but it was a fantastic thing to get to see. Price: $2,400. The price for the infant coffin: $475.

 

A couple of miles away sat a larger antique mall that had a wicker child’s casket last year, and I went to see if it was still there. It was. Price: $275. Of the three this would have been the one I wanted. It was lined with leather and very delicate, but it was also a subtle design that didn’t scream COFFIN. It was small enough for me to carry with both arms, and weighed very little. I still want this one and felt that it was better priced than the others. Plus, and I don’t know how to say this exactly, but this one gave me a feeling that I can’t explain. I still feel like I may buy it one day.

At the same mall I found 4 embalming bottles and my collection grew when the shop owner told me I could have all 4 for $75, that yes, I could in fact pet the stuffed skunk at the front of the shop, and that she also had something else that I might like to see.

From behind the desk she hefted a large picture in an ornate frame of a deceased child in her white casket, surrounded by funeral flowers. It was almost hard to make out the body because the flowers overpowered the scene, which had been taken in a home parlor judging by the furniture in the room. At the bottom of the frame were details of her birth and death written in pencil surrounded by pressed flowers and ferns. I looked at it for a moment in stunned silence. It was very large. My mind was racing. I had 2 mostly paid off credit cards in my purse- hang the fact that I’d just spent a year and a half paying them off.

“The other shop owners don’t want me to hang it because they feel it will upset someone, so it stays with me for now,” she said, looking wistfully at the photo.

“Was there a price you were thinking of asking for it?” I asked. She never got to tell me, because Shawn started yelling that she had just told me she was keeping it. I left disappointed. I would have liked to have known her price range, partly so I could go back ALONE and ask about it, and partly to do some research. If she had quoted me anything up to $500 I would have bought it that day, even if I was an idiot for doing so. The flowers, along with the handwritten details made it a one of a kind piece. Rather than argue with Shawn publicly I gave her my card and asked if she’d let me know if she decided to sell it.

At the oddities market I saw two things that interested me, but they were sold. One was a Victorian hair wreath, which I look at with a mix of fascination and horror since they’re kind of a ghastly art form. Still, the fact that I’ve only seen 2 my whole life makes them rare (to me) and worth looking into. The price tag was gone, the shop owner was busy talking to someone, and I had sweat running down my sides. The next item was a framed set of five black and white photos of a young boy’s funeral. Four of him in the casket from different angles, and one of his headstone. It was sad of course, but I tend to like collections like that when they include the headstone or photos of the actual funeral. (Though I will admit to crying over a set once.) The price tag had also been removed. One thing that was interesting about these photos was the fact that the boy had been covered with a white blanket that draped over the sides of the casket making him literally look like he was sleeping, which I’m sure was done to make the casket look less shocking for the family. The photos were tastefully done and I tend to like a lot of post-mortem funeral photography.  I don’t like the ones that are little more frightening and include blood or gore of any kind. I still remember the first one I saw like that and I wish to all that is holy that I could un-see that photo.

There are a few things that I refuse to buy when I see them, and that is casket hardware, casket nameplates, and any kind of marker, metal or otherwise. If you see a funeral home marker for sale online or in a store, report it. In a store it gets reported to the Sheriff. If it’s online, report the posting. They are not to be sold. Casket hardware is generally one of the easiest things for grave robbers to loot, and the chance that the items were stolen makes me very wary of any kind of purchase like that.

Compare prices and do your research before you buy, and enjoy! If you have an interesting collection tell me about it! Also, Shawn and I did break up so I will post when I can because I am moving and also taking a class. No, I didn’t break up with him because of the photo. And yes, I’m fine.

Observations On A Recent Death

Listen, I tell you a mystery; we will not all sleep, but we will all be changed.

1 Corinthians 15:51

 

Before Father’s Day I was at home one night and got a text from my mom. My cousin wasn’t well, he was being transferred to a medical center in Gainesville, and he wasn’t expected to survive the night.

I sat staring at the text and thinking, “What? How?” We’d never even heard that he was sick, or that anything was wrong at all. How do you go from nothing wrong to not expected to make it that fast?

Well, he didn’t survive. At 8:30 that night I got the second text. It’s over.

They had placed him on life support long enough for the family to get there, and that was that.

I saw my cousin at Christmas and had been deeply shocked by the change in him; his skin looked pale and had an odd color, and he seemed  to be heavier than usual and almost sluggish. He didn’t want to hug anyone, saying that he was getting over the flu. He did sound bad, so I believed it. But it was so odd to watch this usually vibrant, happy man and loving father watch everyone from the sidelines and not interact. I believed that it was because he wasn’t feeling well and didn’t want anyone else to get sick.

The day of the funeral Shawn drove me to Lake City to be with everyone. The last time we had all gathered for a funeral was when my grandfather had died years before, an extremely painful grieving process for all of us. It was so surreal to sit on my aunt and uncle’s back porch with family everywhere, talking, laughing, eating, and then know that in a few hours we would be getting dressed for the service.

My family is Christian, and they all have the servant’s spirit in them. They’re kind, they help others, they go on mission trips, they raise their children to pray and believe in God. I’ve always thought they were amazing and have wished that I led a similar life (and I may yet), but while I call myself a Christian because I pray to one God, not many, my habits are rooted a little more in the earth and her cycles. I feel comfortable and happy following moon phases, lighting candles with an intention, and celebrating the solstice days each year. I like the rhythm of it, though I am also comfortable going to church, and I was looking forward to hearing my cousin’s service, especially when I heard that my uncle would be speaking.

He began with the Bible verse quoted above, and went on to speak about my cousin and what a great man he was. And it’s true. He was. His urn sat at the front of the church, and there was standing room only in the sanctuary. People were lined up and down the hallway, along the walls at the back and sides of the church, and kids were sitting in laps to make extra room for other adults. It was beautiful to see so many tears, and I got up at one point to run to the restroom (I was on antibiotics for a severe sinus infection and needed tissues, crying was actually quite painful) and found two women standing in the bathroom, sobbing. I never found out who they were but the image of them with their heads bowed, faces turned toward the wall, and tissues held to their faces has stuck with me.

There is no real wrap up to this post today, but I want to point out that even the most perfect families have secrets that run through them, deep and black like seams of anthracite through a mountain. These secrets don’t make them any less perfect in my opinion, and they may sit for years undisturbed, or some event may cause them to catch fire and burn unseen, smoldering and smoking until the explosion inevitably takes place.

My cousin was very sick. I didn’t know. No one talked about it. I doubt it would have made a difference if they had…but still, I wish I had known. I could have prayed for him and for the rest of my family, or I could have lit a candle for him. I could have gone out to look at the full moon and thought about him being whole, and healthy, and happy. But all I could do was pray for him after the fact, and light that candle when I got home… and let it burn until it quietly went out on it’s own.

St. Luke’s Cemetery, Oviedo, Florida

We drove out to St. Luke’s on a scorching day in June after and equally scorching trip out to Lukas Nursery. The greenhouses, despite their fans, were intolerable. I could feel my skin burning while we were on all of the outdoor paths. Why I decided that we should go to St. Luke’s as well is beyond me, but I did, and it was not the best decision.

St. Luke’s is a small, Lutheran church cemetery with about 790 burials. It’s a little odd, honestly. There are no outstanding monuments, much of what you see is memorial flat markers. It’s a grassy field, which is beautiful and peaceful, but I can see where they would really have to stay on top of their maintenance since the grass was so perfect and thick. (Rare for Florida, where cemeteries tend to be sandy and have sparse grass at this time of year.)

I have to drive by this cemetery every week while I’m working, and it always looked interesting from the road so I made a note to visit. But recently I met an interesting woman and we started talking about cemeteries. She told me that she used to come to this one when she was in high school late at night because it was supposed to be haunted. There was supposedly a woman carrying a lantern (wearing white- what else?!) who could be seen late at night wandering through the graves. She never saw her. She also mentioned the fog that appears at night in the area that is always in the same specific spot (Chapman Road, I believe.)

Hogwash. Ya’ll know what I think of these stories by now.

But, she did say that they used to break into the chapel on the property and sit around in there and that it was spooky. I thought that it was actually a caretaker’s cottage, so I was most interested in seeing that. According to hauntedplaces.org some people have reported feeling like they can’t breathe inside the chapel or have come out covered with scratches and welts. Well, I’ll be frank, I did come off of their porch covered with scratches and welts but it was from the numerous mosquito bites that I got on the property. Paranormalghostsociety.org did a nice historical write up about the history of the place (used to be celery fields, just like Sanford) so if you’re interested you might take a look at that before going out there.

The chapel itself is quite unique and looks more like a tiny house. Inside was clear glass windows and old, well-polished pews to seat maybe 20 people. Maybe. The door was weathered and warped. It was my favorite feature on the property.

I’ll be honest. I do believe in ghosts, but I do get tired of different versions of the same story popping up all over Central Florida. That is what I find tiresome. The ghost is always wearing white. It’s almost always a female spirit. There is generally a lantern or candle involved. There is usually little explanation of who the ghost might be or why they’re haunting the area (usually a cemetery). So with that said, I’d like to hear some stories about restless male spirits for a change. One was mentioned in the linked article, a man that walks up and down the road carrying a suitcase.

I would definitely like to meet him.

John Ivey in Lake Hill Cemetery, Orlo Vista, Florida

Warning! I have very few photos  for this post. These headstones are in a shaded area and I visited 3 times at different times of day in an attempt to get better photos, but to no avail. John Ivey just does not want to be photographed.

I’ve wanted to write about John Ivey for quite some time, but this is the first opportunity that I’ve had to kind of dive into a little research in awhile. Lake Hill is one of my favorite cemeteries in Orlando, and it’s the one that I go to after storms and hurricanes to make sure everything is still okay. When I’m there I always stop by Mr. Ivey’s grave site and check on their plot.

The cemetery used to be called the Patrick Cemetery and when you go you will see several names over and over again, Patrick, Beasley, Jernigan, and Ivey. Many of the bodies here were moved from the original Patrick cemetery to this plot in 1884, and have been here ever since. This cemetery is of historical significance because the people here were some of the first founders and pioneers in Orlando, though the place looks unassuming and simple. Other Orlando influences can be found in Greenwood Cemetery downtown, which is more ostentatious than simple Lake Hill. Aaron Jernigan has his own tidy memorial right in front of the small shed on the property (next to the flagpole). Someone regularly leaves alcohol for him, and it appears that is preferences are Wild Turkey and Jim Beam. I’m a Beam girl myself.

John Ivey (1834-1923) was a man with many jobs. First, he was husband to two different women in his life, and he had 6 children with each of them. Next, he was Orange county’s first Sherriff and tax collector. Finally, he was the elected Justice of the Peace and Coroner. Viewing their page on Find-A-Grave is wonderful, you see who married who, what their headstones look like, and how the family merged with the Patrick family by marriage. I’d love to see their family tree!

John Ivey died at 1:30 a.m. at home, and his funeral was the next day. His funeral record does not list a cause of death, but he was elderly. His occupation was listed as “Farming”, so he must have retired a gentleman farmer.

Nearby you will see the grave of Emma R. Ivey, who is supposedly the first burial at this site in 1884. She and several of the family members have beautiful hand stamped headstones with the patent at the bottom of a couple of them, and delicate floral (or maybe wheat?) motifs. I LOVE them. These are the ones I panic over during storms since there are so many trees nearby. After the last hurricane when I got to the cemetery several large branches had fallen near the stones, almost encircling them but barely touching them. These stones are similar to ones in Greenwood Cemetery downtown that have an ivy and anchor motif stamped on them. She is the daughter of John and Matilda.

If you get a chance please visit Lake Hill Cemetery. The Ivey plot is to the far right once you’re in the gates.

Last weekend was our first ‘official’ clean up at Page Jackson Cemetery and I was thrilled to see the people who showed up pour their hard work and passion into restoring the cemetery. They asked questions, vowed to come back, and scrubbed off lichen like they’d been doing it all their lives. I felt so lucky to be there on such a beautiful morning with such an incredible group of people. The next one will be this fall, and we will be advertising it early so we can get a larger group. I hope I can meet some of you.

Additionally, please take a look at what my friend Chris is doing this summer! She’s traveling to cemeteries in the Eastern U.S. in preparation for another book. I enjoyed her last book, Drawn to The Dark, which is about her travels all over the world to explore different forms of dark tourism. My favorite chapter was on the Krampus Festival in Salzberg, which sounded both terrifying and painful. Apparently, you can attend a Krampus Lauf and get whacked on the legs- hard enough to leave a welt. She also went to Italy, Japan, and (my dream trip) Transylvania. If trips like these sound like your dream vacation, be sure to check out her book!

 

Requests on Find A Grave

If you’re familiar with Find A Grave and love all things graveyards, it might be fulfilling for you to volunteer by looking up photo requests and submitting them. To do this, you will first need to register on Find-A-Grave, which only takes a couple of minutes. From there, the world of people looking for headstones is all yours for the taking!

People ask me frequently if I make this a practice and the answer is yes and no. Yes, when I’m working in a cemetery that is not fully photographed or abandoned I will check my photos against the data when I get home. Because of this I’ve been able to add several people. But I don’t do it with every cemetery I visit, though it is my goal this year to be more conscious of the fact that there may be requests listed in the cemeteries that I go to.

Requests will be listed on the cemetery main page on Find-A-Grave. When you click on them you will see a list of the requested photos, along with whether or not anyone has claimed them. I find it interesting to look at any problem requests, just to see what others encountered in that cemetery. Usually it is simply that the marker is missing or there never was one to begin with.

When you register Find-A-Grave will periodically send you an email if someone submits a request in your area, and the other day I got one for Corporal Charles Esters, who died in 1967. When I looked him up on the website it said that it had already been claimed, but there were no notes from the claimant and no photos of his headstone, and I decided to go take a look. Washington Park Cemetery is just about 3 miles from my house, and I had nothing going on that afternoon that couldn’t be put off until later. I’d been by the cemetery before but had never been inside, so it seemed like a good way to spend a couple of hours.

This request was detailed in that it listed his section and the plot number. Sections are usually easy to locate in most modern cemeteries, but plots can be difficult. Section C was quite large and on 2 sides of the road, so I started on the right.

Washington Park isn’t unusual in any way, but it is a very modern take on a cemetery. There are no headstones, just flat markers, and almost no shade. It’s hot as hell in there in the middle of the day and I could feel my skin aging the minute I was out of the car. Since there wasn’t a way for me to tell which way the plots ran I just decided to walk up and down the aisles as best I could. Find-A-Grave says that this cemetery is 46% photographed, and I think the reason why the number is so low is because there are a lot of unmarked graves. In the longer stretches with no markers the ground still undulates slightly and has numerous patches of greener grass. This cemetery is also still a very active and busy site. They have a large supply of vaults around the property and new burials toward the back.

I walked for an hour with sweat running down my face and back before I called it a day. Even though I had been in a section of burials from the 1960’s I still didn’t see his marker.  Disappointed, I drove home to nurse my sunburn and drink a gallon of water.

The next night Shawn and I had just finished dinner when he offered to go out there with me again. It had rained and was much cooler, and we figured that maybe with 2 of us searching we might be able to find him. Because it was the night before Mother’s Day there was steady traffic coming in and out, and a lot of families grouped around graves, talking and enjoying the breeze after the recent rain. We headed for Section C, each of us took a different part, and we started walking.

The cemetery has trees and brush to one side and there was an intoxicating smell coming from them. I took a closer look and saw a lot of pink flowers. They smelled amazing! It made me think of the unidentified floral smell in Page Jackson and I wondered if these were in the woods somewhere.

After an hour dusk was looming we decided to leave. The cars coming in had their headlights on now and the cemetery wasn’t gated, but I didn’t think we should be in there for too much longer. As we walked to the car the sky behind us was the color of fire, and the grave lights were coming on in the cemetery, creating little stars of light against the green grass. It was beautiful, and completely transformed from it’s somewhat stark daytime appearance.

The cemetery dates back to at least the early 1930’s. Shawn and I were unable to locate any graves earlier than 1932. The one that I did see was actually a headstone but had been knocked flat to blend in with the rest of the markers, which was a practice I’d never seen at another cemetery. Mowing this place must be a nightmare. Cemetery maintenance does a good job with the upkeep of this place, and is on a very large piece of property.

I was sorry that we didn’t find Mr. Esther’s headstone, and I’ll probably go look one more time and contact the cemetery office if the claimant doesn’t add notes or photos. His one photo on Find A Grave shows him in his uniform looking young, strong, and proud. I love the photo and hope that someone can locate his grave.

Meanwhile, prayers and positive thoughts for my family would be appreciated as we lost one of our own yesterday. My cousin passed away suddenly on his birthday. He was 57 years old. I am still shocked, and hoping to hear more about what happened when I see my family for the funeral this week.

The Ybor City Ghosts

Chris and I planned this night out for weeks ahead of time. I was all excited the day before I was supposed to meet her in Tampa, but I woke up at 2 a.m. the morning of green-faced, sweating, and vividly remembering a horrible nightmare. Some people don’t recall their dreams, but I can recall them years later. I can smell in them. Taste in them. See colors. Talk, control them, or wake myself up if need be. I’ve tried to hone the waking myself up part a lot over the last few years. Sometimes I don’t make it.

This dream was probably due to eating very late the night before and then immediately falling asleep. Despite the natural reasons, I felt unsettled all morning and stayed in bed with a pile of books, a cup of green tea, and a cat. When it was time to leave I was feeling marginally better, and thought I’d be okay to drive over to Tampa.

Chris and I met in L’Unione Italiana but they were closing in ten minutes, so we visited a couple of other cemeteries before deciding to get out of the heat and head over to Burger 21 to meet two of her friends, Michelle and Sue, for dinner and the tour. We devoted an hour to dinner and then drove to Ybor City, which is gorgeous. It’s beautiful in the sunshine, during the sunset, any time of day, really, but it truly comes alive at night. It literally feels like you’re in another place altogether at night. The men sit outside of the cafes in a cloud of grey cigar smoke watching the women walk by, while the women sit in groups of friends drinking wine or coffee and staring back at the men. It’s all fairly polite and restrained.

We met Max, our tour guide, at King Corona Cigars on 7th. When we walked inside to take a look around it was hard to see because of the haze of cigar smoke that hung like a wreath around everyone’s head. When I went home the smell was in my hair and in my clothes, and it thankfully overpowered the pervading smell of sweat and sunburn that I’d carried around all day.

There were 8 of us on the tour, and promptly at 8 o’clock Max appeared, introduced himself, and our two hour walking tour began.

If you’re concerned about walking for two hours don’t be- there were frequent stops and the highest elevation was about 34 feet at the “hill” in Ybor City. It was an easy walk, and the night was cool and comfortable after the heat of the day. When we stopped at one point I looked over my shoulder and saw that the full moon was rising, the Pink Moon. It was so beautiful, sending a faint glow down over the red brick buildings. The moon added so much to the tour for me, but I’ve always been a moon lover.

I won’t tell you everything that the tour covered to leave some mystery, but I will highlight my favorite part, which was the Cuban Club. I thought that the tour would only include stories about the history of various buildings and inhabitants of the city, but we actually got to go in 2 buildings. The Cuban Club (built in 1917) is stunning, and included in it’s heyday a ballroom, a theater, and much to the chagrin of the Italian Club down the street, a swimming pool. When Max unlocked the door I was pretty excited to go in, and when I stepped over the threshold it was to heat and an odd smell, almost like the smell of an old hotel…if that makes any sense. Older carpet, old paint, plaster, that kind of smell. We walked downstairs and when we got to the bottom of the stairs I saw a movement to my right, but I thought that I was looking at a mirrored wall and that I was seeing the reflection of someone in the group. The lights were very dim and around the corner from where we were, so the section we were in had no overhead lights at all. Several people pulled out their phones in order to look around.

A child had died here, he drowned in the swimming pool. The pool had been bricked in and filled with concrete many years earlier, but you could still feel the energy of the water there, and it didn’t feel good or like it had been a happy place. I walked to the side to look at the corner where I saw movement earlier. It wasn’t a mirror, it was an open doorway. I turned away. I don’t know what I saw.

When we walked up the stairs Max told us we could take a quick peek at the theater, which was overwhelming. The ticket booth was white and gold, and the theater itself was 2 storied, with a balcony and a ceiling painted sky blue. The pendant lamps (not on, we were in the dark) were ornate brass and the air was so incredibly still, as though it were breathlessly waiting for people to file in again, laughing and talking as they found their seats. It was magical, and my favorite part of the whole experience. Also, all of my photos from this part have white marks or streaks on them.

We ended the night with a visit to Cheezy’s, which was a pizza joint/speakeasy and had once been a church. It amazed me that while you could tell you were inside a church because of the shape of the windows and the orientation (unless I’m very much mistaken the bar is where the pulpit used to be), you couldn’t feel the weight of all those years of prayer and petition. I loved it. The owner came and spoke to us, and we had a round of Shirley Temples and chocolate milk since we were all driving home and it was late. The bartender had even decorated the glasses with chocolate syrup to make it all look fancy and it was an adorable touch.

I had such a great time on this tour and plan to go again this fall when the renovations for the Cuban Club are complete and there will be more access to the building, but if you get the chance, go.

I’m doing some work on Pinterest now so the blog might have a few minor changes in the near future.