The Hebrew Cemetery in Richmond

First, I’m excited today to be featuring photography by Chris Beasley for this post! I ran across his work in a Facebook group about cemeteries and I ended up asking to use his photos for my post on the historic Hebrew Cemetery in Richmond.  His pictures really do the place justice and capture the feel of this historic cemetery. Enjoy!

I haven’t been to too many Jewish cemeteries, but out of all the ones that I’ve visited this one is my favorite. Part of what makes this place unique is the looming red brick building behind the cemetery that was once a hospital, then an almshouse for the poor, and now has rediscovered it’s usefulness as senior apartments. The irony is not lost on me- this apartment building has cemetery views from 2 sides and probably does not inspire a lot of motivation from it’s residents. It’s an extraordinary place for a senior community, but I’m glad that they did preserve the grand old building rather then tear it down. It’s an active area and we saw quite a few people out and about on the day that we went.

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The former hospital is in the background.

Well, the people who live there do have a great place to walk with multiple cemeteries in the vicinity- at least in my opinion. We headed to the Hebrew Cemetery and took a few photos, walking around quietly and marveling at the crowded beauty of the place since we were (I thought) the only people there. Many of the stones were ornate and it was a lot to take in. Then out of nowhere a man in a Hawaiian shirt walked up and introduced himself to us, and offered to help us find anyone we were looking for. He was the caretaker.

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Mortuary chapel.

I’ve only had one other person approach me in a cemetery and it was a fairly drunk woman in Jacksonville who hugged me, gave me a homemade bath bomb, and told me to please thank the veterans laid to rest nearby. I did thank them, and I am not making this up. I’m a bit skittish when people approach me in these places but this gentleman was extremely knowledgeable and walked us around the cemetery, pointing out interesting features. This cemetery is clearly loved and meticulously cared for. There are also extensive burial  records that can be accessed on their website for genealogists.

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I had 2 favorites- one was the little chapel at the front of the property, now boarded up and used as offices for the caretaker and other staff. It was erected in 1898 and is just so pretty; most mortuary chapels seem to be a little on the grim side. This one is substantial and small, but I loved the design and the fact that it’s placed at the front of the cemetery, as though it was there to look after it. I’m hoping that one day I will get to go inside. When the cemetery was first started there was a small ritual house there instead where bodies could be prepared for burial, and the chapel replaced that. The cemetery began in 1816 and is now occupying 5 acres.

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The second feature that I absolutely loved was a memorial to the Jewish soldiers in the Civil War. 30 Confederate soldiers were buried in this section during the war- that alone is unusual as (according to the website) it is the only Jewish military cemetery in the United States. The site used to have gravestones but they were removed and a plaque was placed there in honor of those men, and an incredibly ornate iron fence was erected around the site. The fence is made of iron guns, swords, funeral wreaths, and the tops of the fence posts are actually shaped like the caps that the soldiers wore. The caretaker mentioned that many of the guns have slight differences, and we stood there a long time looking at it. It really is the most fantastic, creative thing I’ve seen in a cemetery.

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After visiting this cemetery you might want to walk over to Shockoe. It’s surrounded by a picturesque red brick wall and is FULL of gorgeous statuary, and also has Poe’s foster parents there along with the woman who inspired the poem Annabel Lee, which was the first piece of Poe’s writing that I ever read. Sarah Shelton was also his last fiancee before his death. Her grave is covered with stones from visitors. I absolutely loved it.

These cemeteries definitely deserve to be on any taphophiles list when they’re visiting Richmond. I can’t wait to go back this fall.

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The Back of the Hearse

Last weekend Shawn and I went to St. Augustine to celebrate our 1-year-of-dating anniversary. When we were planning the trip our conversation went something like this:

Shawn: Let’s go to St. Augustine to celebrate our anniversary!

Me: Yes, lets!

Shawn: Maybe we can take some tours that we’ve never taken before. What would you like to do?

Me: I’d like to take the ghost ride hearse tour.

Shawn: What else?

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In the back…

Me: Doesn’t matter.

We booked the Everdark Express with GhoSt Augustine and the waiting began. Thankfully we decided to do it on our first night there and I didn’t have to wait too long. When we arrived at the shop we found an interesting array of ghost-hunting equipment and a lot of fun tee shirts (Bigfoot on a milk carton was my favorite). The manager, Gina, came out and introduced herself and confirmed our reservation, and we chatted about their tours while we waited for our guide. She was fun and knowledgeable, and talked easily about things she had seen and experienced in her work. I was kind of jealous; the most exciting thing that happened to me recently was a guy who asked for the book Sybil to be sent to him “as soon as possible” because he planned to read it out loud to his family.

Yeah. Look that one up.

We were taking the tour with a family of four- mom, dad, their infant son, and their daughter who was about ten and a seriously brave girl. When the tour guide showed up promptly at 8 we were escorted out the back door to the already running ’92 Caddy hearse. The doors were wide open and waiting for us to enter, and it looked welcoming in it’s own morose way.

I was beside myself. I think I may have offered to drive but our guide, Ed, insisted. Shawn and I let the family have the middle seats and we clambered into the back. Ed shut the door behind us, letting us know that we would not be able to let ourselves out and smiling as he invited us to enjoy the ride. The engine gave a glorious rumble, and we were off.

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Theador and Cotton.

The back of that thing had gone through an interesting conversion, with carpet over what was left of the apparatus in the now floorboard and seats on 3 sides that made me feel a bit like I was sitting in a black hot-tub. They had thrown in a couple of black cushions for good measure, and it was pretty comfortable as we tooled around St. Augustine at no more than 8 miles an hour (which is all you can do in a regular vehicle anyway in the Old City). I’m pretty sure that the tourists gave the hearse a wide berth as it rolled sedately down the cobblestone streets.

Ed talked about city history including the Yellow Fever epidemics that tore through St. Augustine and caused the city get creative with how they dealt with bodies, and I loved it. By the time we got to our destination I’d learned quite a bit, especially since he was a historian and a good storyteller. We got out at a parking lot near Artillery Street where we were taken to a courtyard of what looked to be a private residence or maybe a business- only there was a headstone there. The stone was for Theodor Weber, who was buried with his dog Cotton in 1995. The stone was set back in ferns and other heavy greenery and was gorgeous. On first glance I would never have believed someone was buried there, the stone design was beautiful and was clearly made to look less like a headstone and more like a courtyard decoration.

We walked a bit to an antique shop where we were issued K-II meters and given instructions as to their use. I was kind of excited, I’d never tried ghost hunting, and while I had not formed an opinion about it, I will admit to having a love/hate relationship with the TV show Ghost Adventures. Love the places and the history. Hate Zak’s hair. Not sure about the ghosts and the equipment.

However, my personal feelings about spirits aside, we still had an interesting evening with the meters lighting up periodically, a crying infant who didn’t like it when a ghost showed up (according to the meters), and a flashlight that blinked, flickered, and wavered as we asked questions into the dark space and waited for a reply. Our tour ended with a trip to the National Cemetery and we were given advice on how to take the best possible ghost photos. I tried it, and on my third try I had a distinct blur on the screen where there had not been one in the previous photos. The next night I tried at another cemetery and got nothing, but I’ll keep trying at the different places I visit. Ed showed us some of his own photos and they were really intriguing.

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Ghost? Raindrop? Dust?

I only had one moment of slight panic and it surprised me. When we got out of the hearse at the first stop the sun was going down and with the rain we’d had earlier it was getting dark. When the back door was opened for us the lights in the back of the hearse came on and I could suddenly imagine a casket resting there instead of seating. I jumped. It seemed like the purpose of the vehicle was suddenly very obvious because of those lights illuminating the interior. I already knew it had been previously used. Some of the newer models have such incredible lighting that they make me think of the flight deck on the Starship Enterprise. The people who design those lights should be working in funeral homes since I’m pretty sure they could make anything look good.

It was a fun tour- and the little scare at the end was my imagination working overtime. But… it wouldn’t be a good ghost tour without a little scare, would it?

 

**all opinions are my own and I was not compensated for this post.

St. John’s Episcopal Church Cemetery, Richmond

I was going to pass on posting this week in the aftermath of the Orlando mass shooting last weekend. The place where I have lived and worked for the last 16 years has suddenly become a place where I feel afraid to live and work, but I understand that these things take time to process and that there will be a day when the people of Orlando feel safe again, and feel like they’re at home. One thing that I do know from my own experience with violence is that it changes so many lives so rapidly. People who witness something like this are never the same again. The positive point here is that the good people of Orlando poured forth their love, time, and money to make this a gentler transition- if such a thing exists- for those involved.

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I decided to write this week about the last place where I felt completely comfortable and happy (no, I am not writing about my own bed). That place was the St. John’s Episcopal Church Cemetery in Richmond, Virginia on a rainy morning a couple of weeks ago. The wall that surrounds this beautiful space is actually so pretty that Caroline and I walked the entire city block, just to check it all out. Part of the wall on one side of the cemetery had been reinforced with metal bars to keep the wall from giving way- but it was holding its own and I was grateful to see that this place is cherished. The church dates from 1741 and since we were there on a Sunday, we did not go in because they were holding services. We did get to hear the bells ringing, and that in itself was magical.

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The cemetery ended up on our radar when we visited the Poe Museum (which was amazing!) and found out that Edgar Allan Poe’s mother was buried here. We had expected a modest stone, but there was actually a very large monument erected to her with a medallion in the center of a beautiful woman holding a raven. It was a fitting tribute to Elizabeth Arnold Poe, 1787-1811. In front of it was a blooming magnolia tree that perfumed the air with its lemony scent. The stones all around us were extremely old and many dated back to the late 1700’s, and sadly, many others could not be read. The church and historians had made valiant preservation efforts, everything from leaving headstones in the pathways through the churchyard to leaving them erected where they were and building around them. I literally looked down and found that I was standing on a grave- even though I was on the path. It’s not my normal practice to purposely stand on graves, I usually try to read headstones from the side to avoid standing on someone and potentially sinking into soft soil.

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Caroline said, “How do you feel about that? About what they’ve done here?” She indicated the gravestone.

“I’m just glad they left the headstone where it was. I don’t care if they bricked it in- at least that way it’s protected,” I answered. I thought of Colonial Park Cemetery in Savannah with it’s wall of headstones that have been affixed to the bricks at the back of the cemetery. It’s overwhelming, but makes for a great hour of reading and strolling. In that case I was glad they still had the stones, but wished they could have been left in place. I understand that it’s not always possible.

St. John’s is especially famous for the speech that Patrick Henry delivered here with the famous words, “Give me liberty or give me death!” There is also a signer of the Declaration of Independence buried here, George Wythe, 1726-1806.

Caroline and I split up and looked around on our own for awhile and since we had been doing so much walking and I found a place to rest, I decided to sit down to wait for her to catch up. I sat on a step and leaned back for a moment, my hands splayed behind me on the brick, picking up their warmth. I turned and looked, and I realized that I was sitting right next to a large headstone that could still be read.

Ann Carty Alison Wife of Fr. Alison who departed this life April 18, 1793, aged 35 years
She was a kind and loving wife and tender parent and a good Christian.

About 223 years before a group of mourners had gathered in this spot to lay her to rest. They stood where I was sitting, looking down into the grave. I sat there for awhile, looking at the headstone, wondering what she was like and how she died. What horrors did she witness in her lifetime? What beauty?

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After 49 people died senselessly in my hometown this week, I go back to Patrick Henry’s words for courage.

“Besides sir, we shall not fight our battles alone. There is a just God who presides over the destinies of nations; and who will raise up friends to fight our battles for us.”

If you or anyone you know was affected by the shooting in Orlando, you have my deepest sympathy. I’m thinking today that I can walk into any cemetery and be mostly fine, but I can’t bring myself to go to the victim’s memorial downtown.

 

 

 

 

 

Evergreen

“I feel like I can really breathe in here. Like I can finally take a deep breath,” Caroline said as we stood shoulder to shoulder, looking into the thick green forest around us. There was a pungent smell of wet leaves and earth and it was pleasant to inhale. This place had a feeling to it, not only the feeling of being the only two people on a vast property, but there was a feeling of being absorbed by a giant living organism, of being a part of it. Evergreen was embracing us with its grassy arms.

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The trees towered over our heads, draped with ivy and other creeping vines that had taken over during the years. We stood on the path in Richmond’s historic African-American cemetery, Evergreen, which is actually a total of four different cemeteries. The path had at some point been a paved road and it was now obscured by weeds and poison ivy, showing little more than a footpath when at one point it could accommodate cars. Any open space between trees was covered with vines, climbing roses that someone had lovingly planted at one time, and lillies that had been planted on top of graves and had taken over during the years. They now created spots of bright orange in the verdant landscape. It was the greenest place I had ever seen, and remarkably beautiful. Evergreen lived up to it’s name. We stood in the muffled woods of the 60 acre cemetery staring in wonder all around us, listening to the drops of water hitting the leaves and birds singing in the tops of the trees. The white sunlight was dappled and barely reached us beneath the canopy and as a result the cemetery felt like a steam bath after the recent rain. My shirt was stuck to my back and shoulders within minutes; my bangs glued themselves to my forehead.

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The first day we stayed close to the car, looking around at the tops of headstones peeking through the foliage. Gates and ornate wrought iron fences were woven with weeds and tall grass, making it difficult to see the designs. A large mown path bisected the first part of the cemetery and when we walked down it we saw more and more headstones begin to reveal themselves to us through the plant life. Not only was the place choked with weeds, it was full of burials too. The stones we saw were large and ornate and varied in design. There were supposed to be over 6,000 burials here, and we could see maybe 5% of them.

Part of what protects Evergreen right now is that you’d have to be a damn fool to veer off the path for even a second since you literally can’t see the ground for the weeds. There’s no telling what lives in that place, and there is a water source nearby so it’s the perfect environment for snakes and other wildlife. The other thing protecting it is the presence of volunteers that are trying to restore it bit by bit on regular work days. When people come to a place, vandalism usually stops. Vandals like secrecy and for a long time, this place was essentially that- a secret. While I was in Richmond we asked several people if they had heard of the cemetery and all of them said no. Everyone had heard of Hollywood Cemetery though, known for it’s showy beauty and famous burials. In my opinion this cemetery is just as valuable as a historic resource, but they did not set themselves up for perpetual care when they established the cemetery in 1891. We were standing in the consequences of that decision.

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The next morning over omelettes at Ellwood’s we decided to go back. Just for a few minutes we said. Just to see what was at the end of the path. I had heard of a mausoleum on the property and wanted to see if we could find it, plus, I wanted to see any land that the volunteers had been able to clear. The mausoleum had been targeted by vandals several times over the years, starting sometime in the 70’s when the cemetery began to be left to its own devices and people stopped visiting. However, it had been my impression that each time it would be repaired and would continue to be repaired after every act of vandalism.

So we found ourselves surrounded again by the comforting green of the cemetery within a couple of hours, and we walked with purpose. When the woods in front of the path began to clear we were astonished to find that we were on top of a hill and the hill had in fact been cleared. We saw a Madonna…then an angel…then a beautiful obelisk surrounded by conch shells. I recognized some of the names I saw on headstones from my research. Paths led from the main area into the woods, which were filled with headstones and family plots with beautiful markers. Most were almost completely obscured by creeping ivy and small pink roses. It looked like something out of a dream.

We chose a path at random and found ourselves in a kudzu covered field with monuments poking out of the vines here and there. It was vast and beautiful, and the mystery of what lay beneath the green carpet of plants was almost too much for me to bear. I wanted leather gloves and a herd of hungry goats. NOW. Past that was a cleared field that held a large amount of smaller monuments and was very pretty. But no mausoleum. I felt like it was the way we had come and that we’d missed it.

We circled the area slowly one more time and I saw a tiny dirt track that had been carved out of the ivy, leading farther into the woods. The path was hard packed dirt and had clearly been walked sometime recently, and it was slick from the rain. I started down it. After a couple of minutes I looked up to find a green box in the woods. Literally, the entire mausoleum was draped in ivy on 2 sides. Caroline caught up to me and we jumped down to it from the path. It appeared that the stairs were missing, though we later noticed that railing ran next to the structure that we had not observed at the time.

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When we got to the front though, things changed. In fact, the whole trip changed. At some point the doors had been removed and the opening had been walled up by concrete block. This had been smashed with a sledgehammer and the coffins inside had been pulled down from their shelves and opened. The hardware had been pulled off and was most likely sold. The remains were most likely gone as well because the coffins had been wrenched open with a crowbar and on one, since they couldn’t get it off the shelf they had gone through the underside of it for the remains. I didn’t look for more than a few seconds. Caroline stood beside me, quiet.

I was nauseous when I turned away, and I was trembling all over. I started rubbing my face with my hands and my skin felt gritty and slick with sweat and tears. I’d started crying. Caroline and I walked quietly back to the car, but on the way we stopped one more time under the tall trees and inhaled deeply.

“Let’s go get a drink,” she said, and we left. I cried more in the car, but Caroline knew exactly what to say to me. I think it’s a gift that mothers have.

Because we were hot and thirsty, and because the wine was cold and delicious, I ended up wobbling around Cary Town for the next hour or so with puffy, dilated eyes and a buzz. At the wine bar we decided that in the fall I would travel back and we would go visit again when some of the foliage had died off. Maybe we could see more. I didn’t know that I’d go look for the mausoleum again, that had just been so sad. It takes tremendous violence to do something like that and it was that knowledge that scared me. I suppose that when the same thing keeps happening and there’s no money and no visitors anyway, then the repairs just stop and people give up. This was a turning point for me and I’m not sure yet what will come of it.

My greatest wish would be to raise a truckload of money for the people working on Evergreen. For the time being, until I figure some things out, you can make a donation and learn more here.

We as human beings determine the value of a place by how we treat it, and I am so grateful for people who want to restore this cemetery to it’s former glory, though even as it is, it’s glorious. If you visit please take the greatest care when on the property.

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La Grange Community Church and Cemetery

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LaGrange Community Church.

This place was pretty awesome, though I do have a thing for cemeteries with dirt roads running through them, especially if there’s a gorgeous church on the property. The La Grange Community Church was built in 1872 and it still stands like a sentinel at the front of the cemetery. It’s been tweaked here and there with a bay window added to the front and the second story was removed, but it is still such a treasure because the founders of all of these small cities in this area are commemorated here. You’ll see the last name Mims on the historical marker- and there is a whole plot for the Titus family in the cemetery that includes Henry Titus, the founder of Titusville.  The first pastor is poignantly buried very close to the front of the church, his name was W. N. Chadoin and he passed away in 1904. He has a hall named after him at Stetson University according to one source. You can tour the church on the 3rd Saturday of each month from 10-12 according to the website. I’m definitely going back to do that.

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Dirt roads.

The cemetery is a sandy one, and with the dirt track running through it I felt like I really was there with the pioneers, walking through on a hot Sunday afternoon. The major difference is that the cemetery is packed and at the time it would not have looked like it does now. In one corner people are literally so close that you can’t walk from grave to grave without feeling like you’re stepping on someone. In that same corner there is a cedar tree and underneath it is a folding chair painted a pale pink color. It’s unfolded, quite close to the head of one of the graves and it was easy to imagine someone sitting there often, talking to a loved one nearby.

One of the graves in the same section had been decorated with brightly colored duct tape, which I had never seen before in a cemetery. The tape didn’t really stick to the concrete, but some of the stripes still remained and it was definitely bold compared with the other stones nearby. The cemetery association has been hard at work though, not only were there trash cans full of old flowers and debris waiting to be picked up, but there were also small stones with names on them to commemorate people who were known to be buried there before 1900, but without any known plot. They’re there, they just aren’t sure where. I loved it that they did this.

Pink chair.
Pink chair.

After a long walk through the cemetery we came back to the church and happened to notice that we were being calmly observed by two emus and a pack of pygmy goats living on the lot next door. Some of the goats had recently had kids and they were tiny little things with the cutest bleats I’ve ever heard.

I wanted them all.

The emus came right up to the fence to gaze at us with their interesting dark eyes, and they seemed to like our company because they stayed right next to us the whole time we stood there. We left after communing with them for a few minutes. I’ve always liked them, but the ones I’ve met on friend’s farms have been pretty weird and frantic. These were calm.

Henry Titus.
Henry Titus.

On the way to the beach we happened to find one more cemetery on what had been Canaveral property in the 60’s, but this one was very different. It is one grave belonging to Emma Watton, and it has been fenced off and carefully preserved with one stone marker. Small stuffed toys had been tied to the fence by passers-by and it was a touching scene literally in the middle of no-damn-where, right in the middle of the Merritt Island National Wildlife Refuge. It is rumored that there are 3 graves there, but there’s only the one marker and one name on the sign for Emma. She was a young girl who died of fever and she was buried there under a tree, but the tree died long ago. Again, I looked up to find that we were being observed but this time by a woman in dark sunglasses and a crazy outfit who was talking on her cell phone…in the middle of nothing but trees and grass. I probably imagined her after a few hours in the heat but she seemed real enough and disturbed that we were there.

After all of this we hit the beach for a little more time in the sun… and three days nursing my sunburn afterward. It was worth it though. The sky and the sea were incredibly blue that day.