July 23, 2014 at 2:10 p.m.
Visiting the past brings thoughts of our mortality (10/17/05)
As I see it
By By DIANA DOLECKI-
I tripped over a groundhog hole and almost fell on one of my ancestors last weekend. I finally met my long-lost cousin, the genealogy buff, and he was showing me where all the bodies were buried. We had seen where the one-room schoolhouse used to be before a tornado flattened it and we passed the soybean field where the old homestead once stood.
We were driving down a sunny country road when he suddenly turned off the pavement and bounced into a field. A tiny cemetery rested on the other side of an equally tiny hill. I climbed out of his Jeep and attempted to follow him to the first batch of tombstones. The place was riddled with groundhog holes and I stumbled over the first one I came to, either that or one of the pesky critters reached out and tripped me before disappearing underground.
I have never seen so many groundhog holes in my life. If I didn’t know better I would have thought that all the juvenile delinquent woodchucks had been banished to that tract of ground. Rounded tunnels littered the landscape. It was so bad that many of the tombstones were sitting at crazy angles and some had given up and were sprawled in granite pieces upon the emerald grass. It may be that the largest marker had gotten tired of all the digging and it fell over and squashed one of the beasties. I have no proof of this but perhaps the dead do have their limits.
Even with all the wanton destruction caused by these disrespectful rodents the place was peaceful and quiet. The sky was blue and the breezes were soft. The ghosts were silent and calm. No more tombstones came tumbling down while we were there.
Our next stop was also a tiny burial plot fronted by a grassy field. No driveway connected it to the road. There was a marker bearing the names of my great-grandparents. A gnarled tree shaded the grave. Less than 50 feet away was someone’s backyard. Perhaps the sound of children’s laughter cheered the spirits of the deceased as they were always happiest when surrounded by little ones.
The fact that nary a groundhog hole was to be found lent credence to my theory that the previous cemetery was some sort of groundhog penal colony.
We visited other cemeteries that were nothing more than vast expanses of forgotten hopes, dreams and memories marked by names and dates carved in endless rows of stone. Loved ones were safely tucked away and surrounded by earth, wind and trees, untouched by modern life. If I listened hard enough I could hear their whispers as they remembered what it had been like to be alive.
We continued our journey into the past with a stop at a General Store for some ice cream. The wooden floors creaked softly under our feet and the ancient linoleum shone with a recent scrubbing. The girl behind the counter said it had been a bad year for small businesses and she didn’t know if the store would still be open if we were to come again.
We ate our ice cream and wondered if someday someone would come in search of our own graves. Will our crypts be disturbed by wildlife? Will we be lined up in rows and rows of others, like so many wooden soldiers? Will the day come when we are nothing more than a name and a date?
While we cannot predict what will happen to our remains after we die, I do know that we will live on in the ones we leave behind. Our hopes and dreams become the hopes and dreams of our children. The things we cherish are precious because they were dear to someone we once loved. The scent of perfume, or the delicious aroma of apple pie will tease our minds with thoughts of those who have gone before. Our love of this or of that connects us to our past as our children connect us to our future. None of us is truly gone so long as someone remembers.
The thing is, someone always remembers. None of us lives in a vacuum. We all affect other people in ways we will never know. Even the wayward groundhogs in a secluded necropolis are connected to us. The tunnels they dig tie the graves together as much as we who are alive are woven together in the fabric of life.[[In-content Ad]]
We were driving down a sunny country road when he suddenly turned off the pavement and bounced into a field. A tiny cemetery rested on the other side of an equally tiny hill. I climbed out of his Jeep and attempted to follow him to the first batch of tombstones. The place was riddled with groundhog holes and I stumbled over the first one I came to, either that or one of the pesky critters reached out and tripped me before disappearing underground.
I have never seen so many groundhog holes in my life. If I didn’t know better I would have thought that all the juvenile delinquent woodchucks had been banished to that tract of ground. Rounded tunnels littered the landscape. It was so bad that many of the tombstones were sitting at crazy angles and some had given up and were sprawled in granite pieces upon the emerald grass. It may be that the largest marker had gotten tired of all the digging and it fell over and squashed one of the beasties. I have no proof of this but perhaps the dead do have their limits.
Even with all the wanton destruction caused by these disrespectful rodents the place was peaceful and quiet. The sky was blue and the breezes were soft. The ghosts were silent and calm. No more tombstones came tumbling down while we were there.
Our next stop was also a tiny burial plot fronted by a grassy field. No driveway connected it to the road. There was a marker bearing the names of my great-grandparents. A gnarled tree shaded the grave. Less than 50 feet away was someone’s backyard. Perhaps the sound of children’s laughter cheered the spirits of the deceased as they were always happiest when surrounded by little ones.
The fact that nary a groundhog hole was to be found lent credence to my theory that the previous cemetery was some sort of groundhog penal colony.
We visited other cemeteries that were nothing more than vast expanses of forgotten hopes, dreams and memories marked by names and dates carved in endless rows of stone. Loved ones were safely tucked away and surrounded by earth, wind and trees, untouched by modern life. If I listened hard enough I could hear their whispers as they remembered what it had been like to be alive.
We continued our journey into the past with a stop at a General Store for some ice cream. The wooden floors creaked softly under our feet and the ancient linoleum shone with a recent scrubbing. The girl behind the counter said it had been a bad year for small businesses and she didn’t know if the store would still be open if we were to come again.
We ate our ice cream and wondered if someday someone would come in search of our own graves. Will our crypts be disturbed by wildlife? Will we be lined up in rows and rows of others, like so many wooden soldiers? Will the day come when we are nothing more than a name and a date?
While we cannot predict what will happen to our remains after we die, I do know that we will live on in the ones we leave behind. Our hopes and dreams become the hopes and dreams of our children. The things we cherish are precious because they were dear to someone we once loved. The scent of perfume, or the delicious aroma of apple pie will tease our minds with thoughts of those who have gone before. Our love of this or of that connects us to our past as our children connect us to our future. None of us is truly gone so long as someone remembers.
The thing is, someone always remembers. None of us lives in a vacuum. We all affect other people in ways we will never know. Even the wayward groundhogs in a secluded necropolis are connected to us. The tunnels they dig tie the graves together as much as we who are alive are woven together in the fabric of life.[[In-content Ad]]
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