I’ve always loved roaming around graveyards—the older, the
better. There’s something about being in the presence of these old souls that
experienced the life that I write about that makes me feel peaceful. Not sad or
solemn. Just peaceful. Especially when the fog rolls in.
My obsession with old graveyards began long before I started
doing any genealogical research, but that’s the excuse I use when someone asks
me why I venture in when most would rather stay in the car.
Of course, roaming old graveyards does not come without
peril. Over the course of my years, I’ve been scared out of my wits. Not by
ghosts, which is what you’d expect, but by humans. I’ve been chased off private
graveyards by men wielding shotguns. My sister got sucked into a grave when the
ground around an old headstone gave way. It rattled her so much, she gave up
helping me look for Jedediah Smith’s mother’s grave and left the cemetery. I
trespassed on an old farm to find my Shank relatives’ graves and a man walked out of
the fog dressed in 19th century farmer’s clothing. As it turns out,
he was Amish, and was quite helpful, but gave me a fright at first.
This past weekend, I was in the DC area for a visit with
friends and my brother, who was in town for a conference. Sunday morning was
heavy with fog. A perfect day for going to a graveyard. But this was a
graveyard like no other. Arlington National Cemetery still was decorated with
Christmas wreaths—one at every grave. As my friend waited in the car, I began
walking closer to the graves, snapping frame after frame. The air smelled of
balsam from the wreaths, and was moist with fog. I stared at row after
row of the good men and women who served and, at various times, fought, for our
country, and thought about those battles. The Civil War, World War II, Vietnam,
Afghanistan. All were significant events in my life, and they certainly were
significant to those brave souls who rest in this beautiful cemetery today.
Who would have thought that one of my favorite moments of
the weekend would be standing alone in a foggy graveyard, smelling the pine? I
think anyone who knows me well could have predicted that one.
