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.

“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.