Category: Grieving

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.

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.

Roselawn Cemetery, Tallahassee, Florida

A computer glitch kept me from my 2 usual posts last month. I just know I’m going to toss this thing in a dumpster one day. Now onto the post…

I don’t know many people that incorporate a cemetery visit into a girl’s weekend trip, but I did. As it turns out, the ladies that I was with had family members buried in Roselawn, and I really wanted to go and visit them. Jennifer’s mom and grandparents were in Roselawn, and Dawn’s mom was there. I remembered Jen’s mom and grandma, and certainly Dawn’s mom, Carol.

Jennifer’s Grandma Ernestine was a sweet woman, and she always believed the best of us, no matter what we did or how terrible it was. It was her husband that owned the enormous Buick Park Avenue that Jen learned to drive in, and that we all rode around in as kids. That thing could literally hold 8 of us comfortably. Even on this trip Jennifer drove; it’s in her blood since she’s literally been doing it since she was WAY under the legal driving (or learning) age. Grandpa had a lot of well-placed faith in her.

Dawn’s mom died suddenly in 2017 and we stopped first to see her. Before the trip we all trudged to Wal Mart to buy new flowers. Dawn’s mom loved hydrangeas, so we were looking specifically for those and thankfully, they had some.

We met Jennifer at Roselawn in front of Dawn’s family plot. Her mom had been cremated and Dawn had purchased a pretty marker for her, and she cleaned this carefully and then dusted the leaves off of the headstones of her other family members. She prepared the flowers, removed the old ones, and then set them up in the owl vase her daughter had chosen for the space. The rest of us loitered around, very conscious of the fact that there was nothing easy about coming out here or doing any of this. Mendy and I sat on a bench talking, enjoying the music from the wind chimes over our heads. It was a windy day and the sound was rich and vibrant on the spring breeze.

Dawn’s mom was funny and kind, and she drove us to school on many rainy or cold mornings, both in middle school and then later on when we went to high school, the same one she had also graduated from. Spending the night at their house mostly felt like home when I was a kid, and she created that feeling.

Afterward we went to see the Warner’s, Jennifer’s family, which were located closer to the back of the cemetery. When we were kids after a long night out we would sometimes drive out here around midnight or later for Jen to talk to her grandfather. This was before the cemetery was gated, before it became home to over 8,000 burials. Most of the time the rest of us would stay in the car while she sat on his grave for a few minutes. We would roll the windows down and listen to the crickets, and look cautiously around at the pitch black night that surrounded us in the big car. For the most part though, I always felt safe. It’s a beautiful place.

This time I placed flowers on Ernestine’s grave and told her that yes, that was Jennifer running down her road in the middle of the night once when we were in high school, and that yes, Jennifer had lied about it when asked. While we were up to no good that night as usual, we weren’t doing anything more serious than staying out too late.

Jen was still mad about the headstone that her brother had picked out for her mom, who was in the next plot. She gestured to it wildly and asked us what the hell we thought of it. (She phrased it just like that, which is why I’ve always liked her.) Here is Cheryl Warner Coker’s epitaph:

We do not want you to be uninformed, brethren, about those who are asleep, so that you will not grieve as do the rest that have no hope.

For if we believe that Jesus died and rose again, even so God will bring with Him those who have fallen asleep in Jesus.

1 Thessalonians 4-13-14

 

“What the hell is that?” she asked, gesturing again (this time I caught it on camera). We all slumped over, looking a little closer, waiting for the punchline. The truth was, none of us would have picked that for Cheryl’s marker. I think she would have been more suited to a song lyric from the 70’s rather than a long winded and particularly flowery Bible verse. My memories of her included music, cigarettes, and her laughter. Jennifer obviously thought her brother had not chosen appropriately, but there’s nothing to be done about it after all this time, and I still say when people are grieving they’re pretty much out of their minds for awhile. And that’s okay. Maybe that’s why he chose that inscription. At the time, it may have felt perfect.

Or he could have been trying to annoy Jennifer.

I know not many people would meet their girlfriends on a bright Saturday morning in a cemetery, but after being away from Tallahassee for over 20 years without going back, I wanted to see everybody, both alive and dead. We went by all of our old houses and were alarmed at some of the changes, especially Mendy’s, which was abandoned. We went by our old middle school and high school and took pictures. We did all of the things that you do when you come back to a place, all the while layering the present over the past by talking about kids, spouses, and jobs. Reminiscing wasn’t as painful as I’d thought it would be.

I was grateful for that.

I am giving my first talk about a cemetery in Tampa next week, so please quietly cheer me on from wherever you are. I’ll be talking to kids, so I’m pretty excited about that. Can’t wait to hear their questions!

 

 

 

The Legacy of Traumatic Experiences

This month the trial for the widow of the Pulse shooter begins. Noor Salman pled not  guilty to all charges.

For Orlando residents this trial will bring forth a wave of memories that I’m sure many wanted to put behind them for good. The day I learned about the shooting I was sitting downtown with my fiancee at a Korean Restaurant waiting for the food to arrive, and I just sat there with tears running down my cheeks. I cried for the people who died. I cried for the people who lived. I cried for the police and investigators who had to walk into that crime scene and work. I could barely get myself together and could barely eat, and I haven’t been back to that restaurant since, just because I associate it with those feelings. (Nothing against them at all.) That whole day I just wanted to talk to my mom.

In 2011 when my coworkers and I were in the lobby at my job and a man was dragged in off the street, with his throat cut and bleeding to death, my thoughts later that week were that this was a temporary thing, a feeling that would go away and that we would all heal with time. In some ways I did, but I now recognize that kind of self talk as pure panic on my part. And I was panicking.

-I was afraid to go to work or walk into a public building for months afterward.

-I hired a therapist but found that once I was there I was unable to talk about what happened at all. I went for several months, but always talked about other issues in my life and skirted the big one.

-I was unable to tell my friends about what happened because they were so horrified when I did try to talk to them. My boyfriend at the time broke up with me two days after, because he apparently couldn’t cope.

-I had trouble eating for weeks and lost a lot of weight. I had insomnia and anxiety and ended up taking Xanax for 4 years.

-My mom did not know how to support me, but she managed when others could not.

-I am still afraid of large public buildings and feel scared to attend large events, including church services. I’ve learned to make myself do some things and decline others that I know will make me too nervous.

Even with one death, a lot of people were touched, and I was technically (physically) unharmed. There were the 6 of us working that night, plus my manager, the police officers, the paramedics, the man who brought him into the building (who continued coming in afterward but would never walk through the same set of doors again), the cleaning staff, the shitty counselor that my employer hired for (ONE) session as a group that we were required to attend, and then the friends and family of all the people there that night, plus our own doctors and therapists. This one death went on an on, and I didn’t even mention the victim’s family, or the man who committed the crime and his family.

I feel so much for people in recovery when they’ve been exposed to violence. I can’t even express how much it saddens me. To see it treated as a condition that you just get over, like having a bad cold, upsets me greatly.

I finally was able to talk about it almost 5 years later. It was in a group of my peers, and it was the scariest thing I’d even done- just articulating what happened that night and knowing that the people in the room would be horrified. Part of why I never talked about it was because I didn’t want to upset anyone else with that story. Instead, I was embraced and accepted, and ultimately, assisted.

I still know the man’s name and age when he died, and where he is buried. I know that he doesn’t have a headstone and that the cemetery he is in is not the best one in the area, since the owner died and there is no money for maintenance, so it falls to the city and their limited budget. He is in another state.

One of the men I worked with that night and I have kept in touch. His name is Brian. We both left that job within about a year of each other. It took us both awhile, each for different reasons. I started this blog and started visiting cemeteries as a hobby, and started advocating for one in particular that I felt for. My friend started a series of paintings and works of art that are dark and disturbing and make me feel uncomfortable to look at, but I love them. My favorite is a man with his features blurred, as though the paint ran unexpectedly or was smeared somehow. That painting makes me remember what it felt like to have something simmering inside me that I was unable to talk about. The feeling of being muzzled. I liked it that both of us took what we went through and did something to channel it. I wish I knew what happened to the other people who were there that night.

I should have talked to my therapist, but I’m glad that when I finally did talk about it all I was with such a supportive group of women. And my God, if you’re even in a situation to support a victim or a witness to violence, do it. Don’t act like it didn’t happen. Even if you just listen, it will make a difference.

As this trial begins I can’t help wondering how many people will support the families of the victims, the witnesses, and the officials who worked this crime; this mass shooting. The consequences of that one event will have repercussions that last for generations. Today you can still visit the building and see the memorial that people have created to the victims. Any time I drive by there are people standing there, thoughtfully reading the tributes

All photos of Pulse and the memorial set up in front of the building courtesy of Gus Leigh. You can read his work at this link.

 

 

 

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.

Tampa Cemetery Tour With Grace

My auto correct automatically changed the word Grace to Grave. That seems to say a lot about my life, but I’m going to ignore it for now.

Grace and I jumped in the Jeep a couple of weeks ago and drove to Tampa with a full tank of gas and a bag full of snacks. We had a list of several cemeteries to visit, and we wanted to hopefully be heading back to Orlando before the traffic got out of control.

The first stop was Marti Colon. We spent a lot of time at this cemetery because we both loved it, and it was interesting for me to notice which grave sites Grace gravitated toward and pointed out to me. There are some stunning portraits here, so take your time looking.

The next stop was Centro Asturiano, the immigrant cemetery within the confines of Woodlawn for members of the local Spanish Club. It was here that I got a burr stuck underneath my toes, and I had to find a sturdy headstone to brace myself against while Grace got the evil little thing off of me. This cemetery is such a treasure; I love visiting. Here is where you’ll start to see the graves made out of blue and white tiles, and some with a wreath with a pink tile bow if the grave belongs to a woman or child. Many of the ones in here are still in excellent shape, though there is a considerable amount of damage at the front of the cemetery.

After this- Woodlawn. We drove though and got out to visit the Hampton plot, and also to get a better look at a few portraits on the headstones. This cemetery is enormous and one you could easily spend the day in, with lots of mausoleums for added interest. Since we don’t see many of them around here they always draw me to them and yes, I peek in windows.

A quick stop for drinks and a snack- then Robles Cemetery and it’s 26 burials. This cemetery was one that I feel literally too intimidated to write about. It’s small, uncared for, clearly ignored, and suffering damage, but the history of this family is fascinating and the story is so good, I know I can’t do it justice. Check the link for the contributions they made to Central Florida.

Next- La Unione Italiana and Cento Espanol next to it. La Unione was the site of a break in in 2016 where several caskets (including the bodies) was stolen from one of the mausoleums. I didn’t see any evidence of damage, thankfully, but I felt terrible for the family. There was a descendant living and a reward was offered, but I never heard anything else about it. Grave robbing is still a very real event and it literally happens all the time. It saddens me and makes me angry because I just don’t get it, and I don’t understand how profitable it can actually be. Definitely something for another blog post, and if you have ever witnessed anything like this please reach out to me on here. I’d like to hear your experiences.

While we were there Grace said she wanted a picture of what she kept referring to as “Anchor Jesus”. We walked toward a huge statue and stood at it’s feet, both squinting up at it.

“I don’t think that’s Jesus,” I said.

“Who would it be?” she asked, taking photos.

I looked it up when I got home. It’s a statue of Hope, which is often depicted with a large anchor and a star. The anchor motif is popular in coastal cities, and Tampa does have a number of anchor symbols on grave markers. I especially love this beautiful statue, she’s on the right side of the main aisle (If you’re facing the gates) when you visit, but you can’t miss her.

At the Spanish Cemetery next door I stayed in the car with the A/C running while Grace ran around. I don’t like the feeling of that cemetery at all, I feel like someone is throwing a heavy, wet blanket of grief onto me when I’ve gone in before. No thanks. The funny thing is, she came over to my car door and I rolled the window down, smiling and asking her what she thought about the place.

“This one doesn’t feel right,” she said musingly, and got back in the car a few minutes later.

We planned to end our day with Orange Hill, which is the less prim and proper cousin of Myrtle Hill next door. Myrtle Hill is the fine wine of active cemeteries in Tampa. It is very grand, very large, and very beautiful. Orange Hill, however, has it’s charms. One is an empty mausoleum that you can pop your head into to look around, and another is a huge and strange building at the front with no discernible purpose. I did some digging online and can’t figure out if it’s a funeral chapel or something else, it seems way too large to be a mausoleum. Grace sent a photo to her girlfriend and got this gem in response:

On the way out of Myrtle Hill we noticed a memorial park across the street and decided to drive through for a minute, but it turned into a lengthy adventure. First, it has a huge columbarium in the middle of it that has some interesting architecture and we decided to get out and go peek. We found the doors to the chapel area open and walked inside, and then Grace covered her face with her tee shirt because the SMELL was unbelievable. I mean, BAD. I thought about either backing out of the doors or gagging, but the inside was so interesting that I swallowed hard and walked farther in. After a few minutes I had to leave, but kept looking around for a source of the smell and could only see a few spills on the floor that had dried and were crawling with small bugs. I have no idea what happened in there. Grace said it smelled like the craft supplies that had been stored for a year in a mildewed closet at at Bible Camp. I had nothing to compare it to, but I’ll say again that I hate smells in cemeteries.

I’m encouraging everyone to get to Tampa and take a cemetery tour of your own design. We really had a stellar day, and went home in horrible traffic (we didn’t avoid it after all) full of French fries and caffeine and covered in bug bites.

 

 

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!