Category: Children

When Funeral Homes Go Bad

Many of you may have seen the news last month about Cantrell Funeral Home in Detroit and know the developing story. Raymond Cantrell inherited the business and last April it was shut down for malpractice, which usually means something to do with money or something to do with bodies and their handling and storage. During a state inspection bodies were found that, even though they were embalmed, were not being kept in a refrigeration unit. They were in a garage. In addition some of their licenses were expired and they had also not deposited money from contracts. So- there were a lot of reasons for the inspectors to shut them down.

The building’s new owner went in recently to clean and said that the building smelled bad and was full of trash, which he began removing. He is making it into a community center to help people in the area.

Last week state investigators went to the funeral home again, this time on an anonymous tip that led them to a false ceiling holding 11 infant bodies. Some were in trash bags, some were in a casket. The question now is, why?

So far the only answer was that the business owners may have been holding onto the bodies for people who were unable to pay for the funerals in full. But even that doesn’t make sense, since the funeral usually has to be paid in full from the start. Though it is true that funeral homes rarely will make a profit on a child’s funeral, it doesn’t explain why the bodies weren’t disposed of properly.

This isn’t the first funeral home horror story in recent years. There have been many, and it seems that bodies are stored in garages a lot and tend to end up on the news. It’s sickening, and it’s sickening that these operators fall into this routine of hiding bodies or not caring for them, lying to families, and then calling it their new normal.

In Florida in 2016 there was the news story about Brock Funeral Home, where investigators got a tip and went in to find 16 bodies being stored improperly. The story reads like a script from a horror movie, it’s so bad.

In these situations I almost feel like the scale tips away from gross negligence and malpractice onto the side of mental illness. How can someone think those are “normal” working conditions in the funeral business?

I found out recently that some people who work in funeral homes in a capacity aside from funeral directing or preparation can be squeamish when it comes to being around bodies or having them in the building. Several of the people that I spoke to said that it made them very nervous knowing that they might see remains at work. I was surprised by this, but I know that many people have those fears and that they’re natural. While I don’t feel uneasy, I do feel a heaviness in the building I work in when we are preparing for a service.

I interviewed at a funeral home once and the staff were extremely concerned about newcomers understanding that there may sometimes be casketed (and cared for) remains waiting for their service in a back hallway, and I was asked very politely if that would frighten or bother me in any way. I said no, that it wouldn’t, because I understood that I would be working in a funeral home. That is normal. Walking into a chapel and finding someone resting inside before their services is also normal.

Coming to work in a building full of flies and the stench of decomposition is not. Hiding bodies is not normal. Justice for these families is sometimes hard to get as well, and I feel that often the punishment is not severe enough, but that’s just me. Right behind the story about Cantrell came the story about Perry Funeral Home, also in Detroit, and investigators finding over 60 remains, mostly infants. I think Detroit’s funeral professionals are in for a rough winter of inspections after these two incidents, and the fact that these family run businesses that have served for years in their communities have arrived at this kind of end is sad and disturbing.

No pictures on this post- they were all from news sources.

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.

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.

Social Media, Blogs, and Death

Over the last few weeks my aunt has been sharing a blog on her Facebook page about a family with a newborn that was very ill. His name was Michael. He had a host of problems at birth, and each week or sometimes more often, his mom would write an update about his progress or his setbacks, what the next steps were, and the prayers that they needed for their family. I read all of the posts that my aunt shared, prayed for this child and this family, and somewhere along the way became emotionally invested in this family’s story.

I knew that Michael had a big day on Friday and that his parents were praying for a good outcome. It would be a step in the direction of having this little boy able to begin the process of healing rather than suffering. I prayed for him that morning, thought of him during the day, and went about my work. Michael had never been off of a machine to help him survive since birth. His mother couldn’t actually hold him. I hoped he would have some relief that day during the procedure and that this family would be able to see progress in their tiny son’s health.

On Saturday morning I reached for my phone and opened Facebook to find that Michael had died swiftly and painlessly the day before. I sat for a long time looking at that post by my aunt before putting my phone down and trying to start my day with some sense of normalcy, but I felt horrible. In the afternoon I went Christmas shopping by myself, and when I was about a mile from the house I started crying. The road became blurry, and I gave in to the tears.

I didn’t feel like I could cry at home about this. How do you tell the person you live with that you’re grieving for someone you didn’t know? I felt so strange. I knew that Michael was no longer hurting, and that death might have been the best way for that to happen. Based on his mom’s writing he would have had a life of surgeries and pain. No one wants that for their child, but they still want the child and the hope of well being for that child.

When David Bowie died I remember my roommate coming out of her bedroom crying the morning that it was in the news. I felt sorry for her, because I remember being very affected by Princess Diana’s death years ago. With a celebrity I could get it and not feel odd about being so sad. Their lives were always so public and they were always in the news, on TV, on magazine covers. But I still came back to the fact that I didn’t know this family except through social media.

Social media and blogs bring people together that would otherwise never know about each other. While I don’t care at all about what someone on Instagram wore on a specific day, I do care when they share something more personal. A feeling. A story. Why something matters to them. And I suppose that because of this constant sharing, grieving is now a public thing too. (Something Grace pointed out to me.) I thought back to times when people grieved as a nation over Abraham Lincoln or Martin Luther King, Jr., or as a city recently when the Pulse shooting took place here in Orlando. I still can’t visit the part of the local cemetery where the victims are buried, even though I’ve been several times. I can’t think about it. I didn’t know any of those people either, but I finally gave myself a break over feeling so much emotion around that incident after talking to a friend and having her tell me she couldn’t go either, and that it upset her greatly to even think about going. I know that if I went no one would say anything to me if they saw me in the cemetery crying. So why did I feel so strange and so secretive about crying for a child I didn’t know? I honestly think I just didn’t want to explain that particular kind of sadness to anyone.

My friend and I are considering going to visit the Pulse victims at the cemetery this year, together. Maybe nobody owes the world or anyone an explanation of their sadness or despair. Maybe that’s what I haven’t learned yet. I can just be sad. I don’t have to explain it or rationalize it, or act like it’s not there.

I am grateful to Michael’s mom for putting their story out there for the world to see. I think it was a brave thing to do and I know it was hard to write. I hope her writing about Michael brings her healing and peace.

The photos in this post are of my favorite infant’s graves that I’ve visited in the last 2 years. The first photo, Billy, is from Greenwood Cemetery in Orlando and is one of my all time favorites.

American Ghost Adventures in Greenwood Cemetery

Shawn surprised me for Halloween. He booked us for a ghost tour in Greenwood Cemetery, and I was under the impression that it was the moonlight walking tour I’d been on many times before. However, this one was different. When we arrived at the cemetery just after dark we were issued K2 meters and presented to our guides for the evening, Mark and Debbie, both sporting Victorian attire.

They pretty much had me right there with just the clothes and the meters, and we weren’t even IN the cemetery yet. Debbie wore a hat with a double veil and I was really impressed with her ability to lead the tour and see so well. She looked fetching. And I really love Victorian dress on men. Something about those coats….

We began with our group of eight by the offices, where we were shown the area that used to be the African American Jonestown settlement when Orlando was all about celery and citrus. Many of the workers were former slaves and they lived here. Several people from the Ocoee race riots are buried here in the original segregated part of the cemetery, with well visited and tended graves. I remember stumbling on their funeral records in the Carey Hand books once and being startled by reading about such a violent death when many of the other records said things like, ‘senility’, or ‘heart attack’.

We then proceeded up the hill to the highest point by the Wilmott Mausoleum, which I love for it’s creepy, domed, paint peeled beauty. It’s close to the Carey Hand family plot, so I gave them a nod on the way past as I always do, still thinking that a book about that family would be so much fun to write.

It was here that Mark and Debbie brought out a flashlight and placed it on top of the Robinson grave in the off position. It was also here that it began to rain and the umbrellas came out, and thunder rolled across the sky. I was thinking that there was nowhere else I’d rather be in that moment when the flashlight began to blink and flash, and Mark and Debbie began talking with a spirit.

Do I believe I ghosts? Yes. Do I go looking for them? Normally, no. This is only my second ghost tour, and while I believe they’re around us all the time, the skeptic in me does rear it’s shaggy head at times. But strangely, this was not one of them. The little flashlight blinked on and off, once for yes and twice for no, and eventually it came out that were were in the presence of a young boy who really wanted to chat. I think we were there for at least 20 minutes, and while I would never do something like that myself, I did like witnessing the whole event. I feel safe in cemeteries. But I know that a lot of people don’t and that there are many who would have been upset by something like that.

We went to visit Fred Weeks by his mausoleum for another show with the flashlight. Fred Weeks was a man who knew how to get revenge with grace and style. When he was ripped off by 3 businessmen in the Orlando area he erected a headstone with their names on it by the front gates of Greenwood with a bible verse,  Luke 10:30. When the men bought back the swampland they had sold him in order to get him to take the headstone down, he built his mausoleum, and put their names on it instead. On the doors you can see where the names were removed. Mr. Weeks died alone; his wife left him and took the children with her so he’s in the mausoleum all by himself. It’s a good story, but just goes to show you that seeking  revenge hurts you as well as the other person. On most of my visits to Greenwood there is a flower on Fred’s door. I always wonder who leaves them.

Toward the end of the tour it was raining in earnest and we stopped briefly at Babyland 3. I took a few photos but mostly hung back. When they tried to get interaction with the flashlight again nothing happened. The babies were all resting peacefully tonight.

A few days later Shawn and I went back to Greenwood to look at some of the places we had stopped on the tour, and as we drove past Babyland there was a couple sitting together on one of the little graves. I’m pretty sure my heart just fell out of my chest because I felt so heartbroken for them.

At the end of the tour we went back to the cemetery office, where I bought a tee shirt and handed Mark my card, asking him if it would be okay if I wrote about the tour on the blog.

“Yes!” he said. ‘Will you write nice things?”

“Of course!” I replied.

“And will you tell them how good looking and single I am?” he asked me.

“Yes, I will,” I said. And I’m keeping my promise.

So lookout, ladies! If you like history and have a thing for men in bowler hats, he’s your man. You can take a tour with American Ghost Adventures here in Orlando- I’m definitely taking one of the city tours so I can learn more about some of the buildings downtown. Check them out on Facebook for upcoming dates and events!

 

 

Marti Colon Cemetery in Tampa, Florida

I took a much needed day off to be alone and just wander, and what better place to do that than in Tampa’s cemeteries. I had several on my list that I had missed on my last trip, and decided to head in that direction. I needed to just stop thinking for a day.

My favorite of the several that I visited was not the most showy or ostentatious, quite the opposite, in fact. I had passed it back in February and was unable to see the name on the sign, I just saw the large, white mausoleum with Jesus on the front of it and knew I had to go back. It took me a bit of researching to figure out which one it might potentially be, but I found it, and went there after visiting Myrtle Hill (amazing), and Orange Hill (interesting). Marti Colon is not terribly large, and has a checkered past involving the city, the parks department, dumping of raw sewage, and a LOT of bodies that were not moved during the Columbus Road expansion and then a few more bodies that were moved improperly- stacked in graves one on top of the other. That’s a no-no unless the plot was sold to the family for that kind of burial. But when you go there, you’d never know it’s had problems. It was established in 1895.

The one family mausoleum at the front is huge and I’ve never seen one like it. First, the doorway was tiled in bright colors and there were no doors. Over the door was a very large plaster figure of Jesus with the stigmata on his hands. (I absolutely loved it, of course. It was amazing and only slightly ghoulish.) The windows were some kind of blurred glass that you could still see out of, and inside the ceilings were surprisingly high. There were niches in the walls for flowers and tributes, and the marble for the name plates was an unusual pink color. The niches had been painted a robin’s egg blue and were discolored from candles being burned in them over the years. One side held flowers and the other a dead plant. An old broom was in the corner. The windows on either side of the doorway actually had crank handles so that they could be opened. It was really remarkable and didn’t exactly remind me of a mausoleum, more of a house. Like you could put in doors and a couch and be good to go. I’m thinking the family must like that. The mausoleum was almost full.

The thing about the mausoleum that really struck me though, besides all that I’ve mentioned, is that the light inside was extraordinary. It was perfect for photos; I’m not sure if it was the blurred glass or the high ceilings, or the reflective tile floor, but it was really beautiful. I stayed in there a long time, just looking. Finally, I walked out to see the larger mausoleum. It was flat and wide, dark on the inside, and I felt a need to duck going in. It had skylights throughout the central section that gave it an eerie feeling with lots of shadows. I can’t say I’d want to be in this one on a rainy day. Tributes were scattered all over the floor and at the end of the main section was a broken stained glass window that had been of some religious figure. My guess would be Mary. One hand was left in the glass, perfectly detailed and holding a flower stem, while the rest of the figure was gone. It needed a good mop, broom, and bucket of paint. It was just dirty and sad, in the way of homes that get run down because the occupants can’t afford to replace things as they get old or break. I flipped the light switch praying for the lights to come on, but the electricity had probably been turned off for years. I walked out to look at the gravestones.

Like the other cemeteries in Tampa this one was full of photos on the graves. It’s one of my favorite things about visiting this area. The Spanish, Cuban, and Italian immigrants loved their fancy graves and rituals. The photos mean that you will usually see at least one post-mortem while visiting the cemeteries, and I saw what I thought was one in the back, but Maryanne said she didn’t think so. Hard to tell on that one. They always startle me a bit, but it’s either something you love or something that makes you shiver. I usually like them.

 

I was following a path through the graves and looking down at one grave at a time as I walked when I saw a small handmade marker. Baby Sanchez June 16, 1961, Love Mom and Dad. The phrase had been scratched into the concrete with a nail or sharp tool, and I got down on the ground to take a closer look. I thought about the parents that must have made that and what they felt like at the time, and then I saw another one. And another. There was an entire row of the handmade markers, all in the same hand, and all identical otherwise aside from the dates and names. The parents had not made them. One person in the community had made them for the families that lost children for several years. And then I took a closer look around and saw that I was standing in Babyland.

I don’t willingly enter these sections anymore, and I felt something akin to fear grip my heart when I realized where I was, so I looked at one other grave that caught my eye and then went back to the pathway to view the section from there. The babies were under large, shady trees and the graves were so tiny, and some quite ornate. In the back I saw one that had small toy truck left on it, which amazed me as it looked fairly old. I made my way back to the front of the cemetery.

This is one that I’ll be going back to in the next month, and bringing a few cemetery-loving friends for an outing. I’m also interested in viewing the records on some of the families there. It’s a little run-down, but I think that’s exactly what I liked about it. I doubt it has many visitors since I saw little evidence of recent visits like fresh or new flowers and cards. Instead, like the cemetery itself, everything was worn, slightly faded, and had seen better, brighter days. But to me, that made it glorious.

 

Before the Hurricane

Maryanne and I were separated at birth. I’m sure of that. We started talking in a Facebook cemetery group and when we met in person a year later (for tea in a local tearoom) we were the only women in there amid a flurry of floral dresses and hats that were mostly dressed down, and we were the only two people in the place talking about embalming techniques. Neither of us is high maintenance. Both of us think cremation is the way to go. Neither of us is afraid of dead people.

Maryanne wanted to go see a family member in a cemetery in Chiefland, Florida, two hours from Orlando, and she asked me to go. I will always go visit a cemetery with someone, so I immediately said yes and asked what kind of snacks to bring.

We jumped in the car at 11 a.m. on a Wednesday before the hurricane was supposed to hit over the weekend. Since we’ve both lived in Florida for years neither of us was panicked and both of us felt prepared. However, the rest of the Floridians had other ideas. It took us two and a half hours to get to Adamsville Cemetery, which you’ll see in another post, and a total of five hours to get to Chiefland Cemetery.

Chiefland is small and situated in Levy county, which I was unaware of until we passed the sign. The population is about 2,300, and it’s rural. Horses and agriculture everywhere. We had to take 2 dirt roads to get to the cemetery, and when we finally found it after five hours in the car it felt like a miracle. We got out gratefully, stretched, and it immediately began to rain.

Maryanne handed me a brightly striped umbrella and we started down the aisles of headstones. At the back of the cemetery was a section for the slaves of the Hardee family, which are numerous in the cemetery. The large flat stone reads, Buried Here Are Faithful Servants of Isaac  P.  Hardee. The family is about 20 steps away from this section, which is something I’ve never seen. I wish that the servants had been named, of course, but I still loved seeing the tribute. Mister Hardee himself was right there and his original stone was on the ground, barely legible, but it had been framed in concrete and a new stone in the same style and with the exact same font had been erected in its place. I loved seeing the original and also being able to read the new one, which was quite unusual in it’s simplicity. It was actually my favorite stone that I saw that day.

Maryanne had found her family member by that time, and she told me that she was named after her. Marie Theresa Hampton was less than a year old when she died on August 19, 1949. Maryanne told me that the story itself was quite tragic and that the little girl had a sad and horrible death with far reaching repercussions, but I honestly feel that the story is for her to tell, and so she may be doing a blog post about her in the future. The little grave was beautifully bright amid all of the darker headstones, and Maryanne bent down to touch the stone for a minute before placing pink flowers on the grave. We said the next time we came we’d bring D-2 solution and clean her headstone.

The cemetery itself is beautiful and has a gazebo with a tin roof and trees all around, so the rain was very loud at times, but that only added to the experience for me. An even greater surprise was seeing the cemetery map, well labeled and preserved, and….legible! I was thrilled. I love seeing the maps but they’re not easy to find. Some of the larger cemeteries will provide a map for you at their offices, and I keep them and frame them when I get one.

Near the back of the cemetery there are two graves with a very unusual feature, something I’d never seen before. The better example of the two simply reads INFANT in block letters that are painted on glass and then embedded in the concrete grave topper. They were quite old but in perfect condition.

Before we got back in the car to fight the traffic on the way home we stood there for awhile, me under the umbrella and Maryanne smoking. She talked about possibly having Marie disinterred and moved to her family cemetery in Orlando, which would mean that the little girl would get to lay next to her parents. I asked about costs, and whether there would be anything left to move at this point, but she felt there might be something. She planned to talk to her parents about it when she saw them over the weekend. She is the only Hampton in the cemetery.

There can be so much emotion in a place like this, when you bend down to touch the stone of that loved one and you’re not seeing the stone, you’re seeing their history and their connection to you. Maryanne certainly never met Marie, but she loves her. It’s obvious. It made me want to visit Kentucky and the cemetery where my family members are buried, just to see what that feels like since I didn’t know them personally. I know them through story and on paper, from the family genealogy my aunts have worked on for years. It’s days like this that make me realize how important markers are for those left behind and why I Iove cemeteries so much.

It took us three hours to get home. I had gummy bears and a protein bar for dinner. We passed gas stations with lines running out of the parking lot and down the street. We stopped at a Publix and the water aisle was empty. Central Florida was scared.

If you’re in Florida I hope you fared well during Irma- and I apologize for the photo quality in this post.

Locke Family Cemetery on Boggy Creek Road

This one was a surprise. I’m not even sure how to describe how I got there, Shawn and I were talking and I was fiddling with the music the entire time we were driving. It was hot. I needed a snack. I’d run out of iced tea from Starbucks already. You get the picture.

When we finally pulled up to the gate we found that it was indeed a small family cemetery on the side of the road, and that we had to park on the shoulder because there wasn’t designated parking. The first thing we saw was a big sign that said No Trespassing, and another that said the cemetery was monitored by video surveillance. We ignored them both and unlatched the gate to walk in since it was broad daylight and the gate wasn’t locked. I did take a quick look around though and I saw that the telephone pole next to the cemetery had a floodlight on it aimed at the cemetery, and I know that goes a long way toward preventing vandalism. If I heeded by every No Trespassing sign that I saw I’d never get any writing done because I’d be avoiding every cemetery I’ve ever been in. I usually will research them first to see if they’re privately owned. If so I’ll still visit anyway and see if the gate is locked. If it is, I don’t go in.

This cemetery is OLD, which was another surprise. Almost all of the names are Lock or Locke, but supposedly there is a Jane Green buried there who was in a specific type of trade and ‘worked’ with the cattlemen in the area. Having once dated a farmer who raised cattle for breed stock, I have to say I do not blame her one bit. Nothing makes my hormones stir like a man on a horse, but that isn’t really relevant. Whether or not the story about Jane is actually true remains a mystery, but it’s the legend, and I remember stopping in wonder at her modern headstone because she lived to be 99 years old.

There are some beautiful hand stamped headstones in the center rows that date back to 1892 and 1898. My favorite of the two features a star motif stamped into the top curve of the stone and the epitaph reads “She Died Triumph In The Lord”. Her name was also unusual, Marzila Lock.

When you walk though this cemetery is seems like it’s another sandy lot filled with burrs and old headstones, but when you stand back and view it from the front you notice that a large section is shaded by a beautiful oak tree, and I stood for a moment imagining those strong roots carefully holding the people together underground. All of my shots from the gate were beautiful.

 

Find A Grave shows 67 burials on the lot but I’m pretty sure there were more given the age of the cemetery, and there are a surprising number of children buried here. 12 out of the 67, in fact.

And finally, a particularly nice tribute on Find A Grave is this one for Cennie Tison Lock, and it shows how large this family really was. Enjoy.