tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-90910268179688078732024-03-03T00:21:22.182-08:00The Cemetery Traveler - by Ed SnyderEd Snyder began this blog in order to share his decade-long experience with all things cemeterial. As a photographer specializing in images of cemetery statuary, I've run into some interesting people, had some unexplainable experiences, and had a lot of fun.StoneAngels: The Cemetery Travelerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02776945637111478231noreply@blogger.comBlogger384125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9091026817968807873.post-43939648446266120622024-02-17T13:50:00.000-08:002024-02-18T12:17:52.340-08:00The Sad Hour<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCu5Wtk4BafqkQK1bOWGG-4_pwPsK-lbm3CYjam6Zfjn9bZo38fmYPp5c9wyXiLT3WbQBnd6rLRzUFdgDX18qg3A8neblB26lyUOeakoDWRyhEgc35ZkMx3BqqQthtnNDQ6qZZuwRy67pDW6M9o24zEYNiKbMBUeMFSFF_Bw9DRjXN6yCYAGjjhq4ruqk/s780/Sad%20Display%20small.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="780" data-original-width="585" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCu5Wtk4BafqkQK1bOWGG-4_pwPsK-lbm3CYjam6Zfjn9bZo38fmYPp5c9wyXiLT3WbQBnd6rLRzUFdgDX18qg3A8neblB26lyUOeakoDWRyhEgc35ZkMx3BqqQthtnNDQ6qZZuwRy67pDW6M9o24zEYNiKbMBUeMFSFF_Bw9DRjXN6yCYAGjjhq4ruqk/s320/Sad%20Display%20small.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>Oddly, after twenty years of hanging around in cemeteries, photographing, researching, and writing about them, I have only this past year learned about “the sad hour.” And I have my friend Sarah Amendola of Mockingbird Lane Artistries to thank for it.<p></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">Sarah and I have exhibited and sold our cemetery-related art and art objects at various shows and events (both physical and online), like "Market of the Macabre," at Philadelphia's Laurel Hill Cemetery and the "<a href="https://www.darksomecraftmarket.com/">Darksome Art and Craft Market</a>." We've been friends for about ten years. Sarah creates jewelry and objets’ d’art that run toward the dark side.</span></p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQ83vaVXlagTM1C_l7T8ZQ9UXCkx4Wkq_sJ4EQzRWDcHuebiDBsJRFpw6tqAHqklwPOt85CwjuVzKir8lRyRDtvtUZqjvqe1cG7kmEeYinCsrT5Ri-deb_4dgN-7JdQuEBlbJBP44sh6gdQkZYk2Aja6-eM0i2eSfBUIW4qGKaSQk3yxCY6rbz-iT2LIw/s780/Display%20small.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="585" data-original-width="780" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQ83vaVXlagTM1C_l7T8ZQ9UXCkx4Wkq_sJ4EQzRWDcHuebiDBsJRFpw6tqAHqklwPOt85CwjuVzKir8lRyRDtvtUZqjvqe1cG7kmEeYinCsrT5Ri-deb_4dgN-7JdQuEBlbJBP44sh6gdQkZYk2Aja6-eM0i2eSfBUIW4qGKaSQk3yxCY6rbz-iT2LIw/w400-h300/Display%20small.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Sarah (rear) at "Market of the Macabre," Laurel Hill Cemetery, Phila., 2023</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">Sometime in 2023 I saw her Instagram posts for an object she was casting from a 3D print of a Victorian artifact. It was a clock face of some sort. The “Sad Hour… ?” I’d seen and heard of some obscure Victorian-era mourning artifacts, but this was one of the oddest.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcwN_Omax3oGYyzSzi5wCGp93dvadAAi7aiYt-z1YBuf006MhTfYDi-BjmBw16Zdvdr_2FjxHM6bA5nfHssd3bnvAqT0PyK0FkW3LxzLFtiqHoHzhcpP094KrzBMpgEPQ0WYsy6HKc0zpmNSXv5EN0ksX63qbq6y4Zjj6v4iZAEyZXL6zu6LcIP8MIf3w/s720/Zinc%20small.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="540" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcwN_Omax3oGYyzSzi5wCGp93dvadAAi7aiYt-z1YBuf006MhTfYDi-BjmBw16Zdvdr_2FjxHM6bA5nfHssd3bnvAqT0PyK0FkW3LxzLFtiqHoHzhcpP094KrzBMpgEPQ0WYsy6HKc0zpmNSXv5EN0ksX63qbq6y4Zjj6v4iZAEyZXL6zu6LcIP8MIf3w/s320/Zinc%20small.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Laurel Hill Cemetery, Phila.</span></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: inherit;">Every once in a while I’ll see a grave stone or marker of some sort with some time-related symbolism, or even actual clock times. The hourglass is classic, but I’ve also seen clock faces and mentions of time, such as on this zinc monument at right. I’d wondered for years why the time of death was something a person would record on their grave marker ….</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">The coffin plaque in itself is rather interesting. Later in this post, you’ll find links to Sarah’s online business where you will find examples of many such objects from Sarah’s collection. I thought it would be informative to transcribe for you my interview with Sarah, concerning “The Sad Hour,” so you can have a privileged look into her world. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>"The Sad Hour"</b></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizu9vZVsGigtyQ4GE9XfSKFj5-o5Mjd3DCXicjin8DxG43tRCK35ckXxjrkcQv7iE09IubfzNwUsC82rl35R5kgBWkivq7VKtg-Tc09mFUfsL30rFph2q6AGDsb8d7co_Wf8GCPTTSpgNXkX7FrQURUtaoqfXM7UC3Oqp8g4RBnIIjnMpKnLpy6p7zi4Q/s780/Sad%20Hour%20lead%20pic%20small.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="780" data-original-width="780" height="347" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizu9vZVsGigtyQ4GE9XfSKFj5-o5Mjd3DCXicjin8DxG43tRCK35ckXxjrkcQv7iE09IubfzNwUsC82rl35R5kgBWkivq7VKtg-Tc09mFUfsL30rFph2q6AGDsb8d7co_Wf8GCPTTSpgNXkX7FrQURUtaoqfXM7UC3Oqp8g4RBnIIjnMpKnLpy6p7zi4Q/w347-h347/Sad%20Hour%20lead%20pic%20small.jpg" width="347" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://mockingbirdlaneartistries.com/products/preorder-the-sad-hour-hand-painted-working-clock?utm_content=ios&utm_medium=product-links&utm_source=copyToPasteboard">The Sad Hour: Hand Painted, Working Clock (link)</a></td></tr></tbody></table><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>What exactly is this object I see on your website, Sarah?</b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">This coffin plaque replica is called The Sad Hour. In Victorian times, death was beautified more than it is today. Very decorative hardware was used on the coffins, postmortem photos were taken, and hair was collected and made into framed art and jewelry for the family to keep as remembrance. The women wore beautiful black dresses and accessories when they were in mourning. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">The Sad Hour clock is a rare coffin plaque that was used to display the deceased’s time of death. Victorians were superstitious; they believed if the clocks weren’t stopped at the time of death, their soul couldn’t pass on, and they would be stuck to haunt the living. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>How and when did you first learn about the "sad hour?"</b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">I have been collecting Victorian era coffin hardware for a handful of years and have a friend that has been collecting and reselling all types of funerary items for over a decade. He was the reason I learned of The Sad Hour. I have been actively searching for and wanting one to add to my collection ever since. </span></p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0VSkiD1T3j50zrYfnI8s-wPY8gULF0Rm0firstttVeWBfHbP3EgnMJgyyFWVJwJMvphz-lz8yvWniQBED1CxrZoRoHGQJyukgrbixUEVgEMTxy7_4NcrpD6RqamVxKrDNumn7pG0ahvljDmmayBhLZZnfF2yq0FBL7q3rkatIhX-oLnwSVJZrbA1AmkA/s840/The%20collection%20small.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="840" data-original-width="840" height="415" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0VSkiD1T3j50zrYfnI8s-wPY8gULF0Rm0firstttVeWBfHbP3EgnMJgyyFWVJwJMvphz-lz8yvWniQBED1CxrZoRoHGQJyukgrbixUEVgEMTxy7_4NcrpD6RqamVxKrDNumn7pG0ahvljDmmayBhLZZnfF2yq0FBL7q3rkatIhX-oLnwSVJZrbA1AmkA/w415-h415/The%20collection%20small.jpg" width="415" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Sarah's collection of vintage coffin hardware</span></span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>I wondered why I had never heard of this. You say it's rare?</b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">It is definitely rare, though I have 3 close friends who each have one in their collections. More common coffin plaques used during that era have inscriptions that read “At Rest,” </span>"Mother," "Father," <span style="font-family: inherit;">or “Our Darling” (which was often used for children and babies). </span></p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitBd44nplDMd4bnqs3-n73HItzEpVQou8vo80ZVoNmHmCKuAXW6vxqXr96LxIguzmwqRuQRaqUpKa1qe6V6J6KvFnbEDHnOC67pVSYA2XGxFTmyiyw6ZpwVF3PzB5VrahyphenhyphenogxTc9nxzeCdbxRvuKY8KxMV_N6G60uWUs1Y1GctnwlmN8JVEsc78cXeW_Q/s720/At%20rest%20small.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="720" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitBd44nplDMd4bnqs3-n73HItzEpVQou8vo80ZVoNmHmCKuAXW6vxqXr96LxIguzmwqRuQRaqUpKa1qe6V6J6KvFnbEDHnOC67pVSYA2XGxFTmyiyw6ZpwVF3PzB5VrahyphenhyphenogxTc9nxzeCdbxRvuKY8KxMV_N6G60uWUs1Y1GctnwlmN8JVEsc78cXeW_Q/w400-h400/At%20rest%20small.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><a href="https://mockingbirdlaneartistries.com/products/at-rest-victorian-era-coffin-escutcheon-necklace-with-garnet?utm_content=ios&utm_medium=product-links&utm_source=copyToPasteboard">"At Rest" necklace, made from an original coffin plaque. (link)</a></span></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>So, you’ve scanned and copied one of the originals? Where is the original?</b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">The original Sad Hour that we scanned is owned by my friend Dan Cogliano of Klopek’s (<a href="https://www.instagram.com/klopeks_offerings">https://www.instagram.com/klopeks_offerings</a>). [Below is a photo of] the original that resides in Dan Cogliano’s personal collection, which is the piece that was 3D scanned by Jason and I. </span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #26282a;"></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-elbmHd5XTFVz9-CPMrVoeviAKo960EXIbj-nUghelzfRXIbYO6MfNMbWKharkl4Zmd-8ZEpF1_N9ZFktpdf5EvO-3safl-JeVGJ32BqcBExGi5ZOpIiMH8lLYGSLeW4Bimp2aQC12ylQaibR1S2Bfl6KVmfylyefEjYr16smSyMGl9e581vb4fCiOo8/s1080/original%20vintage.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-elbmHd5XTFVz9-CPMrVoeviAKo960EXIbj-nUghelzfRXIbYO6MfNMbWKharkl4Zmd-8ZEpF1_N9ZFktpdf5EvO-3safl-JeVGJ32BqcBExGi5ZOpIiMH8lLYGSLeW4Bimp2aQC12ylQaibR1S2Bfl6KVmfylyefEjYr16smSyMGl9e581vb4fCiOo8/w400-h400/original%20vintage.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.instagram.com/p/Cvi4Oxdt8pk/" style="font-size: 13px; text-align: left;">Vintage Sad Hour from Dan Cogliano’s personal collection (link)</a><span style="color: #26282a; font-size: 13px; text-align: left;">.<br /><br /></span></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>Can you describe the process you used?</b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">Jason Welsh of <i><b><a href="https://www.instagram.com/first.density.material.shop/">First Density Material</a></b></i> and I used a custom programmed rig that hooks to a digital SLR to take photos of any object. The object rotates and the camera takes around 155 shots in 3 different camera positions. Software is used to stitch the camera angles into a 3D mesh using matched vector points in the scene. The 3D mesh is then brought into software that allows the mesh to be cleaned up and post processed for 3D Print. (<a href="https://www.instagram.com/p/Cvi4Oxdt8pk/">Click here</a> for Instagram Reel showing this process.)</span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgY2AFOCWN-ONieczyzSA9zPk87I_JOe6VUarspQhYYjz55QozdEL00rk82kAYQhQwhloaKS4_8Iu_falJmcC1OkX8b2KNQDi27qnPUN3kE6g3uP8RDMy_4O7trUTR1G-jCFgYBhRtXs2t6k_bPKWlHhu3OWsPQorAgmYd3iushflMSGjTEr0BrNg32k84/s720/Metal%20small.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="720" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgY2AFOCWN-ONieczyzSA9zPk87I_JOe6VUarspQhYYjz55QozdEL00rk82kAYQhQwhloaKS4_8Iu_falJmcC1OkX8b2KNQDi27qnPUN3kE6g3uP8RDMy_4O7trUTR1G-jCFgYBhRtXs2t6k_bPKWlHhu3OWsPQorAgmYd3iushflMSGjTEr0BrNg32k84/w400-h400/Metal%20small.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><a href="https://mockingbirdlaneartistries.com/products/the-sad-hour-hand-painted-working-clock-special-edition-gold?utm_medium=product-links&utm_content=ios&utm_source=copyToPasteboard">Oversized working clock replica of "The Sad Hour," Special Edition Gold (link)</a></span></td></tr></tbody></table><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>Sounds unique, super-technical, and historically accurate. If I remember your exhibit at Market of the Macabre in Philadelphia’s Laurel Hill Cemetery, you had a Sad Hour clock on your table that was maybe eight inches high [see photo at beginning]. Was that the size of the original coffin plate?</b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">The original size of the Sad Hour is approximately 5.5 inches tall and 4 inches wide. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">Once Jason and I scanned Dan’s original, we resized the clock to a much larger size so it could be hung on the wall and used as a working clock. The working clock measures approximately 9.75 inches tall and 7 inches wide. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>And what else do you plan to make, based on your scans?</b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">We have scanned a huge portion of my coffin hardware collection. I have been creating and selling this type of jewelry on my website for several years. </span></p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG69g24f8STHrWpWJ_SFalSvKtAJa4TSB4ppGYSN3K6fnwF_AzFNQ5lZGtuuZvW-p0z0gwhrRlKXUDp2ITQPnjNG6tc0l23m8QsJhslvBLpsqaG1biN6AlUcsTeisVQ3UFgLlQW0Y7Pb3FyzFWjxBXakrNa8T1QD9t-yKWtDCy8tbdk1yb1-HRi2duieA/s720/Our%20darling%20small.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="720" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG69g24f8STHrWpWJ_SFalSvKtAJa4TSB4ppGYSN3K6fnwF_AzFNQ5lZGtuuZvW-p0z0gwhrRlKXUDp2ITQPnjNG6tc0l23m8QsJhslvBLpsqaG1biN6AlUcsTeisVQ3UFgLlQW0Y7Pb3FyzFWjxBXakrNa8T1QD9t-yKWtDCy8tbdk1yb1-HRi2duieA/w400-h400/Our%20darling%20small.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><a href="https://mockingbirdlaneartistries.com/collections/necklaces?page=7">Sample coffin hardware jewelry made by Mockingbird Lane Artistries (link)</a></span></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>Is your version made of metal?</b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">The objects are electroformed, a process that has been around since 1838 which allows an object to be coated with a very thick layer of metal. Unlike electroplating which only allows a thin deposit, electroforming can be deposited as thick as your equipment allows. So 3D prints are made of the replicas with a certain surface thickness removed so that it can be replaced with electroformed copper. Its a reverse molding process that uses the 3D print as the form.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>What was the original made of?</b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">The original seems to be made from castable metal with a nickel plating.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>How does this item fit in with your other hand-crafted products at Mockingbird Lane Artistries?</b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">A lot of my jewelry is Victorian inspired, so the sad hour jewelry fits in perfectly with the other coffin hardware replica jewelry I have created. </span></p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiS_DJemPEGCLPMhCK7stXfefagl6xFvuJV_YAE-AtiANnQBQdPBPyhE5EyCt93FchJZlZXOIr7u4e0li4zabUXVCvouFz3HnxY0mVAJ6reIaMioIV4F4kyAbKfAuhCzM1w9YvvD1Q_uPYHyUKl5xE4M-ot36Eo1W_oQGB1C9NOhfy6E1sTvXhzqjAGZIE/s720/Sad%20Hour%20necklaces%20small.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="720" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiS_DJemPEGCLPMhCK7stXfefagl6xFvuJV_YAE-AtiANnQBQdPBPyhE5EyCt93FchJZlZXOIr7u4e0li4zabUXVCvouFz3HnxY0mVAJ6reIaMioIV4F4kyAbKfAuhCzM1w9YvvD1Q_uPYHyUKl5xE4M-ot36Eo1W_oQGB1C9NOhfy6E1sTvXhzqjAGZIE/w400-h400/Sad%20Hour%20necklaces%20small.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><a href="https://mockingbirdlaneartistries.com/collections/necklaces?page=7">Sad Hour necklaces from Mockingbird Lane Artistries (link)</a></span></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>Are you planning other 3D projects?</b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2IwOmxl7FYXW9oQV5448cndUJ-DLoWgRRt8V4GKnKmNUTtKvVZ_8a6ZNsR91UHXuQSd8HtPnJ580dJIaxBRX44pDbrN-eyvEIC0s2jEJeruC0yKCPU_ybvesGFjSFlBaaTDNNaFzslfEpfOzzNQ7xN2t-ASDWB-TTAw3Aa1WGjWsNfTMrjwwFP_nokkc/s720/Coffin%20necklaces%20small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="581" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2IwOmxl7FYXW9oQV5448cndUJ-DLoWgRRt8V4GKnKmNUTtKvVZ_8a6ZNsR91UHXuQSd8HtPnJ580dJIaxBRX44pDbrN-eyvEIC0s2jEJeruC0yKCPU_ybvesGFjSFlBaaTDNNaFzslfEpfOzzNQ7xN2t-ASDWB-TTAw3Aa1WGjWsNfTMrjwwFP_nokkc/w258-h320/Coffin%20necklaces%20small.jpg" width="258" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Coffin hardware necklaces</span></td></tr></tbody></table>Recently we have been scanning many vintage Halloween objects, such as blow molds and ceramics which will make another unique collection of jewelry. Halloween and Victorian style are two of my favorite things. I also make jewelry from actual, original coffin hardware, as you see here. These are Victorian escutcheon plates for thumbscrews; I also use vintage coffin nails in my jewelry. You can see many examples on my Instagram site (<a href="https://www.instagram.com/mockingbirdlaneartistries">click here to see</a>).</span></p><p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidsn369e4Afr-R7XsHQpay5JXPNeQNFr4gvkqQ-XH9k9vnRE7JzF72BQ4BtOkhXxPa7GvoyWwrCakVOhWBjuDT_f_ZtMjxNzpb_3zv09ksYYkepLaz0uDRb5AnVUnl0FdpV-4Uv1bdj7RVMoK33P-8PnP3rGqwMnqXjaoUg-MAC363xoYWlD3K7CXltOU/s720/Coffin%20hardware%20small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="720" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidsn369e4Afr-R7XsHQpay5JXPNeQNFr4gvkqQ-XH9k9vnRE7JzF72BQ4BtOkhXxPa7GvoyWwrCakVOhWBjuDT_f_ZtMjxNzpb_3zv09ksYYkepLaz0uDRb5AnVUnl0FdpV-4Uv1bdj7RVMoK33P-8PnP3rGqwMnqXjaoUg-MAC363xoYWlD3K7CXltOU/w400-h400/Coffin%20hardware%20small.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Vintage, original coffin hardware</span></td></tr></tbody></table><b style="font-family: inherit;">How can people check out your products?</b></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">I do have a website, which is </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://mockingbirdlaneartistries.com/">https://mockingbirdlaneartistries.com/</a></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">I can also be found on Instagram </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://www.instagram.com/mockingbirdlaneartistries">https://www.instagram.com/mockingbirdlaneartistries</a></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">And Facebook </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://m.facebook.com/MockingbirdLaneArtistries">https://m.facebook.com/MockingbirdLaneArtistries</a></span></p><p><span style="text-align: center;">This is Jason's <a href="https://www.firstdensitymaterial.com/">website, <i>First Density Material</i></a> - he offers scanning services for replicating objects in 3D.</span></p><p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNqr0K9awLBrtI1J_PaT23GP0L5vEsQ7rYsnedhtemgO75hnoEeDBxYD7JgwPWn8NRNdeWE5jVk6hIgvkbm31bjfsFN0eGsZtdoKZEgsQ7ofW6iMbSQQPXf-cuWI0c9JwKre8ROhc20dPLN_K8Trz7UU37PJyXVz1DuUjEAqAG8bpznG8k3jxdmqUXAYE/s720/Cross%20hardware%20small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="720" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNqr0K9awLBrtI1J_PaT23GP0L5vEsQ7rYsnedhtemgO75hnoEeDBxYD7JgwPWn8NRNdeWE5jVk6hIgvkbm31bjfsFN0eGsZtdoKZEgsQ7ofW6iMbSQQPXf-cuWI0c9JwKre8ROhc20dPLN_K8Trz7UU37PJyXVz1DuUjEAqAG8bpznG8k3jxdmqUXAYE/w400-h400/Cross%20hardware%20small.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Coffin hardware jewelry from Mockingbird Lane Artistries </span></td></tr></tbody></table><b style="text-align: center;"><br /></b></p><p><b style="text-align: center;">Sarah, I greatly appreciate the time you and Jason spent with me creating this blog post. Experiencing the creative process behind your art has been a truly unique experience! </b></p><br />StoneAngels: The Cemetery Travelerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02776945637111478231noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9091026817968807873.post-18406010409773264782024-02-13T13:50:00.000-08:002024-02-13T13:50:32.276-08:00Toy Story … in an Abandoned Cemetery<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgllB7DOm48yHnN2F28uf-jRYQQtU_4I3hZZDqZV5K3m9JXXoCFPaoWM73CnrvNZTOm1Ca1G5DQMd3pPY-ppqjNBMAAqw96Kc4sNKPriFSOvtb7aAhjj8-FozPcn9bExl06p2q9CvP5Eftuy6MAUy-Mb5lx9XsS8Koq4qZMqTfxF2a-ElCjo4m3lMSlCqw/s600/Bear%20small.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgllB7DOm48yHnN2F28uf-jRYQQtU_4I3hZZDqZV5K3m9JXXoCFPaoWM73CnrvNZTOm1Ca1G5DQMd3pPY-ppqjNBMAAqw96Kc4sNKPriFSOvtb7aAhjj8-FozPcn9bExl06p2q9CvP5Eftuy6MAUy-Mb5lx9XsS8Koq4qZMqTfxF2a-ElCjo4m3lMSlCqw/s320/Bear%20small.jpg" width="256" /></a></div>This is my gratuitous Valentine’s Day post –
you’ll just have to bear with me. Valentine’s Day is not the subject of the post, but apparently, there is some love involved. Tough love, maybe? You only hurt the ones you love? Again, <i>bear</i> with me (nyuk nyuk). If you’ve ever walked through a cemetery,
you’ve probably seen stuffed toy animals on graves. Usually childrens’ graves.
A common practice, leaving such an offering, a remembrance, perhaps. But in
abandoned cemeteries? <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhobVaXeUy-UEGoinHqg93CeA2xPk3iKHIP1h7QHKuQa5gnl0Jwf6H8nIh9dznv7YxQv0HQ_MFiT5qr65bZQx3OSPLs_MepcsA3MyGpY-9wEHETKtMSUJltwY8XzTvuLrZU34e9w0QH0QZuq5c7CkHHG586HS5gW8fQ4tmLLsw2GNwNjlaQlVJc6MsgL2o/s640/Distant%20dog%20small.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhobVaXeUy-UEGoinHqg93CeA2xPk3iKHIP1h7QHKuQa5gnl0Jwf6H8nIh9dznv7YxQv0HQ_MFiT5qr65bZQx3OSPLs_MepcsA3MyGpY-9wEHETKtMSUJltwY8XzTvuLrZU34e9w0QH0QZuq5c7CkHHG586HS5gW8fQ4tmLLsw2GNwNjlaQlVJc6MsgL2o/s320/Distant%20dog%20small.jpg" width="240" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: inherit;">Abandoned cemeteries are a form of dystopia, to be sure. The
environment – meaning nature – is usually in the process of destroying what
humans built. For the past twenty years a Victorian-era cemetery in Philadelphia
has been in a sad state of disrepair, only accessible to those who the owner or
caretaker allows in. Many wonder how it got this way, but the real question on
everyone’s mind is:<o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>Why are there so many toy stuffed animals lying about throughout Mount Vernon Cemetery? </b></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_ae8YIX1CppcM53hD9L8vVYXmG3loiB0tfUNhOLvAQAnA91p6r-lNWBRW0rS1WDejgRbLHnR7xgOu0LGokarAuP5amLnAjitz4uVNDAUuFryl3_i6rFSH1_DVdYgm1lkxmLyZbXSGuQfdLb7F9bAiZkUX7P-aXgA9MYYTft2GUAlF4KJl5pw1Y0MIan8/s480/Clown%20eye%20fear%20SMALL.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_ae8YIX1CppcM53hD9L8vVYXmG3loiB0tfUNhOLvAQAnA91p6r-lNWBRW0rS1WDejgRbLHnR7xgOu0LGokarAuP5amLnAjitz4uVNDAUuFryl3_i6rFSH1_DVdYgm1lkxmLyZbXSGuQfdLb7F9bAiZkUX7P-aXgA9MYYTft2GUAlF4KJl5pw1Y0MIan8/w320-h320/Clown%20eye%20fear%20SMALL.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>There are no visitors to place them on graves in loving
memory of the deceased. There are no visitors. There is no visitor access. You
can almost picture some hideous beast living in its burrow, periodically
feasting on stuffed animals. The ones you see here, matted down with weeds and
rain, well, don’t really belong here, do they? The trapped, partially dismembered clown fish above has a look of fear in its eye. </span>Stuffed Animal Dystopia.<p></p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguaIBcQn3c-Qpj65jH_XgLpyN4RF4_3gdaXzIhJlzNl_Vt9E2WXhWB6ZT4CutUNlf8gHPgmowvQ-JcmKnNp1jKLgx20aJSDgAOp9rOiJ176tw36R0vCc3_tjwXmDoe6Sq2cZ3wZBHVCEODZyMDcofHpB1AtCiM52OcI1AcqKFj3-87yvVKaAJlEsiWQ80/s640/statue%20small.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguaIBcQn3c-Qpj65jH_XgLpyN4RF4_3gdaXzIhJlzNl_Vt9E2WXhWB6ZT4CutUNlf8gHPgmowvQ-JcmKnNp1jKLgx20aJSDgAOp9rOiJ176tw36R0vCc3_tjwXmDoe6Sq2cZ3wZBHVCEODZyMDcofHpB1AtCiM52OcI1AcqKFj3-87yvVKaAJlEsiWQ80/w400-h300/statue%20small.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgshHTtBXwfX4dddEF1J_rG0FVGLzKV5S_2WBhAhRO2MudNhKofeB2nIVNALwXroyxIttMj_LMfdhSUb_1zOPzfy81J0yFwwWhnf4LHv_t9poV4zJ47L_lisKyHj8b1z48GnFer_qaW3pECc47JCNFokAbagjb0KtuJpVZkGXI0r-bVOkI6g5ysGtGlnsQ/s640/Long%20shot%20small.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="339" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgshHTtBXwfX4dddEF1J_rG0FVGLzKV5S_2WBhAhRO2MudNhKofeB2nIVNALwXroyxIttMj_LMfdhSUb_1zOPzfy81J0yFwwWhnf4LHv_t9poV4zJ47L_lisKyHj8b1z48GnFer_qaW3pECc47JCNFokAbagjb0KtuJpVZkGXI0r-bVOkI6g5ysGtGlnsQ/w254-h339/Long%20shot%20small.jpg" width="254" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: inherit;">Its almost as if some beast killed them with its poisonous
saliva and secreted a fluid to trap them in weeds until it later required a
snack. Much like an insect that gets caught in a spider’s web. Perhaps this is
simply attribution bias on my part. Perhaps not. One poor toy was in the process of being
dragged into the beast’s lair as I stumbled upon the massacre scene. <span style="font-family: inherit;">You can just hear Jennifer Lawrence singing, “<i>The Hanging Tree</i>,” right?</span><o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyRvtDTjllxxYBT7c9Pg3toiBilHy1dSOebCQexgHrjAIjnnMSzXEs9XPMZxIJBuXUlDEAOCpWUD-RBua9W8bEMhMDH8wxLfGM2YGA-ZJrr0_P06uD_2DxgaTKMw2Fm7tn_Hf1PREUyF1iAtoN7CAzx1WpXwpD6sXDS5PAhvruvUGrnTTV-gG9O6k3oQg/s640/Miss%20you%20small.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyRvtDTjllxxYBT7c9Pg3toiBilHy1dSOebCQexgHrjAIjnnMSzXEs9XPMZxIJBuXUlDEAOCpWUD-RBua9W8bEMhMDH8wxLfGM2YGA-ZJrr0_P06uD_2DxgaTKMw2Fm7tn_Hf1PREUyF1iAtoN7CAzx1WpXwpD6sXDS5PAhvruvUGrnTTV-gG9O6k3oQg/w400-h300/Miss%20you%20small.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Into the lair of the beast ....</span></td></tr></tbody></table>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Do the toys get thrown over the fence by the caretakers of
the active cemetery next door, as they clear graves prior to mowing? Then something,
or some things, retrieve the toys and drag them through the fence into the abandoned
graveyard. The mind wanders to Neil Gaiman’s <i>The Graveyard Book</i> ..and the toys Bod
may have left lying around the cemetery in his formative years.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-M3b3IAHTUOjf5C0_Em6Ofd4P-7odZPaEVgnOVDR0krou7-ULn5B8-P2R_tYVMBtJ-DBgi6XfsKpzmvet-Fi5hTyvGfPPSWvYDYajRmHwLNk71ROYae5xLA_-0YTjMmIQ-bM49X7VlvSFWVqTlbwapNQ2VyleFyTAwPsRFUu6yB1s7YVKzrgpXnDd1Ys/s2016/IMG_7998.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2016" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-M3b3IAHTUOjf5C0_Em6Ofd4P-7odZPaEVgnOVDR0krou7-ULn5B8-P2R_tYVMBtJ-DBgi6XfsKpzmvet-Fi5hTyvGfPPSWvYDYajRmHwLNk71ROYae5xLA_-0YTjMmIQ-bM49X7VlvSFWVqTlbwapNQ2VyleFyTAwPsRFUu6yB1s7YVKzrgpXnDd1Ys/w400-h300/IMG_7998.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">A fox, perhaps, requires such playthings? That, apparently,
is the general thought if you read the Instagram posts by the volunteers now
caring for the cemetery.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAvsD48gf57Wf6l71WpWyxCSMsOl8dtYLfRFcQDP032LEoQ1cleH27ML6PP0WxHg3WLlJcwXdiOexq9QXOlpugLj8oBphK-TA6S3T71ImG69aCUWfBwVcxpOFK7Nt3vd5QaH4Qz_J4RFFEQErbtAlEHrAOBAd-AhFO6uzqZDN8EH2t26vMUTbUcCGcfRY/s640/Kim%20small.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAvsD48gf57Wf6l71WpWyxCSMsOl8dtYLfRFcQDP032LEoQ1cleH27ML6PP0WxHg3WLlJcwXdiOexq9QXOlpugLj8oBphK-TA6S3T71ImG69aCUWfBwVcxpOFK7Nt3vd5QaH4Qz_J4RFFEQErbtAlEHrAOBAd-AhFO6uzqZDN8EH2t26vMUTbUcCGcfRY/s320/Kim%20small.jpg" width="240" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: inherit;">So, first off, Mount Vernon Cemetery in Philadelphia is no
longer abandoned. Technically, it never was. It was simply ignored by its owner
- for about twenty years. It is currently being maintained by many dedicated volunteers. There
are regularly scheduled cleanup days and occasional tours, but access is
closely controlled. Here’s a photo of my friend Kim posing with some bears
during a recent tour.</span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWnMfxLxEm8ugZhjFAgZUbM8syixBhg1H1zl5Af91E5D7RliZvwLtl-tI-IvnGIHf_9aRn_3M2XUR2AECx8iTwjfj1ek2AIS29T82aP_WYBfGP2d_B4F8wcQkEdO7fEm8UYOULmgY7rw9qFhb88YLnEKs86_wZi8I14o9-GVS2tAI86ThiN4eAugD-s7M/s640/red%20bear%20small.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWnMfxLxEm8ugZhjFAgZUbM8syixBhg1H1zl5Af91E5D7RliZvwLtl-tI-IvnGIHf_9aRn_3M2XUR2AECx8iTwjfj1ek2AIS29T82aP_WYBfGP2d_B4F8wcQkEdO7fEm8UYOULmgY7rw9qFhb88YLnEKs86_wZi8I14o9-GVS2tAI86ThiN4eAugD-s7M/s320/red%20bear%20small.jpg" width="240" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: inherit;">Mount Peace Cemetery, next door, has always been well-cared
for. It seems likely that somehow, these small grave decorations travel from
there into unkempt Mount Vernon next door. Perhaps the wild foxes that prowl
the wooded grounds of Mount Vernon steal these objects from Mount Peace in the
night - they snitch Winnie-the-Pooh from a defenseless grave, and abscond
through some hole in the cyclone fence into the wild next door. But to what
end?</span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9RpeMk_Nc4MIi4H4DhoyUeuewtIxZq7foyY6OJgRv5rb_dizVIKd9SwBrIcpe5OMVMARE0nkJlPUkpxRJ9HUMHxD9lAYBkoFEkPC71CVc1i-WRD3yDW-RjNYeGUHiZQ6LeO_1VqyKzydveA3W3jlpCW7z4Qk1pB9IvPWFNvlG8TYbqMOYu91r3PKJ9II/s640/Shred%20small.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9RpeMk_Nc4MIi4H4DhoyUeuewtIxZq7foyY6OJgRv5rb_dizVIKd9SwBrIcpe5OMVMARE0nkJlPUkpxRJ9HUMHxD9lAYBkoFEkPC71CVc1i-WRD3yDW-RjNYeGUHiZQ6LeO_1VqyKzydveA3W3jlpCW7z4Qk1pB9IvPWFNvlG8TYbqMOYu91r3PKJ9II/s320/Shred%20small.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><span style="font-family: inherit;">Mount Vernon’s twenty-seven acres is probably twenty percent cut
back at this point, with nature having a twenty-year lead on the humans trying
to tame the bush. So there are plenty of hiding places for fox, deer, and so
on. I’ve seen small herds of white-tails leaping through the underbrush. Sometimes
you’ll even see shredded toys, along with …. bones?<o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">So, do the red foxes drag the stuffed critters into their
burrows for padding? Groundhogs do this – but with them, its usually the flags
from the little flagpoles people stick on graves. But then, why are they
scattered all over the grounds? That’s like saying if humans are descended from
apes, then why are there still apes?</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjToZjfaiMQyNbASNK8h_OrL-H2CmtF_6fV4fEH0C2KppKhbyg7M9uLD0sand_qFQ_Y4Ew7CEz-Cy9wYE7XWNjKSqGE7Ep1f9KfaaFv-tw4mAOUubuD19cFKQpiFwbzcRA58cQfI8n7t8o-GJm_D3jjHW9mUZM-9RAEog0MLF-nm98W_MZsziq9RMIxEh8/s640/Be%20Mine%20small.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjToZjfaiMQyNbASNK8h_OrL-H2CmtF_6fV4fEH0C2KppKhbyg7M9uLD0sand_qFQ_Y4Ew7CEz-Cy9wYE7XWNjKSqGE7Ep1f9KfaaFv-tw4mAOUubuD19cFKQpiFwbzcRA58cQfI8n7t8o-GJm_D3jjHW9mUZM-9RAEog0MLF-nm98W_MZsziq9RMIxEh8/s320/Be%20Mine%20small.jpg" width="240" /></a><span style="font-family: inherit;">What I don’t know about the housekeeping habits of small
woodland creatures could fill volumes. Perhaps instead, UFOs are involved. </span>Whatever the case may be, if you find yourself walking through a more-or-less abandoned cemetery alone and you round a bend to find this Ted smiling at you in the middle of the road, your brain does not race for a logical explanation. Your brain screams.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></div><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br />StoneAngels: The Cemetery Travelerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02776945637111478231noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9091026817968807873.post-1096022218568146592024-02-10T05:26:00.000-08:002024-02-10T05:40:02.493-08:00Falling Snow in the Cemetery<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVqn5zlk7ZMJv31y0NHRD7D9C5feBHOVAYUIheeLKxfnuIyixiw8vhEqJr1PWLab_F-VMWvg5NitkCuYaYKWU0mFfmg8qQFkmzi37WtBKQmMLbRnHWxHTGXyfFdcy1TH5ZVHENU1mAymAS2CZYDOf00XpYMAZnhZrJTRXDykePngbC7K2Y3lPo_FzEPgk/s900/Snowing%20small.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><i><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="675" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVqn5zlk7ZMJv31y0NHRD7D9C5feBHOVAYUIheeLKxfnuIyixiw8vhEqJr1PWLab_F-VMWvg5NitkCuYaYKWU0mFfmg8qQFkmzi37WtBKQmMLbRnHWxHTGXyfFdcy1TH5ZVHENU1mAymAS2CZYDOf00XpYMAZnhZrJTRXDykePngbC7K2Y3lPo_FzEPgk/s320/Snowing%20small.jpg" width="240" /></i></a></div><i>Okay, no more ChatGPT tricks. This is really me writing this. Really. No, wait, how would you <b>know</b>? Hopefully, my personality will suffuse the text to the degree that you’ll be able to tell its really me. I’m interested in my readers’ take on how I compare to AI, so please comment!</i><p></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">I <i>should</i> have named this post, “Falling <i>In</i> the Snow in the Cemetery,” since that’s one of the things that occurred during the recent January snow week while I was shooting cemeteries. But more on that as we slide along. I’ve photographed cemeteries in the snow many times, and recounted those experiences on this blog. Between January, 2022 and January, 2024, I really had no new experiences to recount.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">Why is that? Well, it hadn’t snowed in the Philadelphia area in two solid years. We were due, I suppose. Can’t say I missed it all that much – <i>go</i> global warming! But we did recently get dumped on twice in one week – about three inches initially, then about six a few days later. I had a few opportunities to get out there with the cameras, so, Bob’s your chipmunk, as they say.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_y0edm9iLGIGVyKtEKtOdHwede96PZKK0VWuQvfxpM3ztbNNqIo5LML_sYpQKMeUgygfRFmDn0h3YUMnl6hQc0TMogslU1Xx2mBIYO1BDPqgW2yOJ4lECiYhPxgRYWZptDBcRSLkDVTd0Z3TuuTJDBvzCDy7U-nuh446CECCnq6QYjaRhgUta4XNIruc/s720/Reflection%20small.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="552" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_y0edm9iLGIGVyKtEKtOdHwede96PZKK0VWuQvfxpM3ztbNNqIo5LML_sYpQKMeUgygfRFmDn0h3YUMnl6hQc0TMogslU1Xx2mBIYO1BDPqgW2yOJ4lECiYhPxgRYWZptDBcRSLkDVTd0Z3TuuTJDBvzCDy7U-nuh446CECCnq6QYjaRhgUta4XNIruc/s320/Reflection%20small.jpg" width="245" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Old Swedes Church monument, Philadelphia</span></span></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: inherit;">Early in the week, it snowed all day and I was able to get out to a few South Jersey cemeteries for some shooting before sunset. Actually, I began my snow shooting in the small Old Swede’s Church graveyard near my house in the Queen Village neighborhood of Philadelphia. The church sexton allows people to walk their dogs on the large open area next to the graveyard, and there were about ten dogs frolicking in the snow that morning. One woman had just entered the property and her large dog was pulling her along. She said something like <i>“Slow down, Petey, I know you want to see your friends!”</i></span><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzmEvohYJlfibUB7uX1UPJGXgKWXzDDffhqO8GrsojjOWV1ORgb3oBZdKpL5NEsuZoeMExlt3Tvx8fc7Ma7nDcwvtD3TP9mFyZjbDdX-wRrL0blQS372fQ8wFfgukjpaZGM1lx3QZvCXdwCuHj5B3BO2Q44i3kOb-u5jkmCSXOfx8uN8BxXNK7mf4rYaE/s780/Ben%20Franklin%20small.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="585" data-original-width="780" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzmEvohYJlfibUB7uX1UPJGXgKWXzDDffhqO8GrsojjOWV1ORgb3oBZdKpL5NEsuZoeMExlt3Tvx8fc7Ma7nDcwvtD3TP9mFyZjbDdX-wRrL0blQS372fQ8wFfgukjpaZGM1lx3QZvCXdwCuHj5B3BO2Q44i3kOb-u5jkmCSXOfx8uN8BxXNK7mf4rYaE/w400-h300/Ben%20Franklin%20small.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="text-align: left;">Ben Franklin's grave, </span>Christ Church Burial Ground (Pennies ...get it?)</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">Since I work in south Jersey, it was easy enough to visit nearby Harleigh, Old Camden, and Evergreen cemeteries after work. A few days later we had an all-day snow, so I was able to get out into an active snowstorm in Calvary Cemetery, in Cherry Hill. It remained cold for a week so I made the most of the weather by catching lingering snow in Philly’s Christ Church Burial Ground (Old City) as well as the Old Pine Church graveyard (Society Hill) on my way to and from work.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3szqOMelHThX8wH0uZrm5bGrMDCDeEl9-ETgwBrD9yDRSa0ckN_I79FHqYnrA-kABFKzYhId0yP3YpHuGbfhwe3l-ZWFHgOx-DZfDe4kqiVOymGL41tWrLAvZlYYF42_ZZ7xT_AGmXvRZ54UYFPtRV2berRNxCIYuIJ9c-NppLCGVHoVHjmn4Ox9_hjc/s780/selfie%20beginning%20small.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><img border="0" data-original-height="585" data-original-width="780" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3szqOMelHThX8wH0uZrm5bGrMDCDeEl9-ETgwBrD9yDRSa0ckN_I79FHqYnrA-kABFKzYhId0yP3YpHuGbfhwe3l-ZWFHgOx-DZfDe4kqiVOymGL41tWrLAvZlYYF42_ZZ7xT_AGmXvRZ54UYFPtRV2berRNxCIYuIJ9c-NppLCGVHoVHjmn4Ox9_hjc/w400-h300/selfie%20beginning%20small.jpg" width="400" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Selfie with friend in Calvary Cemetery, Hill of Cherries, New Jersey</span></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />But back to the beginning. The selfie you see of me (above) was made when I first arrived at Calvary. It was colder than a witty analogy. The photo below is me an hour later, after shooting in the piercing wind and trudging through six inches of fresh snow. Photographing cemeteries in a snowstorm can be quite an amazing experience – until its not. It is exhilarating to be out there alone with the elements, knowing full well no one else in their right mind is doing the same. Well, alone except for the groundskeepers plowing the cemetery roads. Probably wondering how unhinged this guy must be in the snow with all those cameras dangling from his neck. </span><div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW3lEXOucHQltmEmpscdc7ENGcXT75Ho4wZsQVmJXYsm6T1A7UcvD6rcnYAJkAA7qb_O65JYkJ2vV7zrNdkJm9H7crm5bWtUKmZb2zYo46MJe0AKATofy491zIssoc0dRLOXCO1-dAjosMwAQtrG_vWeC05lB426IB7lUNBFLKQYhPYfMMof97iY3I5KU/s780/Selfie%20cold%20small.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="585" data-original-width="780" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW3lEXOucHQltmEmpscdc7ENGcXT75Ho4wZsQVmJXYsm6T1A7UcvD6rcnYAJkAA7qb_O65JYkJ2vV7zrNdkJm9H7crm5bWtUKmZb2zYo46MJe0AKATofy491zIssoc0dRLOXCO1-dAjosMwAQtrG_vWeC05lB426IB7lUNBFLKQYhPYfMMof97iY3I5KU/w400-h300/Selfie%20cold%20small.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jesus, it was <i>cold</i> out there!</td></tr></tbody></table><div><div class="separator" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">As I repeatedly jammed additional “HotHands” chemical hand warmer pouches into my gloves, I kept thinking how I didn’t want to end up like Jack Nicholson in the final scene of “The Shining.” Its one thing to reach the point of self-actualization by getting that one-in-a-million shot, but the need for the safety of a warm vehicle in the dead of winter can knock you down a few pegs on Maslow’s pyramid, where you’re all of a sudden more concerned with basic survival needs. And losing digits.</span></p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifN4UsUVXKTFM8V0rdGbk1De9PSf6Ju2ruAaJJ0pMYZnJ7rDJGhh3XSwqkrrbGjWUr1v0JZG1Uu7sflbEwPqJMaI8v8ueQHMMGC_H_4nIYdTwVTjsMFP2ourXi7oewedWnB4RCcLpkoZUODRbF3QRBtErYLW-qq_ocxU7hLqFXPQbCpRKBd_KJupFflYg/s780/Vista%20small.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="477" data-original-width="780" height="252" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifN4UsUVXKTFM8V0rdGbk1De9PSf6Ju2ruAaJJ0pMYZnJ7rDJGhh3XSwqkrrbGjWUr1v0JZG1Uu7sflbEwPqJMaI8v8ueQHMMGC_H_4nIYdTwVTjsMFP2ourXi7oewedWnB4RCcLpkoZUODRbF3QRBtErYLW-qq_ocxU7hLqFXPQbCpRKBd_KJupFflYg/w411-h252/Vista%20small.jpg" width="411" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Ansel Adams, eat your heart out. (Harleigh Cemetery, Camden, NJ)</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">Granted, this is nothing compared to what Ansel Adams went through to capture those gorgeous images of the snow-covered Rockies in Jellystone Park, or climbing onto his car roof with a tripod and a view camera to shoot, “Moonrise, Hernandez, New Mexico,” but it was challenging enough. Everything’s relative. Adams probably didn’t have a fourteen-year-old daughter at home who needed dinner made when she got home from school. </span></p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitlhfM5KWX5oX3vopKADl4Zvbml74LsQhQD0Cl41H9TPl0X83YsweYHyfMqdcFFE-AieiOSKOJiPc5NwWepLVdqDShOt_Uxaqp4omxC5PIaCuCx46mCegiE8CIGSzxc9rmET_avTwqt2OATvTJ2xnzBPjgkmCUlEgNifRkwJWdSYovRg_37nwUxGo66rs/s720/Sunset%20monument%20small.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="540" data-original-width="720" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitlhfM5KWX5oX3vopKADl4Zvbml74LsQhQD0Cl41H9TPl0X83YsweYHyfMqdcFFE-AieiOSKOJiPc5NwWepLVdqDShOt_Uxaqp4omxC5PIaCuCx46mCegiE8CIGSzxc9rmET_avTwqt2OATvTJ2xnzBPjgkmCUlEgNifRkwJWdSYovRg_37nwUxGo66rs/w400-h300/Sunset%20monument%20small.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Sunset, Evergreen Cemetery, Camden, NJ</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">Anyhow, that weekend it stayed cold (below freezing), so I spent a few hours trudging through Woodlands Cemetery in west Philly. Mainly I shot with the iPhone and Holga loaded with 120mm black and white film. It was so cold I couldn’t wind the film for the next exposure! (Remember winding film? …. Remember film? …)</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3OFWkS_GjnzZz__BskTC-9-FxEfgIbiCDpdYvilRjSxsBYf9T88A9XCoCsHo6bhDlMqfOGtAgojbueBlJyUe-Q4uX_mvKCUrEnhJJnvvzAZRCe4QrGMdRXiT4oK5sh1Y9PAqD924DBEhEG-QcoIdDUxU4QTUFIBCUt7aa9VPPh9eyipRgMl6_6zUJ4JM/s509/Holga%20selfie%20small.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="509" height="278" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3OFWkS_GjnzZz__BskTC-9-FxEfgIbiCDpdYvilRjSxsBYf9T88A9XCoCsHo6bhDlMqfOGtAgojbueBlJyUe-Q4uX_mvKCUrEnhJJnvvzAZRCe4QrGMdRXiT4oK5sh1Y9PAqD924DBEhEG-QcoIdDUxU4QTUFIBCUt7aa9VPPh9eyipRgMl6_6zUJ4JM/w295-h278/Holga%20selfie%20small.jpg" width="295" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Yours truly, with the Holga (Woodlands Cemetery)</span></td></tr></tbody></table>The Holga. Yes, just another pain point in my photographic arsenal. A Holga is essentially a cheap plastic toy camera that uses 120mm film. As I write this, I’m waiting for the film processing place to develop my film, scan the negatives, and send them to Dropbox for me. I have no idea whether there will be anything good on that film. Actually I shot two rolls of 12 exposures (120 mm BW). I will wait until I get the results before I post this, so you can all witness either my ineptitude or my genius, whichever the case may be.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">Turns out I was rewarded with two reasonable images – out of 24. Even a blind squirrel finds a nut twice a day. Here they are.</span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtHDYb_FPfr3G0wPk8jzIZbGvVC9VSSe-ZZmkxA7uXSC0D1XteyFcO9lC7GePMkcc_kq5kIWV3DgcqmgFWIipjD2qmkKhccDWnuF3GBb3Y1VVbxqg2e-_ztnVkfjvC3P4BsDkdTk-wvBCZYpLtksqZ3vXcePkq3IhJUeY5NyZySlTIxu80J6SrzNaaUnk/s937/Holga%20pair%20small.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="479" data-original-width="937" height="205" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtHDYb_FPfr3G0wPk8jzIZbGvVC9VSSe-ZZmkxA7uXSC0D1XteyFcO9lC7GePMkcc_kq5kIWV3DgcqmgFWIipjD2qmkKhccDWnuF3GBb3Y1VVbxqg2e-_ztnVkfjvC3P4BsDkdTk-wvBCZYpLtksqZ3vXcePkq3IhJUeY5NyZySlTIxu80J6SrzNaaUnk/w400-h205/Holga%20pair%20small.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Holga images (L: Calvary Cemetery; R: Woodlands Cemetery)</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p><b style="font-family: inherit;">Falling For You</b></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">At one point, in a cemetery I won’t name, I slipped on the ice. Wasn’t climbing on a monument. (Honestly, I don’t do that. Having seen a monument fall on a person, pin them to the ground and break their leg, I do avoid such near occasions). I was simply walking along the unplowed road, and my feet flew out from under me! My mind's eye was blind to the ice under the snow. I’d been looking out at the gravestones, eyes peeled for a good composition, instead of looking where I was walking. Obviously, I had not done the proper risk assessment. Hit my right shoulder on the ground with tremendous force:</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">According to Microsoft’s new <a href="https://www.bing.com/search?q=force+of+200+pounds+hitting+ground&qs=n&form=QBRE&sp=-1&ghc=1&lq=1&pq=force+of+200+pounds+hitting+ground&sc=1-34&sk=&cvid=35D0C003213E4CBAB60C07DE46606FA9&ghsh=0&ghacc=0&ghpl=">AI powered Bing search engine</a>:</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>"The gravitational force acting on a 200 lb mass is about 889 Newtons. A person who weighs about 200 pounds and falls just 6 feet will hit the ground with almost 10,000 pounds of force."</i></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjREPmFMe0el31I5J8-jBZF7NQPOSlB8hUdyiTk_7T_pd0xpx6wB_HRl3cBpsY9E5M2xBICxTfMbiX5vyO8mriyafDY6MRyadqPnziR68fPTPiuX40e5VrQ6i37e1uFZPzZaqRRWv20UxFIub-_dWwr0Hi3s0YPTqqWQaIJ5ghNrHUwwwaaUxNL8L_Ytrc/s600/Grave%20portrait%20small.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="481" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjREPmFMe0el31I5J8-jBZF7NQPOSlB8hUdyiTk_7T_pd0xpx6wB_HRl3cBpsY9E5M2xBICxTfMbiX5vyO8mriyafDY6MRyadqPnziR68fPTPiuX40e5VrQ6i37e1uFZPzZaqRRWv20UxFIub-_dWwr0Hi3s0YPTqqWQaIJ5ghNrHUwwwaaUxNL8L_Ytrc/s320/Grave%20portrait%20small.jpg" width="257" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Calvary Cemetery, Cherry Hill, NJ</span></td></tr></tbody></table>And I felt every one of those fekkin 10,000 pounds. Jesus H. Christ! Despite the pain, I made it okay hiking through the cemetery and shot for an hour, but then I realized I couldn’t raise my right arm very high. The next day, I couldn’t raise it at all. I spent the next week with T. Rex arms. Really thought I tore my rotator cuff. But after a week of Motrin smoothies, the pain began to </span>subside,<span style="font-family: inherit;"> and I started to regain my range of motion. I am glad that I continued shooting after the fall – I did make some decent photographs. Great art comes from great pain. </span></div><div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiVjK_D2t5F8NUcAMsOLo5O-wu13SX6OCzgkhXvkURV9yJsNgOabamCjB1Q4h3BzRdCVlzAFglP0_DRJsXp6bEtYV4fZaC_0Y384aewXNQs5wd-I8WaduWAIe1B2FE90eaSSmsRvNlcrOVACKWmiQSJfJMsYodO8T0Zth_FBc7KLU4L5n2GJSQLfsEkR0/s780/Mausoleums%20small.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="585" data-original-width="780" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiVjK_D2t5F8NUcAMsOLo5O-wu13SX6OCzgkhXvkURV9yJsNgOabamCjB1Q4h3BzRdCVlzAFglP0_DRJsXp6bEtYV4fZaC_0Y384aewXNQs5wd-I8WaduWAIe1B2FE90eaSSmsRvNlcrOVACKWmiQSJfJMsYodO8T0Zth_FBc7KLU4L5n2GJSQLfsEkR0/w400-h300/Mausoleums%20small.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Mausoleums, Harleigh Cemetery, Camden, NJ</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>Why Photograph Cemetery Statues?</b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">Why subject myself to all this? Is it to capture/create a unique image? To build up my catalogue raisonné? To have ‘alone’ time? Or is it just the JOURNEY that’s important, more so than the destination? I think it’s a combination of all that, but my reason can best be summarized in something the artist Andrew Wyeth said to his granddaughter, <a href="https://www.brandywine.org/museum/events/virtual-talk-victoria-wyeth-andrew-wyeths-early-work-0">Victoria Browning Wyeth</a>, “<i>my goal is not to make pictures but to express my love of these things.</i>”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></p><div style="text-align: right;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3jRGOTSG1rx2SNiKb2PIfht1Isya8JEKvurFBtk-nUILbTKX4YPwEg19EKSA_8rLRTwjOP3dNZeksNAmd2wlttC1zgAxniSnfmpJSs63oE9LT8HUfoRLa31iitbWKizTbI1Omkot7D-YgML5YBWobXjbiXGxVZm6Hzj0zUL8d2bMT2AYb-q-VXd5t61w/s720/Rear%20statue%20small.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="586" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3jRGOTSG1rx2SNiKb2PIfht1Isya8JEKvurFBtk-nUILbTKX4YPwEg19EKSA_8rLRTwjOP3dNZeksNAmd2wlttC1zgAxniSnfmpJSs63oE9LT8HUfoRLa31iitbWKizTbI1Omkot7D-YgML5YBWobXjbiXGxVZm6Hzj0zUL8d2bMT2AYb-q-VXd5t61w/s320/Rear%20statue%20small.jpg" width="260" /></a></div>I do love cemeteries and graveyards, which is why I use them in my art. Unlike Georgia O’Keeffe, who is widely known for her paintings of flowers, and said “I hate flowers – I paint them because they’re cheaper than models and they don’t move.” I appreciate the fact that access to cemetery statues is usually free and the statues (usually) don’t move. Cemeteries? I want to be there, and I want to create something. Paul Rudnick, in a recent <a href="https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2024/02/05/the-ten-best-ten-best-lists">New Yorker <i>Shouts and Murmurs</i> piece</a>, wrote in jest about something “<i>seemingly empty yet rife with meaning.</i>” Describes cemeteries fairly well, don’t you think? <p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_MoDLQKdQHg8UIJ_1X50TpolwHMBN3HyNw0tAmoYbahVwv225NYKCHCv-pyICsSmxXXbRHhpo1ovr8oUIqgJHKQQR2JX0LbSU3OTc53QM6yjC4HsqKBdz60vubxi3v7QSRwvWeRXN4vFUbRAEiZj0WGCvW7xJ62abyxBjEGyzas5LKyHlUyNUuoGhmEE/s720/Abstract%20small.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="540" data-original-width="720" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_MoDLQKdQHg8UIJ_1X50TpolwHMBN3HyNw0tAmoYbahVwv225NYKCHCv-pyICsSmxXXbRHhpo1ovr8oUIqgJHKQQR2JX0LbSU3OTc53QM6yjC4HsqKBdz60vubxi3v7QSRwvWeRXN4vFUbRAEiZj0WGCvW7xJ62abyxBjEGyzas5LKyHlUyNUuoGhmEE/w400-h300/Abstract%20small.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Calvary Cemetery abstract, shot through glass in a snowstorm</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">While I certainly appreciate the beauty of a landscape or an Italian marble cemetery sculpture, I also appreciate the fact that people went out of their way to memorialize the dead. Sometimes a grave marker is the only tangible evidence that a person existed. Standing amidst these monuments can make one feel part of the human family. Like the dog, Petey, mentioned above, many of us just want to feel part of the whole.</span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhB4ZxZq9lv3OiLvcBYx5rJ6oeKHfaatQ3d0IAaGnCf8GVxBdvYFupekEECd-QSRfTa6zIipsXQOuHq0tlfXO-u4AQvZpqeRo_27hSUppyQ6TYMnM-7bfbnsOZJLsky3ldzYCX895taRmzrD13r4pIwHsHaxbLqp74MM42VQPo8hDvEFTgNdHuzoXlrs-g/s720/Spikes%20small.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="540" data-original-width="720" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhB4ZxZq9lv3OiLvcBYx5rJ6oeKHfaatQ3d0IAaGnCf8GVxBdvYFupekEECd-QSRfTa6zIipsXQOuHq0tlfXO-u4AQvZpqeRo_27hSUppyQ6TYMnM-7bfbnsOZJLsky3ldzYCX895taRmzrD13r4pIwHsHaxbLqp74MM42VQPo8hDvEFTgNdHuzoXlrs-g/w400-h300/Spikes%20small.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Woodlands Cemetery, Philadelphia</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">Roland Barthes, the French literary theorist, philosopher, and critic said in 1977, “<i>If photography is to be discussed on a serious level, it must be described in relation to death.</i>” He added, “<i>Its true that a photograph is a witness, but a witness of something that is no more</i>” (Camera Lucida, 1980). So what better canvas with which to create new art than a cemetery? </span></p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPk5qKVuE86J5uMwhFVZZVKVdlH7vNQgi1pJKM7rbGhCEkNdVAFS61qMvQck0T3_E1s_kLu0sE5tCrBkxwssz5V6ihn2u7kuXgCNS1ddCgVlpvkcF7RGuYBbk4inhbBiFsgpQZLVrUoE_8c30LHMJvt_5OF8mubIbq4NoFeENYr1jTKmL3TU_e2FpRXNI/s720/Window%20small.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="463" data-original-width="720" height="258" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPk5qKVuE86J5uMwhFVZZVKVdlH7vNQgi1pJKM7rbGhCEkNdVAFS61qMvQck0T3_E1s_kLu0sE5tCrBkxwssz5V6ihn2u7kuXgCNS1ddCgVlpvkcF7RGuYBbk4inhbBiFsgpQZLVrUoE_8c30LHMJvt_5OF8mubIbq4NoFeENYr1jTKmL3TU_e2FpRXNI/w400-h258/Window%20small.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Sunset, Evergreen Cemetery, Camden, NJ</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">I also appreciate the beauty of a warm motor vehicle on a frigid day. Here’s another image I like, shot out the window of my wife’s Rav 4. Right after I made this image, I couldn’t get the power window to go back up! Panic. Twenty-four degrees outside. Another snowstorm expected tomorrow. After much fumbling around and considerably more panic, I realized there was an interlock on the door – a button that disables the power window function! Found that ten minutes later - released it and we’re back in business! Always never do that. But DO drive an SUV when you’re shooting cemeteries in the snow! You don’t want to get stuck. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>What Does Snow Add to a Photograph of Cemetery Statues?</b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">To paraphrase Reese Witherspoon, who recently said that “<a href="https://www.929thewave.com/2024/01/23/reese-witherspoon-sparks-tiktok-depate-is-it-ok-to-eat-snow/">Snow days were made for Chococinnos,</a>” snow days were made for shooting cemetery statues. Why? Probably for the same reason she got in trouble for telling her TikTok followers that it was okay to eat snow. It’s novel, its enjoyable, and it probably won’t hurt you (unless you slip and fall in it, that is). </span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyeUhmztRM0FSriHD8sbNWKq3Y6K-UKsPp6mrjGcNZvcHhwH53YH3gw4gg0_mlD5TVXgXoPEy3Nl3YhUmjw2vtf_bkuXWzBBRyaPO-jfqrifv1dj4PgDj6MaBxtyBqglM6NMW_ZpKji6LdFViZly0HqqLXoB-kniZ_xJ0giv6c50p1Yyw1Smy2ofWTz3w/s720/Snow%20angel%20small.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="540" data-original-width="720" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyeUhmztRM0FSriHD8sbNWKq3Y6K-UKsPp6mrjGcNZvcHhwH53YH3gw4gg0_mlD5TVXgXoPEy3Nl3YhUmjw2vtf_bkuXWzBBRyaPO-jfqrifv1dj4PgDj6MaBxtyBqglM6NMW_ZpKji6LdFViZly0HqqLXoB-kniZ_xJ0giv6c50p1Yyw1Smy2ofWTz3w/w400-h300/Snow%20angel%20small.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Snow angel, Calvary Cemetery</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr0fxps9geIM5iMahNdgq_mkJHNR1RqQJ7lfspj5Ope7b8Dehz4ZZ9oNspUaT4gOMpDpca22gej_NXyhdkpEYdZgFJDvursfh6InXQ50GPJmvfuSlzGPwdu-4heX6oqsKLZge8eUym86NnIEbvq-6HRZ5jYLt1Yvlk6qx160RHX7tXHEsmZW-j2Z4fyAE/s829/Wings%20small.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="829" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr0fxps9geIM5iMahNdgq_mkJHNR1RqQJ7lfspj5Ope7b8Dehz4ZZ9oNspUaT4gOMpDpca22gej_NXyhdkpEYdZgFJDvursfh6InXQ50GPJmvfuSlzGPwdu-4heX6oqsKLZge8eUym86NnIEbvq-6HRZ5jYLt1Yvlk6qx160RHX7tXHEsmZW-j2Z4fyAE/w295-h256/Wings%20small.jpg" width="295" /></a></div>Also, as I was surrounded by all this white, it dawned on me that one of the reasons I photograph cemetery statues is because they seem to be monochrome. They’re easy to shoot in black and white, and if you choose to shoot in color, there’s no color-balancing needed. No matter the hue, the observer’s brain corrects for it because you already know the statue is white. You don’t need a “Shirley” card to shoot cemetery statues.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">(A <a href="https://www.npr.org/2014/11/13/363517842/for-decades-kodak-s-shirley-cards-set-photography-s-skin-tone-standard">Shirley card</a>, by the way, was a photograph of a white woman (Shirley, a Kodak employee) used since the mid-1950s by Kodak photo labs to calibrate skin tones, shadows and light during the printing process.) </span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaLXSclchwW9ugYhpx4tp0gBM-rxlD3JcNAtc3mWzrTHzG-8LkDYHTMpDXxTOLYRXLgx-k2sXAY3_7qnIf-uftUnCoBIefTbrjh6zh9XVLwfL3Bbf9rFHDs1VIJ7-JsX9wz7vS6vN2geo3wY2fY63FlKWC_PUmN91NA0SHogSk_TKtPgNsmVvxLXLrrwE/s780/MontagePopArtFX%20(2)small.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="520" data-original-width="780" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaLXSclchwW9ugYhpx4tp0gBM-rxlD3JcNAtc3mWzrTHzG-8LkDYHTMpDXxTOLYRXLgx-k2sXAY3_7qnIf-uftUnCoBIefTbrjh6zh9XVLwfL3Bbf9rFHDs1VIJ7-JsX9wz7vS6vN2geo3wY2fY63FlKWC_PUmN91NA0SHogSk_TKtPgNsmVvxLXLrrwE/w400-h266/MontagePopArtFX%20(2)small.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Warholized cemetery angels (Evergreen Cemetery, Camden, NJ)</span></span></td></tr></tbody></table><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">Supposedly, the Farmer’s Almanac said we are in for a rough winter. So maybe I’ll have more opportunities to shoot snow angels. I mentioned the Almanac prediction to my neighbor a couple months ago, a woman who moved to Philadelphia from Spain. She did not understand what the Farmer’s Almanac was, never having heard of it. I felt like an idiot trying to explain it, because, well, I couldn’t. <a href="https://www.quotes.net/mquote/72274">To quote Pee-wee Herman</a>: <i>“Some things you wouldn’t understand. Some things you couldn’t understand. Some things you ... <u>shouldn’t</u> understand.”</i> Like the image below….</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTxugWkHpz0mUrbNENr87ElpMUAbAJ6McMhNLTY8cNWKmNLxPj6bRYyAfpCoUp9-1pHL5xVuq66msiYnedYPU1U0eb-Np8pGcpkzJ9XHHsdHzcbINEt64twkaYw76XvyMs53nPYiLRGbAmd5g8i6s7-tG9N2wlZApUxhtDfxPLoSyirJlxre2uz2KjRUc/s720/Graffiti%20small.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="540" data-original-width="720" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTxugWkHpz0mUrbNENr87ElpMUAbAJ6McMhNLTY8cNWKmNLxPj6bRYyAfpCoUp9-1pHL5xVuq66msiYnedYPU1U0eb-Np8pGcpkzJ9XHHsdHzcbINEt64twkaYw76XvyMs53nPYiLRGbAmd5g8i6s7-tG9N2wlZApUxhtDfxPLoSyirJlxre2uz2KjRUc/w400-h300/Graffiti%20small.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">The "Late Nights" image above is a mash up of two images combined as one. Both were made in south Jersey cemeteries during the snow week. Andy Warhol said that art is what you can get away with. Is it disrespectful or sacrilegious tromping through a graveyard making such photographs? I think that any attention we give those who have gone before us is a way of paying respect. Their memory lives on.</span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjE2NR0BGeskyMne7SOnWYy8C_OiZKuVK-PeXled7YSU93CvItyx_Vi_-pVYGvcDJxPTvi5MNAluuk2Zm0rPV1sVSTfGIQ7lgmPgm3go-0q7FHJ6g_2xjbDz8ERySFZEMssjVx4tS2HHbr8Te3OLx2NdlIfywxXh0PSaH3KjPoZWMFW5K8lID6yd9ks9yo/s720/St.%20Peters%20small.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="540" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjE2NR0BGeskyMne7SOnWYy8C_OiZKuVK-PeXled7YSU93CvItyx_Vi_-pVYGvcDJxPTvi5MNAluuk2Zm0rPV1sVSTfGIQ7lgmPgm3go-0q7FHJ6g_2xjbDz8ERySFZEMssjVx4tS2HHbr8Te3OLx2NdlIfywxXh0PSaH3KjPoZWMFW5K8lID6yd9ks9yo/s320/St.%20Peters%20small.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Old Pine Street Church, Philadelphia</span></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: inherit;">One of the things </span><a href="https://www.brandywine.org/museum/events/virtual-talk-victoria-wyeth-andrew-wyeths-early-work-0" style="font-family: inherit;">Victoria Browning Wyeth</a><span style="font-family: inherit;"> has said about her Uncle Andy (who died in 2009) is that when she visits his grave, she pictures him deep underground in his casket smiling up at her. I think I’m going to imagine that from now on, when I’m photographing in cemeteries – those below are smiling up at me - and laughing, probably, when I fall.</span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">(Cue up the R.E.M. song, “<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lf6vCjtaV1k">Fall On Me</a>” ….. )</span></p><div><br /></div></div></div>StoneAngels: The Cemetery Travelerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02776945637111478231noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9091026817968807873.post-3441809370755700442024-01-27T08:18:00.000-08:002024-01-27T08:20:57.603-08:00 Snow, Tombstones, and a Camera: A Hilarious Frolic in the Cemetery (by ChatGPT)<p><i></i></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwGyZhkCK7SUSP-4FAkwCk_dh__dcQPUSmFQBHGiafDl_0PBrFf9yTMFrlVn9YqIAmsQb3dP6xOOPt65M9p6-QOfIl4PQJU4awB7FAA67qmsLKdilLkahBawUZ6fE72hHclNpLi_vlM5C0Po5WkmNKPP1Rix__rNaZcmg9eOGcgxn0JDVDjpRuwkoaYm4/s780/Selfie%20cold%20small.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="585" data-original-width="780" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwGyZhkCK7SUSP-4FAkwCk_dh__dcQPUSmFQBHGiafDl_0PBrFf9yTMFrlVn9YqIAmsQb3dP6xOOPt65M9p6-QOfIl4PQJU4awB7FAA67qmsLKdilLkahBawUZ6fE72hHclNpLi_vlM5C0Po5WkmNKPP1Rix__rNaZcmg9eOGcgxn0JDVDjpRuwkoaYm4/w400-h300/Selfie%20cold%20small.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>"Jesus, its cold out here ..."</b></td></tr></tbody></table><i><br />Intro: If you were weirded out by my previous post, “Photographing Cemeteries in the Snow: A Frozen Elegy,” which I admitted at the end was generated by the IA program ChatGPT, here’s a doozy. I thought I would test the ap by inserting the word “funny” into my request. To wit, write a “500 word <b>funny</b> essay on photographing cemeteries in the snow.” Here’s where we landed. Like my previous post, I just added photographs that I took last week during and after a couple snowstorms in the Philadelphia/south Jersey area. The title was ChatGPT's idea.</i><p></p><p></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2IKsTRkZoO_htU0h5ycyh1yaLZI19K67EsPMv6olDWRY8ANX877tS7puZENk38KCDZ3EgIeN8oj8WoNIr8g6gpGL9HO_PZbvj7mcBGuP12WtKjLIFcwSnRDsTGS3hZ2PsBCc7Ts7NyP5RkYzU9FvGuL80iy6jw6nolU046ZEKOVFmdlg-GWvPbkKvF6I/s780/Face%20small.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="780" data-original-width="585" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2IKsTRkZoO_htU0h5ycyh1yaLZI19K67EsPMv6olDWRY8ANX877tS7puZENk38KCDZ3EgIeN8oj8WoNIr8g6gpGL9HO_PZbvj7mcBGuP12WtKjLIFcwSnRDsTGS3hZ2PsBCc7Ts7NyP5RkYzU9FvGuL80iy6jw6nolU046ZEKOVFmdlg-GWvPbkKvF6I/s320/Face%20small.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Calvary Cemetery, Cherry Hill, NJ</span></td></tr></tbody></table>Photographing cemeteries in the snow might sound like an odd choice for a lighthearted escapade, but sometimes humor emerges from the most unexpected places – or in this case, from the frosty embrace of gravestones and the whimsy of winter.<p></p><p>First things first, navigating a snow-covered cemetery with a camera is like trying to salsa dance in flippers – it's entertaining, awkward, and you're bound to draw some puzzled looks. Picture this: a photographer attempting to capture the perfect shot, slipping and sliding on icy paths, all while trying not to disturb the eternal slumber of those beneath. It's a slapstick comedy waiting to happen.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdFFMOSPH4CuX3Cm9gQFUMFKUbfpQDmPcG4INY164OM0QD-0jocGh6Bt_JlqK3j7pxY7_HMhgfMhZ9geQBV4KQtAx1s3N_zlFhGNjTLdwA5L2wWe8IV41Wg3n6VUV3c63o41NMqjYwsolhYhs8Xgot3HNLMp1Hz5bK8CfPuoP3WK3sNWkkcZ39Jqp_zDo/s720/Pieta%20small.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="540" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdFFMOSPH4CuX3Cm9gQFUMFKUbfpQDmPcG4INY164OM0QD-0jocGh6Bt_JlqK3j7pxY7_HMhgfMhZ9geQBV4KQtAx1s3N_zlFhGNjTLdwA5L2wWe8IV41Wg3n6VUV3c63o41NMqjYwsolhYhs8Xgot3HNLMp1Hz5bK8CfPuoP3WK3sNWkkcZ39Jqp_zDo/w300-h400/Pieta%20small.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Calvary Cemetery, Cherry Hill, NJ</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p>The snow, in all its fluffy glory, has a knack for turning tombstones into shape-shifting snow sculptures. Forget about reading the inscriptions; half the time, you're left deciphering what might be a name or just a whimsical snow doodle left by a particularly creative winter sprite. Perhaps the dearly departed are playing a frosty game of hide-and-seek, leaving photographers scratching their heads and chuckling at the snow-covered riddles.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhimGCGL18hJI2Oqwl4dD-ByLPA6QAhLFAB3PfhanbFl3BDY-2_Vvm34KJC2EHMeIvnZb1Vn48IFOoib8K7cAqhWibdUsT8KX7MHOkIGyW7uhbAPW-RSJb1gQIFXEVes_s7yyhZFB375MK-9RSY6hIK9R7Qmz082SNZquDAMzD-dFv5nmUSQgSDJjXZD0o/s720/Graffiti%20small.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="540" data-original-width="720" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhimGCGL18hJI2Oqwl4dD-ByLPA6QAhLFAB3PfhanbFl3BDY-2_Vvm34KJC2EHMeIvnZb1Vn48IFOoib8K7cAqhWibdUsT8KX7MHOkIGyW7uhbAPW-RSJb1gQIFXEVes_s7yyhZFB375MK-9RSY6hIK9R7Qmz082SNZquDAMzD-dFv5nmUSQgSDJjXZD0o/w400-h300/Graffiti%20small.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Old Camden and Evergreen Cemeteries, Camden, NJ</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p>Now, let's talk about the snow angels – not the celestial beings, but the unintentional ones photographers end up making. The cold ground and the excitement of capturing the perfect shot can lead to unexpected acrobatics. You might find yourself unintentionally channeling your inner winter Olympian with a graceful, or not so graceful, snow dive. The camera might capture a breathtaking shot, but the outtakes reel is a comedy goldmine.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhV2IJft4VJCHAUu6MrpLq5GgzIuR_A0AAQn7hrttV2JWY_-FjP5KEsPC_BkDZERpo0TqpVUW4xuUabm8Q33HLEA5NiRRUt2xZRQyKfOcANSzJlaBFN0J6xNS0KhjIM0mNw25nYLdOgCTkKaVbiU8KHx5-l3F25GWt9HXGQ0aIZRL44JgthBgT96W2hCWk/s720/Snow%20ghost%20small.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="540" data-original-width="720" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhV2IJft4VJCHAUu6MrpLq5GgzIuR_A0AAQn7hrttV2JWY_-FjP5KEsPC_BkDZERpo0TqpVUW4xuUabm8Q33HLEA5NiRRUt2xZRQyKfOcANSzJlaBFN0J6xNS0KhjIM0mNw25nYLdOgCTkKaVbiU8KHx5-l3F25GWt9HXGQ0aIZRL44JgthBgT96W2hCWk/w400-h300/Snow%20ghost%20small.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Snow Angel, Woodlands Cemetery, Philadelphia</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbOZheYRe3i_vKd2P-kNnlh0Q7Q8ZQtjwKjvQMqIKncm6jGsN2WR8DkGtGHbR16RcRBhC61olfGXW4ROA7VHN96An8M_pHq5QxUIR4cNRJSVnOgOXevv5FVbKoFAq7UbSjdcAJ7r88yHzcUPMCvXLPDfG-9Z3QK-8LQ5r3qctTtLO6RBur7ivNVMzY8fU/s720/Sunset%20small.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="540" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbOZheYRe3i_vKd2P-kNnlh0Q7Q8ZQtjwKjvQMqIKncm6jGsN2WR8DkGtGHbR16RcRBhC61olfGXW4ROA7VHN96An8M_pHq5QxUIR4cNRJSVnOgOXevv5FVbKoFAq7UbSjdcAJ7r88yHzcUPMCvXLPDfG-9Z3QK-8LQ5r3qctTtLO6RBur7ivNVMzY8fU/s320/Sunset%20small.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small; text-align: left;">Evergreen Cemetery, Camden, NJ</span></td></tr></tbody></table>As if nature itself is playing a prank, the weather during a cemetery photoshoot can be as capricious as a mischievous imp. One moment, the sun is casting a warm glow on the snow, turning the cemetery into a winter wonderland. The next, a snowstorm sweeps in, and you're left frantically trying to protect your camera from an unexpected icy baptism. It's a classic case of "weather, you had one job!"<p></p><p><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRQqFLg9b8N3W2aZH9jNUpi1xz_f9Xe7b4rNyfPG3a46j5J0KmR9keWnEkd8jMSG025KcFi99pKdSdGw8khzT3KyE10vrkwla439Jmbuvn5scFpsPNykxNY19TmprSJ_HgeVvm8hfojrvxHMTnh4JgcDfhMVQpFseNsV-k1xZFoKJuRh2XfBkw7a-OEuI/s720/Car%20window%20small.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="540" data-original-width="720" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRQqFLg9b8N3W2aZH9jNUpi1xz_f9Xe7b4rNyfPG3a46j5J0KmR9keWnEkd8jMSG025KcFi99pKdSdGw8khzT3KyE10vrkwla439Jmbuvn5scFpsPNykxNY19TmprSJ_HgeVvm8hfojrvxHMTnh4JgcDfhMVQpFseNsV-k1xZFoKJuRh2XfBkw7a-OEuI/w400-h300/Car%20window%20small.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Sheltering in place, Calvary Cemetery, Cherry Hill, New Jersey</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p style="text-align: right;">.</p><p></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnDaAIJ2FRX5YZ0J8KDQsrhPkWtUg2lSCbsopmrHt73xuE4Olm5bYPj0SOLhsRo_7w5rLxTvj1PjwVJoe0MURej107tzkBgbrQyuf69eRqz9I14Sa43skmYiLGvQpCn3MLQ6n_0dzdjg0yp54Cvgia18KKrjIUMTeJSXax63QMkTWppVQeD57sOdg3TNE/s720/Footprints%20small.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="540" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnDaAIJ2FRX5YZ0J8KDQsrhPkWtUg2lSCbsopmrHt73xuE4Olm5bYPj0SOLhsRo_7w5rLxTvj1PjwVJoe0MURej107tzkBgbrQyuf69eRqz9I14Sa43skmYiLGvQpCn3MLQ6n_0dzdjg0yp54Cvgia18KKrjIUMTeJSXax63QMkTWppVQeD57sOdg3TNE/s320/Footprints%20small.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Evergreen Cemetery, Camden, NJ</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br />And let's not forget about the ghostly footprints that appear on the snowy canvas. In a normal world, these might evoke a sense of mystery and intrigue. In the world of cemetery photography, they're more likely to make you wonder if the resident spirits are testing out a new pair of snowshoes. Who knew the afterlife could be so fashion-forward?<p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNbLRHhxFMs7nZCoLyeg2_TzishOObGKQfEPb0xYTB4GCSt45p5jGpCjeXFeqlF5tlaoQvm7a7o528DUbM90Vg_DOfxP0gN5AqiLWZUosimdAzeycWwZaZe1O1T7K5n6qUEI5GJFPbPZvts5jGHWlPdYhXpYcUNyqY_lW2K3uTt_yOD2sDOY3Ul-QFwQc/s720/Fox%20mug%20small.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="540" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNbLRHhxFMs7nZCoLyeg2_TzishOObGKQfEPb0xYTB4GCSt45p5jGpCjeXFeqlF5tlaoQvm7a7o528DUbM90Vg_DOfxP0gN5AqiLWZUosimdAzeycWwZaZe1O1T7K5n6qUEI5GJFPbPZvts5jGHWlPdYhXpYcUNyqY_lW2K3uTt_yOD2sDOY3Ul-QFwQc/w150-h200/Fox%20mug%20small.jpg" width="150" /></a></div>As photographers tiptoe around the cemetery like clumsy ballet dancers, the hush of winter is occasionally interrupted by the unexpected symphony of wildlife. Squirrels, confused by the human antics, might decide to join the photoshoot, photobombing your carefully composed shots with their acrobatic antics. It's a woodland comedy show with an audience of one – you and your camera.<p></p><p>In conclusion, photographing cemeteries in the snow is a hilarious adventure, a quirky dance between the living and the departed, and a reminder that humor can be found even in the most unexpected places. So, grab your camera, put on your most absurd winter gear, and embark on a frolic through the snow-covered tombstones – who knows, you might capture the laughter of the dearly departed echoing through the frosty air.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqjq4q-UX4ck4oO5ZYJAimXoLZhDi8qYX3F0GtEtncdmZez24XaRpD_ByYcI1Zou9bSZD4bXOrkno-tioe4C_ntAj_MZ2zNzz9R4UewjQydAFCiMPZjIvtVmgwhCDTYrCyogVNpmAUZby4EkJ-oSK-rZ3Hi7NDxAMS4Ei6vdUN_sYgxYzDBy_vqWFgdnw/s780/Your%20name%20here%20small.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="585" data-original-width="780" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqjq4q-UX4ck4oO5ZYJAimXoLZhDi8qYX3F0GtEtncdmZez24XaRpD_ByYcI1Zou9bSZD4bXOrkno-tioe4C_ntAj_MZ2zNzz9R4UewjQydAFCiMPZjIvtVmgwhCDTYrCyogVNpmAUZby4EkJ-oSK-rZ3Hi7NDxAMS4Ei6vdUN_sYgxYzDBy_vqWFgdnw/w400-h300/Your%20name%20here%20small.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Colestown Cemetery, Cherry Hill, New Jersey</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p><i><b>Epilogue:</b> WTF? …"weather, you had one job?" What ... does that mean? "Hilarious," as the title implies? Well, no. This is a fairly ridiculous and repulsive essay. Hopefully, my photos gave you a chuckle, at least. Rest assured, future frolics will be in my own awkward hand. I like giving new technology a shot, though. It helps me thrive as my truest self (a line I stole from one of the characters in the television streaming series, “Beef”).</i></p><p><br /></p>StoneAngels: The Cemetery Travelerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02776945637111478231noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9091026817968807873.post-77379188944941135972024-01-22T18:36:00.000-08:002024-01-22T18:36:53.477-08:00Photographing Cemeteries in the Snow: A Frozen Elegy<p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj645BPrzPvXtWdzbKayX5m0azacTeT4SchPvHPjs-qx3sxaR6eaX3kAQ0CJoVi_gwnRa-3zzAJzCHPuUvhWsU6OmJK3wpoKci8rBaJL2gYhQbhDw_F4FaDghpdgM60SfTq6FR6k9B2oynFNpHx-MDh0j719QlWo7zHvV-3GmWZuAXAAM_VYdRuoqPXh4I/s780/Harleigh%20small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="585" data-original-width="780" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj645BPrzPvXtWdzbKayX5m0azacTeT4SchPvHPjs-qx3sxaR6eaX3kAQ0CJoVi_gwnRa-3zzAJzCHPuUvhWsU6OmJK3wpoKci8rBaJL2gYhQbhDw_F4FaDghpdgM60SfTq6FR6k9B2oynFNpHx-MDh0j719QlWo7zHvV-3GmWZuAXAAM_VYdRuoqPXh4I/w400-h300/Harleigh%20small.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Harleigh Cemetery, Camden, New Jersey</span></span></td></tr></tbody></table><br />Cemeteries are often regarded as serene spaces, where the echoes of the past reverberate through weathered tombstones and ancient trees. When winter blankets these sacred grounds with a pristine layer of snow, a unique and ethereal atmosphere emerges, providing photographers with a captivating canvas to explore.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiE7FCatUk8juagnL05XsaSfiWAD0KZHA_bbTHcQ_NCAz_vYbQhFGGITZaV9fsDkQpJLjl4MuK90o1ynipuaIJN_Va-KGRhKzaGAQx7IBFs3AFKN3mdJXdf4SfTp7jxfhschfu7qCngr_sskT1-MgECR13xjn2alPRqA8q6730yW7n0EvI-UWO8SDNPRzE/s780/No%20detail%20small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="585" data-original-width="780" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiE7FCatUk8juagnL05XsaSfiWAD0KZHA_bbTHcQ_NCAz_vYbQhFGGITZaV9fsDkQpJLjl4MuK90o1ynipuaIJN_Va-KGRhKzaGAQx7IBFs3AFKN3mdJXdf4SfTp7jxfhschfu7qCngr_sskT1-MgECR13xjn2alPRqA8q6730yW7n0EvI-UWO8SDNPRzE/w400-h300/No%20detail%20small.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Calvary Cemetery, Cherry Hill, New Jersey</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p>The snow-covered landscape transforms cemeteries into a surreal and hauntingly beautiful realm. The soft white blanket conceals the intricate details of tombstones, creating a minimalist aesthetic that accentuates the stark contrasts between life and death. Each snowflake delicately adorns the final resting places of the departed, adding a sense of purity to the somber scene.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiamggbycwgUJVaSd_jGcsHMa0vl0D8GiuAcQU1iE71GczSZM1nIYNup9AgNt1PvC_QvwadQhBCeVXqrixIHuZxy8qN24BddKKbiI_c5qmC0KKoOBZOKPcgGkRD2S9r22f-bkqe8yB6DKJdmVhrtm37dxb_TkPZjPa3MjHyhOFhxdwZ004zJJMITOYt7nQ/s794/Pieta%20crop%20small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="794" data-original-width="780" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiamggbycwgUJVaSd_jGcsHMa0vl0D8GiuAcQU1iE71GczSZM1nIYNup9AgNt1PvC_QvwadQhBCeVXqrixIHuZxy8qN24BddKKbiI_c5qmC0KKoOBZOKPcgGkRD2S9r22f-bkqe8yB6DKJdmVhrtm37dxb_TkPZjPa3MjHyhOFhxdwZ004zJJMITOYt7nQ/w393-h400/Pieta%20crop%20small.jpg" width="393" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Calvary Cemetery, Cherry Hill, New Jersey</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p>One cannot ignore the symbolism embedded in the juxtaposition of snow and tombstones. The cold embrace of winter mirrors the inevitable passage of time and the transience of life. Through the lens of a camera, this frozen tableau becomes a poignant reminder of the cyclical nature of existence – a visual meditation on mortality and the enduring beauty that persists even in the face of decay.</p><p></p><div style="text-align: right;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1vOniLs7c2k-7RTPyUMA_60K83UuOiwG_FrJWcV1s-5Tdf0uk8Ywf-fA0iIIkLZCcvgHF8pb0V7gu7efzp_BiPO-z0ub6aOHFHb7dTaLHkej-1NEj3u1D643CcYpLygTwej3MIQOFBA2BzMAuN5gNUBT_x-rg5LQ8UyNMooX9g6Hws-ifcxGTowv85U4/s780/Angel%20cutout%20small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="780" data-original-width="585" height="278" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1vOniLs7c2k-7RTPyUMA_60K83UuOiwG_FrJWcV1s-5Tdf0uk8Ywf-fA0iIIkLZCcvgHF8pb0V7gu7efzp_BiPO-z0ub6aOHFHb7dTaLHkej-1NEj3u1D643CcYpLygTwej3MIQOFBA2BzMAuN5gNUBT_x-rg5LQ8UyNMooX9g6Hws-ifcxGTowv85U4/w209-h278/Angel%20cutout%20small.jpg" width="209" /></a></div>Photographing cemeteries in the snow requires a keen eye for composition and a sensitivity to the emotional resonance of the scene. The muted tones of winter provide a natural backdrop that allows the subtle details of gravestones, sculptures, and mausoleums to stand out. Shadows cast by the soft winter light create a play of contrasts, enhancing the depth and texture of the frozen landscape.<div><br /><div><br /><p></p><p></p><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqCWT3WQ-b4046FXAcUvqfZULRB0x32EYz4TtILd-dHQt-eIjl3Nut88zl19PCQKPGcEGd2yKt2mdgVXgn8n0CVYyNN2gMpoe4GzJAxaHSeU8wmi_ojeIcASCdEpyabB3FfIWVhq_3md3RGoFqlfqZ8ckIH6-ZYrSiHwrv7S2U7NMGDngN21V3JSa_pPY/s780/Footprints%20small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="780" data-original-width="585" height="285" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqCWT3WQ-b4046FXAcUvqfZULRB0x32EYz4TtILd-dHQt-eIjl3Nut88zl19PCQKPGcEGd2yKt2mdgVXgn8n0CVYyNN2gMpoe4GzJAxaHSeU8wmi_ojeIcASCdEpyabB3FfIWVhq_3md3RGoFqlfqZ8ckIH6-ZYrSiHwrv7S2U7NMGDngN21V3JSa_pPY/w214-h285/Footprints%20small.jpg" width="214" /></a></div>The footprints in the snow tell stories of those who have come to pay their respects, leaving behind a temporary mark on the timeless canvas of the cemetery. Capturing these traces adds a layer of narrative to the photographs, inviting viewers to contemplate the connection between the living and the departed. The presence of footsteps also serves as a reminder of the shared human experience of mourning and remembrance.<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbV54u375a8kEFDGHFMgkBWW0liVaWaW3-I0GWx7E-V1BjQ3l2h3HkA-HVaQiTqNTEzhs7_nhWDJbbJ8gnLhYsJaxCA7bQyu1UmLFdbKaWZS6QdwG6aOxVl0-A6WF1XBMXGMQGdvyGb7rV_IaqjTuA1JRtsCBfh_0QbcTOy1m5AkLLO-seiU9DzUNO5UM/s780/Road%20small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="780" data-original-width="585" height="294" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbV54u375a8kEFDGHFMgkBWW0liVaWaW3-I0GWx7E-V1BjQ3l2h3HkA-HVaQiTqNTEzhs7_nhWDJbbJ8gnLhYsJaxCA7bQyu1UmLFdbKaWZS6QdwG6aOxVl0-A6WF1XBMXGMQGdvyGb7rV_IaqjTuA1JRtsCBfh_0QbcTOy1m5AkLLO-seiU9DzUNO5UM/w220-h294/Road%20small.jpg" width="220" /></a></div><p>As a photographer navigates the snow-covered paths, the silence of the cemetery becomes palpable. The hushed stillness of winter magnifies the solitude and contemplative atmosphere, inviting introspection and reflection. This silence, punctuated only by the crunch of snow underfoot, fosters a sense of reverence for the sacred space and the stories it holds.</p><p></p><p><br /></p><p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6LNPT4BdmR0-tSCaWT-RTrHN_wf8523bknskXiXmbzy-lwJ6FkO7OOwIHht2tGlhuQ94xbDzBIpOAoPMd5qo_SRktyvJEjoHNV6wZxOz8MjvcWxEMMSxtIlHL4Qtf4LGAtwLdJcTZ8_JU4OcHUxLZbDcwGdAon2n9lCgBhfGnq8ZMc-cz4aBVw3w_zSM/s780/Snow%20statue%20small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="780" data-original-width="585" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6LNPT4BdmR0-tSCaWT-RTrHN_wf8523bknskXiXmbzy-lwJ6FkO7OOwIHht2tGlhuQ94xbDzBIpOAoPMd5qo_SRktyvJEjoHNV6wZxOz8MjvcWxEMMSxtIlHL4Qtf4LGAtwLdJcTZ8_JU4OcHUxLZbDcwGdAon2n9lCgBhfGnq8ZMc-cz4aBVw3w_zSM/s320/Snow%20statue%20small.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Calvary Cemetery</span></td></tr></tbody></table>The changing weather conditions further contribute to the dynamic nature of photographing cemeteries in the snow. Foggy mornings, gently falling snowflakes, or the soft glow of twilight can dramatically alter the mood of the photographs. Adapting to these elements requires patience and a willingness to embrace the unpredictability of nature, resulting in images that capture the ephemeral beauty of the moment.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOY-WN7FNPGGNIrb2tvGovWm54zehcJzN6OIpADTSfM11OOznxBjgkahG65CTpNxuZ0kvkBS0Ikk9d0g1ktuCawDTvD9ICKf0c9kXQoaC_DsgfJdnPZAO_hKQRxIVV461sksoGKsUfGzUQZg0KwX4QSjnVvq9okBwJDEpSj30Fyby145LvB6MbZlFZvjo/s780/Sunset%20small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="585" data-original-width="780" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOY-WN7FNPGGNIrb2tvGovWm54zehcJzN6OIpADTSfM11OOznxBjgkahG65CTpNxuZ0kvkBS0Ikk9d0g1ktuCawDTvD9ICKf0c9kXQoaC_DsgfJdnPZAO_hKQRxIVV461sksoGKsUfGzUQZg0KwX4QSjnVvq9okBwJDEpSj30Fyby145LvB6MbZlFZvjo/w400-h300/Sunset%20small.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Evergreen Cemetery, Camden, New Jersey</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p>In conclusion, photographing cemeteries in the snow is a poetic exploration of life, death, and the enduring beauty that transcends the seasons. The frozen landscape becomes a canvas for contemplation, inviting viewers to reflect on the passage of time and the interconnectedness of past, present, and future. Through the lens of a camera, cemeteries in the snow reveal a frozen elegy, where silence and solitude merge to create a visual ode to the eternal cycle of existence.</p><p><b>EPILOGUE:</b></p><p><i>Not bad for a Chat GPT generated article, hm? I simply typed in, “500 word essay on photographing cemeteries in the snow,” and out popped this AI masterpiece in a second! It even came up with the title, "Photographing Cemeteries in the Snow: A Frozen Elegy." I just added photographs that I took last week during and after a couple snowstorms in South Jersey. What do you think? Kind of serious and melodramatic - frozen, even, huh? Maybe I should have said, "Make it sound like Ed Snyder wrote it ..."</i></p><div><br /></div></div></div></div>StoneAngels: The Cemetery Travelerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02776945637111478231noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9091026817968807873.post-13218425241664831042023-12-31T10:21:00.000-08:002023-12-31T10:23:24.828-08:00Do You See What I See…<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCr7MvCCMy4ZH_hqSUk8VsI2px-AcXMuji0tz6E4jJIhMTNvp8oC2msWMA8uMMjSzbZjGozDnvTcJowgINLz4ZjXHGy4tKuUWb_5Da9lDqVMtI7-qomUT4k8KhRKssZGI1GrioqblpFC7xFuQzxLMFF-4U2TAFHimpnUR4RWwH8Lu2LIxZbcRkbLu2hXU/s780/Crushed%20Hopes%20Insta%20small.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="585" data-original-width="780" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCr7MvCCMy4ZH_hqSUk8VsI2px-AcXMuji0tz6E4jJIhMTNvp8oC2msWMA8uMMjSzbZjGozDnvTcJowgINLz4ZjXHGy4tKuUWb_5Da9lDqVMtI7-qomUT4k8KhRKssZGI1GrioqblpFC7xFuQzxLMFF-4U2TAFHimpnUR4RWwH8Lu2LIxZbcRkbLu2hXU/w400-h300/Crushed%20Hopes%20Insta%20small.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><b>
Do You See What I See…?</b><br />
</span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">No, this is not a Christmas blog, even though I am posting
it as 2023 ends and 2024 begins. Maybe its about seeing into the future. I don’t see the way you do, and you don’t see
the way I do. Does that make either of us wrong? Not only is it healthy to see
things from another’s point of view, but it can also help your creativity.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: inherit;">What other people see<o:p></o:p></span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I posted the image above on Instagram and Facebook recently
and had a comment that said, “For all the time I’ve spent there, I’ve never
seen this!”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Even if the person HAD seen the stone, they would never have
seen it, or captured its image, that way that I did. The monument is in Laurel hill
Cemetery, Philadelphia. It sits atop a small, steep incline, and from the road,
it doesn’t look that interesting (you can’t see the words). Remember when you
went trick or treating in the suburbs as a kid? Was there a house up a hill
that seemed like too much effort for a candy bar, so you skipped it?</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I replied to the comment that its interesting how other
people see the same thing differently. It happens to me a lot. Lighting and the
direction you’re facing changes everything! Think about flea markets - you walk
down the aisles in both directions, right? Otherwise, you miss stuff. Some
years ago I found this awesome postmortem photograph in a vintage frame at a
punk rock flea market. Got it for twenty-five bucks! Interesting thing is that
I spotted it on my second trip down that aisle, in the opposite direction. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheSY9Ph-6Bx-qwA90LWOwSMlKF5lUxZulEtfpGZ6xmI8VHFd8ILvXDs-Sgw6x-lNaMlhS2uhJA2axm4tkEWa0QGjKTjFLuuowgfqjzm_PpM5-sWFiuAOIHAdsvCGVFwzEHJKObm4BeROJhZ9s3LrYgRnfc_0FRlS4j7JaBSwBJs3NVYq1bicK8h6S_2iQ/s900/framed%20mourning%20memorial_email.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="745" data-original-width="900" height="331" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheSY9Ph-6Bx-qwA90LWOwSMlKF5lUxZulEtfpGZ6xmI8VHFd8ILvXDs-Sgw6x-lNaMlhS2uhJA2axm4tkEWa0QGjKTjFLuuowgfqjzm_PpM5-sWFiuAOIHAdsvCGVFwzEHJKObm4BeROJhZ9s3LrYgRnfc_0FRlS4j7JaBSwBJs3NVYq1bicK8h6S_2iQ/w400-h331/framed%20mourning%20memorial_email.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Once you do find that cemetery treasure during your next jaunt, how do you want to capture it in an image? It is true what Barthes says about a photograph (in his
book, Camera Lucida), that it captures the death of something. So you cannot go
back and capture the same cemetery image someone else did (or even the one I captured myself on an earlier excursion). You’d have to reproduce the angle of entry, composition, lighting,
time of year, and so on. Impossible. But that’s what makes photography art. That's what makes a photograph singular.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>PERSPECTIVE</b><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I have often been jealous of images other photographers have
made of the same scenes, same cemetery monuments that I have photographed.
Theirs, at times, seem much better than my captures. But that’s how we learn,
right? Art in general, gives us ideas for how we can improve our own art. And,
it can be painstakingly frustrating at times. I used to photograph cemeteries
with a friend who was easily a foot shorter than me. Just that difference in
elevation provided entirely new perspectives on a given scene. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The easy way to see things differently (and maybe catch
something that you missed before) is to make the extra effort to visit the same
sites again. Park on the opposite side and walk in a direction you’re not used
to. I have visited THE SAME CEMETERIES dozens of times! I typically find
something I missed before.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Cemeteries and their monuments are not static. Stone erodes,
visitors place decorations (or bury things), sometimes there is vandalism. And
everything looks different under a blanket of snow. Shoot at the edges of the
day – a low sun on the horizon throws warmer light and creates long shadows.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>AFTER-CAPTURE PROCESSING</b></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiV5N2IMDRCv_xqtIVPcQiYBMwn6cK7kvBp1oISVRqJ3csny_gW0K-aa6CEOLEUNbBCbNkj9BTgp1BzSU7QolPGfeI_8sr6NuWxYCM9V95TqVD5daPiI9hlSobXDV5V_pPTHMGiwPS9fQFBdQtRglMidl1zZ06W2G8bR2N_0ky1-VcB5tsGs6x4xf7VVF8/s720/Crushed%20Hopes%20BW%20vert%20small.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="576" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiV5N2IMDRCv_xqtIVPcQiYBMwn6cK7kvBp1oISVRqJ3csny_gW0K-aa6CEOLEUNbBCbNkj9BTgp1BzSU7QolPGfeI_8sr6NuWxYCM9V95TqVD5daPiI9hlSobXDV5V_pPTHMGiwPS9fQFBdQtRglMidl1zZ06W2G8bR2N_0ky1-VcB5tsGs6x4xf7VVF8/s320/Crushed%20Hopes%20BW%20vert%20small.jpg" width="256" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: inherit;">Plus, you’re probably not looking to simply document the
existence of a gravemarker – you’re probably looking to create some artistic
image, right? So go abstract. Use a photo editing ap like Hipstamatic, the one
I used to capture the image at top. Perhaps you can try simple black and white, for a
more abstract look. Most camera phones will let you change to black and white easily.<o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhi1cUc9MplWdwnoS_H6od_-xuiXBg2UygFiryvSr-MFNM4-2e50tu6u4n8DPRZVLS3bbfpwVNuiRARNaxJq6pkb6J5LvUER2os7yLzj2obAYZVebgfGd63JhKfiUAIU583jjyO8ARj1E_kZT7_Lbx_I855Qxo7UNVYplaAQtatnwf-ef6OeoncqLglrDM/s720/Color%20standard%20crushed%20hopes.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="540" data-original-width="720" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhi1cUc9MplWdwnoS_H6od_-xuiXBg2UygFiryvSr-MFNM4-2e50tu6u4n8DPRZVLS3bbfpwVNuiRARNaxJq6pkb6J5LvUER2os7yLzj2obAYZVebgfGd63JhKfiUAIU583jjyO8ARj1E_kZT7_Lbx_I855Qxo7UNVYplaAQtatnwf-ef6OeoncqLglrDM/w400-h300/Color%20standard%20crushed%20hopes.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Straight camera phone shot of the same scene (rather boring, right?)</span></td></tr></tbody></table>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">When I look at this standard, snapshot-style image above, it
doesn’t really do anything for me. The stone is a powerful statement, but
somehow a simple photograph does not project that message, that intent. Barthes
might have said that the viewer should read in this photograph the “distress of
a recent bereavement” (Camera Lucida). How to capture that feeling? A tintype
ap can give this scene a very dated look, as tintypes were around in the
Victorian era when this stone was carved.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDIIxrf-sdD0cr5f5aNdqS9EsC-ZJcuUfbVTOcflHDiSf5O8pDpliKYBWY3hrcAWsOOboLL3FiZmBj-tqfsYEy1gbGD-0mK_aDiAXKj7pNF7F64sAiQhzhBFfFDCZ5f06D4pmqBMardanf7JUfFsQAE1VVNDoNTMZpcbVSbUlyVo9Uk4qcYat02SHTjNM/s720/Tintype%20sepia%20small.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="540" data-original-width="720" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDIIxrf-sdD0cr5f5aNdqS9EsC-ZJcuUfbVTOcflHDiSf5O8pDpliKYBWY3hrcAWsOOboLL3FiZmBj-tqfsYEy1gbGD-0mK_aDiAXKj7pNF7F64sAiQhzhBFfFDCZ5f06D4pmqBMardanf7JUfFsQAE1VVNDoNTMZpcbVSbUlyVo9Uk4qcYat02SHTjNM/w400-h300/Tintype%20sepia%20small.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Image edited with Hipstamatic tintype ap.</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">You’ll notice that the stone is lit with horizontal
sunlight, which casts a shadow from the cross atop the "Crushed Hopes" grave
marker. The angled sun also gives definition to the letters. If the face of the
stone was lit with direct sunlight, you might not even see the letters.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Use Snapseed (camera phone image editor) or your camera (or
camera phone’s) own photo editing software to create an image you like, one
that successfully captures a mood. There are no rules! You’re not so much altering reality as
creating a more accurate version of what you saw. I guess you might say that I
am not an “incorruptible servant of artistic truth” as classical guitar maestro
Segovia said about the composer Tedesco in 1939!<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7GJWkbmYEV1w1MWWTqcKAzXm-iz6yPVHly4bDSeUIx7Xgtwz1QuVQU0wE0V_8F32ivpyIBl45HlCmQtxQFAgbKnecR2JxoyDaa6lrep0iK2KDFIR-Bu-Y2UhpNOj8wxpnQLkFC39sWcbVnjPRDI-arDl-cXcrXGglSQ41_I0aZ3cYggTa3GUC8YSlh-8/s780/Frozen%20Warnings%20small.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="615" data-original-width="780" height="315" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7GJWkbmYEV1w1MWWTqcKAzXm-iz6yPVHly4bDSeUIx7Xgtwz1QuVQU0wE0V_8F32ivpyIBl45HlCmQtxQFAgbKnecR2JxoyDaa6lrep0iK2KDFIR-Bu-Y2UhpNOj8wxpnQLkFC39sWcbVnjPRDI-arDl-cXcrXGglSQ41_I0aZ3cYggTa3GUC8YSlh-8/w400-h315/Frozen%20Warnings%20small.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Frozen Warnings," by Ed Snyder</td></tr></tbody></table>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">A few hours before writing this blog, I drove over to Dirty
Frank’s Bar, home of Philadelphia’s <i>Off The Wall</i> gallery. There was a recent
group exhibit of art work, and one of my two pieces that was juried into the
show was sold. I was picking up the unsold piece. I walked in and said hello to
the curator who apologized that my second piece had sold. Hardly a wasted trip!
That second piece you see above. I call it "Frozen Warnings." It is an image layered
with two of my cemetery photographs. I was really happy with the image, and humbled that
a stranger liked it enough to purchase it. "Frozen Warnings" is a composite of two cemetery images, neither of which I was truly happy with. But you know, when you're not happy with something, the end of the story can start today.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>Epilogue</b><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Maybe your hopes were crushed in some way last year. Artistically, perhaps you hit a wall. Horror author Grady Hendrix wrote, “<i>Christmas is a time to
be haunted by our memories, for every Christmas is our first Christmas without</i>.”
(This is from his 2023 article, <i><a href="https://www.tor.com/2023/12/22/how-the-holidays-became-haunted/#more-763201">How the Holidays Became Haunted</a></i>, <span style="color: black;">https://www.tor.com</span>).<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgB_SxKyo8Y6jnemAKB2lg1XBVRomyOyDFB8hAUyz_ootsFVb3Q1NKJgaPHwPa24GQkkW8OSV4C2PL0IPa6RNgMS-Lg8mrzIxPPm4uKpWjs6IjvriWSlxH-53FrGAnA1II3kQS4GKmL8m08Qgdz9hcXsN6T_K-RjlxRkTC_5WfSzfY4GiicFZyOTDABoY8/s720/Crushed%20Hopes%20Horiz%20small.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="720" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgB_SxKyo8Y6jnemAKB2lg1XBVRomyOyDFB8hAUyz_ootsFVb3Q1NKJgaPHwPa24GQkkW8OSV4C2PL0IPa6RNgMS-Lg8mrzIxPPm4uKpWjs6IjvriWSlxH-53FrGAnA1II3kQS4GKmL8m08Qgdz9hcXsN6T_K-RjlxRkTC_5WfSzfY4GiicFZyOTDABoY8/w400-h266/Crushed%20Hopes%20Horiz%20small.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Hendrix was talking about loved ones lost, but maybe we can
think of it as old habits lost?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A few
years ago I spent back to back New Years Days (two successive years) exploring
an abandoned cemetery. Since then, I’ve developed arthritis in my hip so I
think my days of jumping off walls into abandoned cemeteries are over. But if
you stay creative, and are open to new ideas, there will always be new worlds to
explore. The soul wants adventure.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">And then there is luck, right? A red fox appears out of
nowhere and poses in front of a tombstone. A parade of Harleys pours into the
cemetery for a biker funeral. As they say in the <i>Hunger Games</i> stories, may the
odds ever be in your favor.</span><o:p></o:p></p>StoneAngels: The Cemetery Travelerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02776945637111478231noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9091026817968807873.post-63478372454385062862023-10-22T07:35:00.000-07:002023-10-22T07:36:32.391-07:00The Roadside Memorial - Supernaturally Gruesome<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvVqZeIL7dnhfQ7b5clwDtxNwdSJR0vnArMk6RABEbakrjZmMUhD3nlMGH0hVsUK5h0CN8Siv10FTExk03kytEQluRtRhnY_KXbrJentuxGQpls8IuXkBpOuXVjFo2aHUnGHaQzzkD44C9s8SPh0EAmIxWj2ZG9oHHC1Umj-R8q_2UiNt4VAmWEKcEMwo/s720/Roadside%20animals%20small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="540" data-original-width="720" height="286" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvVqZeIL7dnhfQ7b5clwDtxNwdSJR0vnArMk6RABEbakrjZmMUhD3nlMGH0hVsUK5h0CN8Siv10FTExk03kytEQluRtRhnY_KXbrJentuxGQpls8IuXkBpOuXVjFo2aHUnGHaQzzkD44C9s8SPh0EAmIxWj2ZG9oHHC1Umj-R8q_2UiNt4VAmWEKcEMwo/w382-h286/Roadside%20animals%20small.jpg" width="382" /></a></div><p>“On a dark desert highway…” as the Eagles' song goes. You can picture such an accident in a remote locale, but it actually occurred at a reasonable well-lit city intersection. I wrote this in the summer a few months ago, watching the Atlantic Ocean on a peaceful day, far removed from the grisly accident scene. So far from such pain.</p><p>Near the Philadelphia International Airport is the intersection of Lindbergh Boulevard and 84th Street - a highly trafficked area. When I lived near there, I used to pass through the intersection daily on my way to work. For about a dozen years, there was a large roadside shrine of stuffed animals and the like, indicating a life lost on this roadway, I assumed. The memorial was removed sometime in 2022. </p><p>I had stopped to photograph it a few times, in various seasons, in various years. The stuffed teddy bears and other characters would get water-logged and beaten down by the elements, and I noticed that these would be replaced with fresh ones from time to time. Sometimes, balloons were added. Usually such markers of urban mourning have some sort of document posted in its midst indicating the person whose life was lost. This memorial never had one that I ever saw.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6k3Tkj4cb_ivuCEM6_D_99b12JnyqA0FdoZ9i9B7N3aLNXP9sLXDOK4O3GCAD3pxKh2O9QCXs4CbJaszEix05lovYJCV6V43WtEKHJrz1YdjhgjvdkLYLn2wJSYiWez9BiSYk7alCcm_fV2I6FHr6Gn0ONBagthwGmCOEt6pZZ1FQHCfNZ2H5ce2ecHk/s720/Roadside%202%20small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="540" data-original-width="720" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6k3Tkj4cb_ivuCEM6_D_99b12JnyqA0FdoZ9i9B7N3aLNXP9sLXDOK4O3GCAD3pxKh2O9QCXs4CbJaszEix05lovYJCV6V43WtEKHJrz1YdjhgjvdkLYLn2wJSYiWez9BiSYk7alCcm_fV2I6FHr6Gn0ONBagthwGmCOEt6pZZ1FQHCfNZ2H5ce2ecHk/w355-h266/Roadside%202%20small.jpg" width="355" /></a></div><p>Some years ago I had some of my photographs in a group show with other artists in Philadelphia, and as is customary, the gallery held an opening reception. Artists show up to discuss their work, potential customers show up to see the work and meet the artists. I think I had two photographs in the show, but I don’t remember what they were – although they probably had something to do with death (were I to guess).</p><p>My daughter Juli is an abstract painter and has told me that customers are more drawn to the artist’s story, than to the art work itself. She advised me to have a good story. You would think I was a reasonably good storyteller after all these "<b><i>Cemetery Traveler</i></b>" blog posts that I’ve done, and books that I’ve written. Maybe so, but I’m not a good on-the-spot salesperson. I prefer to let my work speak for itself. Sometimes that works, sometimes not.</p><p>One of the artists in attendance that evening was, however, a very good storyteller. He wasn’t trying to sell me his work, we were just passing the time talking to each other about our work. He told me a story that made my skin crawl.</p><p>When he found out that I explored and photographed cemeteries, he offered me this story. Turned out that <i>HE</i> was the person who kept that roadside memorial alive all those years! It has been about eight years since he told me this, so I’m a bit hazy on the details. I will recount it to the best of my recollection.</p><p>The storyteller was the uncle of the subject of the memorial. About ten years prior to his retelling of the story, his niece and three other seventeen and eighteen year-olds were going to a graduation party. The niece, lets call her Caitlin, had a younger brother, about four years old. The teens had begged the parents to let them drive to another graduation party and the parents let her take the car. It was raining that night.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8Ujmomd46lNe6_DDH54dNADwETjfXzeeMRTUsCSQFg6MFANI0b6rSjg5gXp_NsBbZcb9t2c-q0upDzIjPknSSd5BKyAdqQQjFxW4ih3Dnofh78s3DECOGlhbp9Kb_EMSgudm3YGFG_kBP5c-fQ6OT9Ez8-2UW4khYwG_fs2x0ne1Pv8cBeDMKSeVx32A/s720/Angel%20split%20small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="540" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8Ujmomd46lNe6_DDH54dNADwETjfXzeeMRTUsCSQFg6MFANI0b6rSjg5gXp_NsBbZcb9t2c-q0upDzIjPknSSd5BKyAdqQQjFxW4ih3Dnofh78s3DECOGlhbp9Kb_EMSgudm3YGFG_kBP5c-fQ6OT9Ez8-2UW4khYwG_fs2x0ne1Pv8cBeDMKSeVx32A/s320/Angel%20split%20small.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><p>As they approached the intersection at Lindbergh Boulevard and 84th Street, someone ran the light at high speed – probably forty or so miles per hour. The teens’ car was broadsided by a truck, I think, and I believe some of the teens survived. The storyteller’s niece did not.</p><p>He was asked to identify the body in the morgue at some point. I imagine her parents asked him to do that. He told me that she was cut in half, head to foot, right down the middle. A grisly scene to witness. Can you imagine the horror? </p><p>At some point, maybe the next day, the girl’s younger brother was asking when Caitlin would be coming home. No one knew how to break the news to him. He told his parents he was talking to her in a dream he had the previous night. He was not upset. She told him she was alright. But the thing he was most puzzled about was the vertical line she had coming down her face, all the way down her body ….</p><div><br /></div>StoneAngels: The Cemetery Travelerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02776945637111478231noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9091026817968807873.post-65532408442994651242023-08-06T10:01:00.000-07:002023-08-06T10:04:32.819-07:00Eulogy for My Mother<p><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkTf--0EmAm0DgnB8O6KfxcWzc9OvSF0F8CFK30Sy0AE5nLEiR0JsQXaoJbzuYeC9YLT_6SXa97JzzRMrfn8Mh2g8jkr7anfxlRGKWEz_96giM4YZX18GJDWgUWV1p_hLUXKIMJbYfxHIS0c7mGzv34OJB1a-9_peMq6WWxk4-PMjnYSA3PWBQVUXE2eY/s840/Mom%20and%20me%20small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="630" data-original-width="840" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkTf--0EmAm0DgnB8O6KfxcWzc9OvSF0F8CFK30Sy0AE5nLEiR0JsQXaoJbzuYeC9YLT_6SXa97JzzRMrfn8Mh2g8jkr7anfxlRGKWEz_96giM4YZX18GJDWgUWV1p_hLUXKIMJbYfxHIS0c7mGzv34OJB1a-9_peMq6WWxk4-PMjnYSA3PWBQVUXE2eY/w400-h300/Mom%20and%20me%20small.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />So my Mom died a few days before Mother’s Day, on May 14, 2023, to be precise. I’ve sort of been collecting my thoughts these last few months trying to figure out what to say. She was 84.<p></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">It was inevitable, I suppose, that I would post a blog about this. Not that bringing myself to write something has been easy. It has not. It has, however, been easy to distract myself from doing it, by finding other things to do, like, oh, I don’t know … visiting cemeteries. But I’ve got skin in the game.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">I don’t want this to be maudlin or clichéd, like, to everything there is a season, I see her face in the sky, in the trees, in a running stream, all that junk. I do, however, see her face in a Wendy’s Strawberry Frosty and ripe tomatoes. She liked oddball stuff, like sardines, zucchini, black tea, fried green tomatoes, and SPAM. Which I attributed to her being of Welsh descent. I don’t know why.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">Her physical health had been on a slow decline for about five years, but mentally, she was sharp. Spoke with her on the phone at least weekly (I live 120 miles away) and visited as often as I could. She loved her three children and four grandchildren. Wait – I’m getting maudlin. Let’s shift gears.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>At the Bedside </b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8pcteDwqGNaiwyMqmIcoBd0wt9fViOyTPXDrB1TMbQckqCCznqMgkREfZwtUEVAFeDMa5KexffLrRPXNp9ov9Tlepd0eidK6dcG0xZ2LrlXGqGd0REVRrn1Ohzv99fxVeA1_f_V8P0fkO0suyn9fnij6V1tWcOUNUoduGzzW26iJtklHrwJAhoutNhPg/s840/Mom%20at%20door%20small.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="840" data-original-width="583" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8pcteDwqGNaiwyMqmIcoBd0wt9fViOyTPXDrB1TMbQckqCCznqMgkREfZwtUEVAFeDMa5KexffLrRPXNp9ov9Tlepd0eidK6dcG0xZ2LrlXGqGd0REVRrn1Ohzv99fxVeA1_f_V8P0fkO0suyn9fnij6V1tWcOUNUoduGzzW26iJtklHrwJAhoutNhPg/s320/Mom%20at%20door%20small.png" width="222" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: inherit;">She fell in her apartment a few days before she died, and told my brother, “I think I need to go to the hospital.” I don’t really think any of us knew this was the beginning of the end, but I let my three grown children know, so they could visit. And they did. Bless them. And I know Mom enjoyed seeing them. They loved her. Her door was always open to them. It’s funny, they have so many DIFFERENT memories of her than I do. They all seem to have this lasting memory of the view over Wyoming Valley (northeast Pennsylvania) from my parents’ home on the mountain. </span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">Over the course of the next few days, she slowly got worse. Pain needed morphine; lungs needed oxygen. The afternoon she died, I had only been at her hospital bedside for about an hour when she started to slip away from us. My brother Tim was also there, along with my adult son Chris, and oldest daughter Juli with her new boyfriend. Wondered if this was their first date. I told him this was trial by fire for their relationship. My second oldest daughter, Collette, had been at her bedside for days prior to Mom’s demise. Her last remembrance of her grammy was when grammy was still alive. The next day my Mom was gone. Although I’m glad I was there for my Mom’s last conscious moments, I’m not sure which is easier to handle – being there or not, for that last breath.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>Passing Away</b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">When people say someone “passed away,” I always thought this was a lame and silly way of softening the blow. As Indian writer Sadhguru says, “Children are taught never to utter the word [death] at home, unless the God of Death chooses to visit, while the adults are on a quest to invent overly woke euphemisms that try to mask the bluntness of the event…” (Death – An Inside Story, Penguin, 2020).</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">I was surprised, however, to witness my Mom’s “passing.” That is truly how she seemed to leave us. Over the course of an hour, systems slowly shut down, pulse ox dropped (she was on cardiac monitoring), heart rate slowed, pressure dropped to essentially nothing. It was as if the curtains were slowly being drawn closed. Now I understand the gravestone symbolism of the stone-carved curtains being drawn. </span></p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtzuOpxSsR7-Y9i8kD6kfsPSjb1BeYGuf9BCS1HKC80An9h6QfGwUvMiZwlaAQJKpJj5vRso9EDBhqRrREITLylwc0pOHlDYxTNPE8BlWnTXHDo3StXklFLZMahrPJgYaQTIeS_rYWXIpgVRqcSwm-EnO5T1qqBZHnmJBDEpOJP4s_RZosOYD1aLMnMfg/s840/Price%20small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="630" data-original-width="840" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtzuOpxSsR7-Y9i8kD6kfsPSjb1BeYGuf9BCS1HKC80An9h6QfGwUvMiZwlaAQJKpJj5vRso9EDBhqRrREITLylwc0pOHlDYxTNPE8BlWnTXHDo3StXklFLZMahrPJgYaQTIeS_rYWXIpgVRqcSwm-EnO5T1qqBZHnmJBDEpOJP4s_RZosOYD1aLMnMfg/w400-h300/Price%20small.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: inherit;">Did my twenty years’ worth of cemetery photography prepare me in any way for this? It did. I guess it made the inevitable seem more likely. Also made me realize that I’ve only got twenty years before I reach my Mom’s age. But I suppose that just as my Mom will continue to live on through all the people who knew her, I’ll live on in the memories, habits, and behaviors of people I know. </span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">My Mom liked my daughter Olivia’s fencing demonstration the last time we visited, and I only wish she could’ve heard and seen Olivia play the piano. I wish she could’ve seen rock star Chris on stage. I wish she could’ve seen Juli painting in her studio. I wish she could’ve joined me and Collette at the punk rock flea market. But she continues to live on in all of us.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">All my children enjoy music, and my Mom did too. She was a big Tony Bennett fan, and I guess his death recently (July 21, 2023) is what finally prompted me to begin writing this. She and my Dad (also deceased) saw Bennett perform in the early 1960s at the Steel Pier in Atlantic City. Kind of glad she wasn’t around to see him go. He was a testament to longevity to her. </span></p><p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgqbcvVridOgEzyTLYb-zLJXdmpSF1mHymt9qRze8cdnOtcEXwP7k9Mbysdc0eDyD6JMfy4ShLqrWsIC9ZflvDS-8cEUTcfeYdGCWFWp-xfCo9NoCztaCncvxO1g5Ab563_9mE487dCbraRT25HToHL7lz0RSv5naa83vZTQGDLIryNZsstLr7lix9eGs/s840/Forget%20me%20nots%20small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="630" data-original-width="840" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgqbcvVridOgEzyTLYb-zLJXdmpSF1mHymt9qRze8cdnOtcEXwP7k9Mbysdc0eDyD6JMfy4ShLqrWsIC9ZflvDS-8cEUTcfeYdGCWFWp-xfCo9NoCztaCncvxO1g5Ab563_9mE487dCbraRT25HToHL7lz0RSv5naa83vZTQGDLIryNZsstLr7lix9eGs/w400-h300/Forget%20me%20nots%20small.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Mom's last uneaten meal, with some forget-me-nots we sent her for Mother's Day.</span></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">I wish I got to play, “Hang Down Your Head, Tom Dooley,” for her on my guitar. If we had held a memorial service or funeral for her, this is the story I probably would have told. “Dooley” was one of the songs I practiced when I took guitar lessons when I was about thirteen. I wanted to play the guitar, but, it seems I didn’t necessarily want to LEARN how to play the guitar. The rare times I would practice at home I would plink out “Dooley” and my Dad would make fun of me. He would say, “Can you do anything other than go, ‘plink, plink, plink?’” I never progressed while taking those lessons. I chalk it up to a bad teacher and a cheap guitar. Mom and Dad loved that song, but I never got good enough to play it. Now that I </span><u style="font-family: inherit;">am</u><span style="font-family: inherit;"> good enough to play it (only took fifty years), I never did play it for my Mom.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">Anyway - and this was back in maybe 1970 - she got fed up with my not wanting to practice one day and smashed the guitar over my head! Luckily, it was a cheap wooden acoustic, not a solid-body electric! To this day …. Or rather, to the day she died, she blocked out that episode of our relationship, said she really didn’t remember it. Ah, good times …</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">My interest in guitar playing resumed a couple years later as I witnessed my older cousin Jerry power chording his Les Paul through Creedence and Rolling Stones tunes. Mom went ahead and bought me a cheap electric with an amp and away I went. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">So here’s the punch line of the story. Mom hated snakes. She went to someone’s house after answering an ad in the “Country Impressions” newspaper to buy me a cheap electric guitar and amp. Legend has it that as she was paying the woman for the equipment, the woman asked her point blank if she was afraid of snakes. My mother probably paled and said “yyyyessss….?” The woman then said “Well, don’t turn around then. Just walk out this door and I’ll bring the guitar.” My mother, of course, whips around to see a giant snake stretched out on the sofa behind her! Mom took the storm door off its hinges as she threw herself outside to safety! But she came home with the guitar and amp for me. That’s what mothers do.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJygjhfcv4qvnBXbGDPenO89CY0y-dbTJacTOBUEQPzccm5APZtB99-OV8pnMqc_P3wqHw9ZmuYldNi1uEeO8A1g02ObswOTqwsv_fOSpMKQvOgKM7TEgrNrhCKq4-rUBAV3jRzNn3x0la9prl1Nsk5SU6IH5b2M5IByKy5Y1e6yCMJNdCk5qLxznjnLg/s840/Moth%20stone%20vert%20small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="621" data-original-width="840" height="296" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJygjhfcv4qvnBXbGDPenO89CY0y-dbTJacTOBUEQPzccm5APZtB99-OV8pnMqc_P3wqHw9ZmuYldNi1uEeO8A1g02ObswOTqwsv_fOSpMKQvOgKM7TEgrNrhCKq4-rUBAV3jRzNn3x0la9prl1Nsk5SU6IH5b2M5IByKy5Y1e6yCMJNdCk5qLxznjnLg/w400-h296/Moth%20stone%20vert%20small.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />I appreciate all the condolences that people sent. So many heartfelt ones. I’d like to include some of them here, but I can’t really bear to look at them again. Death of a family member can bring out the best in people – and sometimes the worst. One of the most wonderful things that happened was when my childhood friend George called me to talk. We “came up” together, as is current parlance. He told me that my Mom was like a mother to him. Then he changed that and said, no she wasn’t “like a mother, she WAS my second mother!” George’s Mom (also deceased) made me feel as at home at their house as my Mom made George feel at home at our house. He said he would often have two dinners, one at my house and one when he returned to his own house. Pork chops, Shake ‘n’ Bake chicken. My mother fed people.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">My brother, bless him, took care of our Mom for years and sorted through so much afterward – clearing out her apartment, notifying Social Security et. al. of her passing, picking up Mom’s ashes from the funeral home, speaking with friends and relatives about Mom’s death. I am so grateful that he did all that.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">As for a legacy of sorts, my Mom wrote down in a spiral notebook things she wanted my thirteen-year-old daughter Olivia to read after Mom was gone. My Mom told me a few years ago that she was doing this, and would tell me things she was writing. As difficult as it was to talk to her about this at times, I’m so glad she did it. Olivia is the youngest of my children and therefore knew her grandma the least. I have the notebook, and while not confidential, I still can’t bear to open it. At some point, I’ll give it to Olivia. No doubt its written in cursive. My Mom was so thrilled that Olivia taught herself to write in cursive, even though it was no longer taught in school.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUDntvqzXAcwJauG52cLfw-CF9Jy3dJQ79VyCkXJiZjKNL4o9tKGmGdPsTEcwqTHBifbgwVFTn-edcpl1yugBHAeDqSRoUz7rYpXSfBsn9T5H-U_LJ5kkQxz9R0y6gWPQRA2yRrXADxdtabAUoMBzpnktHXxitwidup2gkrxd49actq9ufWCE7EeYerrg/s840/Rest%20small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="562" data-original-width="840" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUDntvqzXAcwJauG52cLfw-CF9Jy3dJQ79VyCkXJiZjKNL4o9tKGmGdPsTEcwqTHBifbgwVFTn-edcpl1yugBHAeDqSRoUz7rYpXSfBsn9T5H-U_LJ5kkQxz9R0y6gWPQRA2yRrXADxdtabAUoMBzpnktHXxitwidup2gkrxd49actq9ufWCE7EeYerrg/w400-h268/Rest%20small.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">Mom was in severe pain for the last two years of her life. It’s really horrible that medical science couldn’t relieve her pain. I guess that's partly because medicine isn't all science - its mostly an art. You're lucky to get a good doctor. As Pulitzer Prize finalist Percival Everett says in his novel, “Dr. No,” “I was reminded that what we see is really all we know; everything else is induction, deduction, or simply guesswork.”</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxXbOAZ4nix1i87jjm7lnD7M94eKE1xyRIp2ywfAVHBlLW4cs1WbJJtvnREc2e3OVcHBOOWlb836nEp-Mng9Ephjt323dPMBsDZ_vhZ7Cz-8LhNtld12XeI6Wf-kR5LgEc9jpHD_sqtqvp6lcDs8nFKIindXUnTPAftBqVqbn_ujvUXETRT4rSaW10e0M/s4032/Tinned%20fish%20small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2481" data-original-width="4032" height="246" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxXbOAZ4nix1i87jjm7lnD7M94eKE1xyRIp2ywfAVHBlLW4cs1WbJJtvnREc2e3OVcHBOOWlb836nEp-Mng9Ephjt323dPMBsDZ_vhZ7Cz-8LhNtld12XeI6Wf-kR5LgEc9jpHD_sqtqvp6lcDs8nFKIindXUnTPAftBqVqbn_ujvUXETRT4rSaW10e0M/w400-h246/Tinned%20fish%20small.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">On the way back to Philadelphia the day she died, my son Chris and I stopped at a turnpike rest stop and I pulled up alongside a car that ironically had this placard on the side. My Mom loved all kinds of fish in cans - sardines, herring, whatever other fish they tin. I posted this photo with the caption below on Facebook the day she died. May 14. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">“This is for my mom. For those of you who knew her, you may have known that she liked tinned fish. Sardines and stuff like that. I used to joke with her all the time about how gross I thought that was. My mom died today at 2 PM. Mom, wherever you are, I hope there’s a lot less pain and a lot more tinned fish. Love you.”</span></p><div><br /></div>StoneAngels: The Cemetery Travelerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02776945637111478231noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9091026817968807873.post-70945490800931716902023-06-11T06:40:00.000-07:002023-06-11T06:42:54.435-07:00 The Face of Pride and the Grave of Divine<p><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixutq8OWcta-xMXKtlFKiKrMDlADGi1DdAH-3MsOZEBX0zRVQGvu0aezUOJfE63i5Y6Xnpp3kJgCcLOO1fBZMwhK7L81utSXvv1aZir-J9RqTaeXWEpM_JfViqY3GMzJMQeuFylSFqGGV_e4aItrwedDGsMie3w90o0aTrxKFZ1vstaE0gV2t05oFU/s939/New%20Yorker%20small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="939" data-original-width="750" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixutq8OWcta-xMXKtlFKiKrMDlADGi1DdAH-3MsOZEBX0zRVQGvu0aezUOJfE63i5Y6Xnpp3kJgCcLOO1fBZMwhK7L81utSXvv1aZir-J9RqTaeXWEpM_JfViqY3GMzJMQeuFylSFqGGV_e4aItrwedDGsMie3w90o0aTrxKFZ1vstaE0gV2t05oFU/s320/New%20Yorker%20small.jpg" width="256" /></a></div>Its Pride Month as I write this, June, 2023 – the celebration of lesbian, gay, bisexual, and transgender (LGBTQ +) rights and culture. In honor of this, The New Yorker Magazine (June 12, 2023 issue) has this artwork on its front cover, entitled, “The Look of Pride,” a self-portrait by the artist Sasha Velour. Now, I don’t know if this is supposed to be an updated homage to drag queen Divine, but that’s immediately who I thought of when I found the mag in my mail slot the other day. I’m also using this cover shot as my lead photo since I can’t find any public domain images of film legend Divine! (Maybe if John Waters reads this he can send me a link to one...?)<p></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">At the end of April, 2023, I drove from Philly to the Baltimore area to attend the spring meeting of the Pennsylvania Chapter of the Association for Gravestone Studies. The meeting was held a bit north of Baltimore, in York, PA, at the Penn State Campus. The connection to Baltimore was a planned group trip after the morning presentations, to Druid Ridge Cemetery, which is on the northwest outskirts of Baltimore (Pikesville, MD). But this story is about the cemetery I stopped at on the way to York, a prequel.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>When in Baltimore … </b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">I searched the internet for cemeteries to visit on the drive to York. I thought about taking I95 south to Havre de Grace, then heading northwest to York on the smaller roads there were some small graveyards to check out. Another option was to take I95 south to the Baltimore Beltway, head west to 83 north and up to York. A longer route, but probably more direct. Getting lost I can handle, but wasting time annoys me. So I checked on available cemeteries along the latter route. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">As I looked for cemeteries I’d never visited, I came across one called Prospect Hill Cemetery, near the intersection of 83 and the Beltway. I don’t usually go star hunting before a visit to any cemetery (I find that I miss out on more that way, lol!), i.e., to see if there are any notable people buried within. However, many of the links I followed for Prospect Hill Cemetery came up with the same, one notable burial there – Divine!</span></p><p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8DlQ5hjEgcSQOJYleusLmW38ilmx4-QbZYz9ZFGBqmvpryNT2gfK-9qv7amK0u3JlEzw-QR5abvPHQgdwwWYttSXJVbOmRkS9WemJg8gePgMHpEDS5RAEg2t1vBLdv5zhYsdHegeC6EoWgv5woMS5SlbhAi7lmRNmuwG4U_ir3jTUuzWSudvLq9SV/s853/Cover%20small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="853" data-original-width="600" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8DlQ5hjEgcSQOJYleusLmW38ilmx4-QbZYz9ZFGBqmvpryNT2gfK-9qv7amK0u3JlEzw-QR5abvPHQgdwwWYttSXJVbOmRkS9WemJg8gePgMHpEDS5RAEg2t1vBLdv5zhYsdHegeC6EoWgv5woMS5SlbhAi7lmRNmuwG4U_ir3jTUuzWSudvLq9SV/s320/Cover%20small.jpg" width="225" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Divine in center</span></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: inherit;">Yes! Divine, star of several John Waters films - you know, she played Tracy Turnblad’s mother Edna in “Hairspray.” Or maybe you don’t know. Divine is probably the world’s best known drag queen (my thirteen-year-old daughter believes that to be Ru Paul – but she’s wrong). So that sealed it for me – take I95 to the Beltway, get off at the Towson, Maryland exit and hit Divine’s grave. Or should I say the grave of Harris Glenn Milstead.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>“Waters and I were not heading to a beach. Instead, we were going to Prospect Hill cemetery, where his longtime friend and early star of his films, Divine, is buried. Divine, aka Harris Glenn Milstead, a larger-than-life drag queen, died from a heart attack at the age of 42 in 1988, just a week after the premiere of Waters’s film Hairspray. Prospect Hill is also where Waters himself has a plot, as does his friend (and actor in many of his films) Mink Stole. “We call it Disgraceland,”….</i>” </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://www.theguardian.com/film/2014/oct/12/john-waters-on-hitchhiking-across-the-us">https://www.theguardian.com/film/2014/oct/12/john-waters-on-hitchhiking-across-the-us</a></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIo5iPM13QR5em6rsp4isv9CfZ_XHQhPdD0HXOQRK5IopnKrH1ECZOhbZG06PA5y3tws-Q4E645ycqVlIm7yEssibDQt0AxuPlZ36yTJIyGSNSxjIO8c65R1H_RKUVaBbPqWOO8DR8Cs2sip0cJMyzOlne0NahIo-T-c_nkCRaTJ83BcfffMDJ0A5t/s1918/Sign%20straight%20small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1372" data-original-width="1918" height="286" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIo5iPM13QR5em6rsp4isv9CfZ_XHQhPdD0HXOQRK5IopnKrH1ECZOhbZG06PA5y3tws-Q4E645ycqVlIm7yEssibDQt0AxuPlZ36yTJIyGSNSxjIO8c65R1H_RKUVaBbPqWOO8DR8Cs2sip0cJMyzOlne0NahIo-T-c_nkCRaTJ83BcfffMDJ0A5t/w400-h286/Sign%20straight%20small.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">Several things on the internet intrigued me about the star’s grave, like the article from The Guardian quoted above. One item said that it is easy to find – in the lower area, with all the flowers and other decorations that fans leave. Prospect Hill is a relatively small cemetery and his grave would be the ONLY one adorned with visitors’ chalk-written messages on the stone. Another site showed photos of a sign the cemetery had placed, asking visitor’s to Divine’s grave to be respectful. I’ve visited a lot of cemeteries over the past two decades, and I do not recall EVER seeing a sign like this calling attention to a specific grave. Here’s what the sign says:</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>“Fans of Harris Glenn Milstead (“Divine”) are welcome in Prospect Hill Cemetery, but please be respectful of the impact of your visit on families who have loved ones buried nearby. <u>Writing on or defacing a gravestone is illegal under Maryland law.</u> Items left will be removed at the cemetery’s discretion. By all means, pay your respects to an iconic performer, but help preserve the dignity of this burial ground.”</i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">So what sort of “items” might one find at Divine’s grave? The imagination wanders. Apparently, visitors leave “appropriate” mementos, which, if you’ve seen any of Waters’ films, these could be …. well, let’s let Mr. Waters explain:</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">According to a <a href="http://Baltimorefishbowl.com">Baltimorefishbowl.com</a> article from 2021:</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>“Divine’s grave is on the cemetery’s lower level, next to his parents’ grave. Waters’ lot is across a private road from Divine’s and slightly up a hill but still close by.</i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>Waters has suggested that getting buried near Divine will make it convenient for their fans: One-stop grieving. </i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>He acknowledges that Divine’s admirers can be “a little misguided” in the way they sometimes behave at the cemetery.</i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>“People do leave crazy stuff,” he said in a talk organized by Literati Bookstore in Michigan. “I said to the graveyard: Wait ‘til I get there.”</i> </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">- <a href="https://baltimorefishbowl.com/stories/divines-gravestone-gets-a-restoration-and-cemetery-warns-fans-please-be-respectful-of-others/">https://baltimorefishbowl.com/stories/divines-gravestone-gets-a-restoration-and-cemetery-warns-fans-please-be-respectful-of-others/</a></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>Raining in Disgraceland</b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">When I arrived in the vicinity of the cemetery, I was surprised to see that it was in a densely congested retail area, with the cemetery hidden on a hill overlooking the stores on Dulaney Valley Road. It was easy enough finding the cemetery entrance with Google Maps on my smartphone. Prospect Hill is an elegant yet relatively small spot – it would take you two minutes to drive through it. The single one-way paved road snakes through the upper level, then down through the lower one, and out the exit. Its been here since 1893 and there are many old gravemarkers among the new ones. The brightly-blooming azaleas presented a rather cheery accent to this heavily wooded setting in the light rain. </span></p><p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSBPjmeCjtMo0rfcIHuDiyCL2jpRrPxJ3EiLnxpsuzgppujnKrr8ohEvM4e33FGG-nvq8TDXXeZ450XaRn08WAHP8R4onFTpKSmLwpV15b-A_GKdobehWvty1pTO5MIm6F2bPGozlDuUC8vAeqxCEsHjLZT7wpfqu_eTBSzl0i9prgY-cKt7z0KapD/s800/Rear%20view%20small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSBPjmeCjtMo0rfcIHuDiyCL2jpRrPxJ3EiLnxpsuzgppujnKrr8ohEvM4e33FGG-nvq8TDXXeZ450XaRn08WAHP8R4onFTpKSmLwpV15b-A_GKdobehWvty1pTO5MIm6F2bPGozlDuUC8vAeqxCEsHjLZT7wpfqu_eTBSzl0i9prgY-cKt7z0KapD/w400-h300/Rear%20view%20small.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rear view of Divine's gravemarker</td></tr></tbody></table></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMGFWCEuAYWLXe74lc_4ZGhJ_O0neeLC_JVxjpoP93K9j2i-6Qb-popv0a8_wCjhgxvdWgtYk8gGG9kdl0xfMlR1PwVBUzEGYJW5gtSLhDsLDvRBcvgroiQ2ITeVYC31wCKGNSLX8FBUqDd-pvnJ6te0KTGkWttEX4RgfLE84OnL_jhIHZ0R0bGOOO/s854/IMG_8981_crop_small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="854" data-original-width="600" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMGFWCEuAYWLXe74lc_4ZGhJ_O0neeLC_JVxjpoP93K9j2i-6Qb-popv0a8_wCjhgxvdWgtYk8gGG9kdl0xfMlR1PwVBUzEGYJW5gtSLhDsLDvRBcvgroiQ2ITeVYC31wCKGNSLX8FBUqDd-pvnJ6te0KTGkWttEX4RgfLE84OnL_jhIHZ0R0bGOOO/s320/IMG_8981_crop_small.jpg" width="225" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: inherit;">I wasn’t seeing any gaudily decorated stones as I drove through the lower level, so I checked Google Maps for “Divine’s Grave.” Sometimes this works. And it did. Just over there on the right, about fifty feet away. I pulled over, parked, and approached what thought must be Divine's grave - there appeared to be a small sign and some things around the stone. The light rain stayed mercifully light during my visit. </span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">Turned out to be the one. Divine's stone did have some small decorations around it - some plastic flowers and, of course, pink flamingoes - tastefully situated around the base. The grounds were quiet, no one else there.</span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfbr263xYlbIEWUl7NURosbDYvWCK3cX5nzKZI844lGjUCcJ1C8k-Ddk9YXBX4wkmCnf9xc09C_XSy1QW1HI0eiCMkvfHAioY1_HMp7yrbkJXX3ULHtnqSbgk1albQ34DR-WPaztWKRqYy9o8t_MikAPswRtc-v6Y4lEJxhIlvEdlDAMWAkPI8D9Oz/s800/Turd%20small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfbr263xYlbIEWUl7NURosbDYvWCK3cX5nzKZI844lGjUCcJ1C8k-Ddk9YXBX4wkmCnf9xc09C_XSy1QW1HI0eiCMkvfHAioY1_HMp7yrbkJXX3ULHtnqSbgk1albQ34DR-WPaztWKRqYy9o8t_MikAPswRtc-v6Y4lEJxhIlvEdlDAMWAkPI8D9Oz/s320/Turd%20small.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Plastic dog poo at base of Divine's grave stone</td></tr></tbody></table><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">So what else did I find at Divine’s grave? Nothing terribly outlandish. I mean, you WOULD expect to find a ring of brown plastic dog poo, right? And I did. Everything’s relative. If I have to explain, I’d rather just direct you to watch the movie, “Pink Flamingos.” And as Mr. Waters has stated during the wonderful Q & A section in his standup live performances, “In answer to everyone’s first question, ‘yes,’ Divine really did that.” Yet another reason why Divine’s legend will live on. </span></p><p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxp4zuPlUS6fo8tugoqoXqUiJ1eTUwfDjCon6TeDEaGFl9tWjGBD1T3OFbboKHWJkJuv0N-Np0MGOnP-fFzotLhCQTCGzBZ29kSQvwNF5FjE46M16UeCNuwMEcvcwXwmbX69J6ch9pltzqzxrMk6lR19euQicj2ggMkqWpZUEZby6WZ6xHnq728dnD/s1848/Grave%20site%20edit%20horiz%20small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1070" data-original-width="1848" height="231" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxp4zuPlUS6fo8tugoqoXqUiJ1eTUwfDjCon6TeDEaGFl9tWjGBD1T3OFbboKHWJkJuv0N-Np0MGOnP-fFzotLhCQTCGzBZ29kSQvwNF5FjE46M16UeCNuwMEcvcwXwmbX69J6ch9pltzqzxrMk6lR19euQicj2ggMkqWpZUEZby6WZ6xHnq728dnD/w400-h231/Grave%20site%20edit%20horiz%20small.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: inherit;">There were three plastic pink flamingos in front of the stone – one of which had it’s butt cut off and stuffed with Styrofoam to accommodate a makeshift makeup kit. There were beads and coins, and some worn chalk messages on the face of the stone. Some crystals, some earrings. </span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiI2qOsulGj9vOKbV2yxoHqCP57KLVdgGpva_m9bcMY17s1tGnsQ1nBzt1RxzHwBoMe5v2GxAm9jZ1DDE0gKfyxXeuYwmu-8eYE1s4GA1xZMRHV_W3oXBU4QIMiGg0XrbAvjYRSA6Rxv_pbDAoocABbBWIWCKVWyDgCXnYC_JVb1ECL1RDIsch1XTDy/s826/Flamingos%20small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="826" height="290" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiI2qOsulGj9vOKbV2yxoHqCP57KLVdgGpva_m9bcMY17s1tGnsQ1nBzt1RxzHwBoMe5v2GxAm9jZ1DDE0gKfyxXeuYwmu-8eYE1s4GA1xZMRHV_W3oXBU4QIMiGg0XrbAvjYRSA6Rxv_pbDAoocABbBWIWCKVWyDgCXnYC_JVb1ECL1RDIsch1XTDy/w400-h290/Flamingos%20small.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfPHRkkgpp4xSxDtEoThnp5hoEmxT9sNBLknBqFElPWOLLGm_3fZGICsYqi77ek6q7N6dqGI9zrzq8l3u-Rke4xquBBSx6HYPdVHqR_TqY_RFDqubT6Lx2QNMwcFADv5UnYDUvgtYNNQUueGgJVQmeLWiGMAsF1XBQ76ek-11iNnVGa1oBLRY0qiXR/s800/Turd%20vert%20small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="600" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfPHRkkgpp4xSxDtEoThnp5hoEmxT9sNBLknBqFElPWOLLGm_3fZGICsYqi77ek6q7N6dqGI9zrzq8l3u-Rke4xquBBSx6HYPdVHqR_TqY_RFDqubT6Lx2QNMwcFADv5UnYDUvgtYNNQUueGgJVQmeLWiGMAsF1XBQ76ek-11iNnVGa1oBLRY0qiXR/s320/Turd%20vert%20small.jpg" width="240" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: inherit;">The makeup kit was a rather clever memento to leave. Divine’s unique makeup is iconic (click here for examples <a href="https://divineofficial.com">https://divineofficial.com</a>), and I would think in some way influenced Sasha Velour’s artwork on the cover of the New Yorker. It is interesting to note that the John Waters movies Divine starred in – Pink Flamingos, Polyester, Female Trouble, Multiple Maniacs, Hairspray – were made in the 1970s and 80s, eras when flamboyantly made up drag queens were not quite as acceptable as they are today. (Oh, I am going to get SO much feedback for that last sentence!). But if you search the internet for photos of Divine, that face literally BEAMS with pride, does it not? The title of Velour’s self-portrait can just as well describe Divine’s countenance, “The Look of Pride.” So, hats off to Harris Glenn Milstead for taking such great risks and by doing so, becoming immortal.</span><p></p><p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3Y369BZXZQeSkTAJSQEw84e4b3qrcqeNyA7lgrY3VGzB5k8-AAyvaY30xccvG4ej0IXtKhKETf_3n_ZxEFVWftqE-PBGq1aa0ZuSPrAK7SF8_TX7qy78Eq7bJB1OskOknNWOPZk3qwRAhAQwIXOWsbBfUFYlNEwZHNBm_n2xXfL2_8JrjKnc9Oxlr/s800/Makeup%20small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3Y369BZXZQeSkTAJSQEw84e4b3qrcqeNyA7lgrY3VGzB5k8-AAyvaY30xccvG4ej0IXtKhKETf_3n_ZxEFVWftqE-PBGq1aa0ZuSPrAK7SF8_TX7qy78Eq7bJB1OskOknNWOPZk3qwRAhAQwIXOWsbBfUFYlNEwZHNBm_n2xXfL2_8JrjKnc9Oxlr/w400-h300/Makeup%20small.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Custom makeup kit at Divine's grave</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">I didn’t leave anything at Divine’s grave, but I did come away with a greater appreciation for Milstead’s art. I’ve long been a fan of John Waters and his work, but I hadn’t fully appreciated Divine’s role in all that. They both pushed boundaries that forced people to think differently about the world around them.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">After paying my respects, I took a walk up the hill, thinking I might see a stone engraved with the name, “Waters,” but saw no such thing. Maybe John bought the plot, but not yet the stone. Or the stone is there, but not yet engraved. I can’t imagine it will say, “America’s Filth Elder,” but, who knows? It may pay to visit around Christmas, if you’re in the area:</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>“Waters himself is a regular visitor to the grave site, especially around the holidays, when he and Baltimore casting agent Pat Moran annually carry in a decorated tree. "Divine was a Christmas fanatic," he explains.”</i> - <a href="https://www.baltimoresun.com/news/bs-xpm-2000-10-15-0010230265-story.html">https://www.baltimoresun.com/news/bs-xpm-2000-10-15-0010230265-story.html</a></span></p><div>And speaking of Christmas, I'll leave you with this item. As I was searching the internet for public domain images of Divine, this is what immediately popped up on my computer screen:</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgn1sGL7D0hLVXjbS3558sYP-xeFH2X3lBVl95tNUkhTzoXaXRmI6am-84LQy_wUqBaIU02Ft5AVJsadaxXk_weQhszkGsNB86bv0obHSpQ_A7JPAPRicIeDcx563zLpRNP50rHLMAAflvoG1z7f3xLnStXdtyuzO0xHVCp8vpjHZzcBgsPw88GcEzL/s919/Divine%20snip%20(1)_small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="866" data-original-width="919" height="378" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgn1sGL7D0hLVXjbS3558sYP-xeFH2X3lBVl95tNUkhTzoXaXRmI6am-84LQy_wUqBaIU02Ft5AVJsadaxXk_weQhszkGsNB86bv0obHSpQ_A7JPAPRicIeDcx563zLpRNP50rHLMAAflvoG1z7f3xLnStXdtyuzO0xHVCp8vpjHZzcBgsPw88GcEzL/w400-h378/Divine%20snip%20(1)_small.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div>StoneAngels: The Cemetery Travelerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02776945637111478231noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9091026817968807873.post-86485761970646737632023-04-26T14:52:00.001-07:002023-04-26T14:54:42.263-07:00Death's Head and Soul Effigies in the Graveyard, West Orange, NJ<p><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpzpBKPMmIXpR6GUUAIft34H8WzGMBe4Jv6-7-kDxCOqknFBlQKlpw5g5N--KbZuBHARIQkK7P1kJP1sQj0FeklUYQuLvTBTHJNu2mvc0nx68nRSi1WoeS_eMRX5mMSdmsCz1bKeP8Fk81rce_zFPOgNGofEgZrv-o6Bh5Gwi0mcmP9ykVFgoiNrl5/s840/Moonface%20small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="630" data-original-width="840" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpzpBKPMmIXpR6GUUAIft34H8WzGMBe4Jv6-7-kDxCOqknFBlQKlpw5g5N--KbZuBHARIQkK7P1kJP1sQj0FeklUYQuLvTBTHJNu2mvc0nx68nRSi1WoeS_eMRX5mMSdmsCz1bKeP8Fk81rce_zFPOgNGofEgZrv-o6Bh5Gwi0mcmP9ykVFgoiNrl5/w400-h300/Moonface%20small.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />I mapped out my pre-meeting destination a few days before my trip to north Jersey – the West Orange Presbyterian Church. Why? If I got to the Newark area a couple hours before our group meetup time (11 a.m.), I can fit in a visit to this place and photograph some of the death’s head and angel head gravestones not commonly found in the Philadelphia area.<p></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVtW02jlY8u00v5pgYVPnLfJnNCyQGZtPtV1s8fG_B-Wp5TQr4PjKnU19bypqgzeTjc3ulp0WGThBJ738u7qZJuTODpWEgJwjlVMgsiO4k8bjknDS1GKL6agsley5wBJJjIJLGfCooST_VXGIqqBvhb7D7W4xbrg2TOHhHixa_vY7klgCl2OmWsM2j/s840/Church%20small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="840" data-original-width="630" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVtW02jlY8u00v5pgYVPnLfJnNCyQGZtPtV1s8fG_B-Wp5TQr4PjKnU19bypqgzeTjc3ulp0WGThBJ738u7qZJuTODpWEgJwjlVMgsiO4k8bjknDS1GKL6agsley5wBJJjIJLGfCooST_VXGIqqBvhb7D7W4xbrg2TOHhHixa_vY7klgCl2OmWsM2j/s320/Church%20small.jpg" width="240" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: inherit;">The morning of my trip from Philadelphia to the Oranges (near Newark, NJ) was rather busy. This was a Sunday morning at the beginning of April, 2023. I drove my wife and daughter to the airport at 3:30 am, as they needed to catch a 6:30 am flight to Miami. The airline demanded a three-hour arrival time because of the near-tornado situation that occurred the night before. After dropping them off, I came home and packed my photo gear for the trip north (about a 2-hour drive). I figured if I got there early, I would just explore one or two other nearby cemeteries.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">After I packed the SUV and started to drive out of my neighborhood, the “Low Air in Tire” light came on my dashboard. A nuisance that crops up once every six months or so. In BMW’s wisdom, they don’t actually tell you which tire is low, so you have to check them all. Sigh. So I drove a mile to my local air pump station at the car wash in South Philly, checked the tires, found out the driver’s side rear tire was low. Filled it up and hit the highway. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">Our meetup group of cemetery photographers planned to begin the day in Holy Sepulchre Cemetery, in East Orange, then close the day down the road at Fairmount Cemetery. My early solo trip would be a prequel. On the way up the Jersey turnpike, I decided on which of two nearby cemeteries I’d visit first – the 18th century churchyard of the Presbyterian Church in West Orange, and then, if time permitted, Mount Pleasant Cemetery in East Orange.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEim9Dx3Zh7nHQhjmhF6juZApBXj__oAy4k5C8FkSAVbn8Xssn7mlsLq15NLiziRDoMPDL3oVltOBaeYw3bD2tL1N9OHuFhLnQ89emjD5vDPFxhoy8rJmTGKbB_VcLB0WScmlcdmAkYttGvJEzGE-1u0EXjw7BX65C0jYd524ln2g4jdgJVdS0oHQyJU/s720/Deceased%20small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="395" data-original-width="720" height="220" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEim9Dx3Zh7nHQhjmhF6juZApBXj__oAy4k5C8FkSAVbn8Xssn7mlsLq15NLiziRDoMPDL3oVltOBaeYw3bD2tL1N9OHuFhLnQ89emjD5vDPFxhoy8rJmTGKbB_VcLB0WScmlcdmAkYttGvJEzGE-1u0EXjw7BX65C0jYd524ln2g4jdgJVdS0oHQyJU/w400-h220/Deceased%20small.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-family: inherit;">I found the church and graveyard without much difficulty, arriving about 8 a.m. Sunny, but chilly – maybe 40 degrees. My friend Phil told me this burial ground had a lot of “soul effigy” headstones, which I was eager to see. He believes it has the largest number of existing stones carved in this style by Newark’s Uzal Ward and his several imitators.</span><p></p><p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgA6LNVQiKhLVg4djL5tJCyWQGP63ogCVF2ojN7TF1vQvg7FszDOyHfTXarPhAgDHeWjZDkoiYygJCVKLQ4gjieUEADtjTRbIUuZhDVfqJx6mgstabnPbI7cY0gu9gLWa1gKj9k02YXOwahLEMEhKwi-gwdxvv0W75HnCSH7M6iaknP_1tW0q8pXo0t/s720/Twin%20Stones%20small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="502" data-original-width="720" height="279" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgA6LNVQiKhLVg4djL5tJCyWQGP63ogCVF2ojN7TF1vQvg7FszDOyHfTXarPhAgDHeWjZDkoiYygJCVKLQ4gjieUEADtjTRbIUuZhDVfqJx6mgstabnPbI7cY0gu9gLWa1gKj9k02YXOwahLEMEhKwi-gwdxvv0W75HnCSH7M6iaknP_1tW0q8pXo0t/w400-h279/Twin%20Stones%20small.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Soul effigy stones</td></tr></tbody></table></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ0spfebvH_GImUUnOmJOiEp87G0lYbhm7506h7M-21lZbWm0-2YNYQsBEGXWcXj_YDYZH_UgHyPPGIpqonhJO3yyOEr4j1Ck8Jc3gQcxVZbD6sTRCMahMBVri74GSDUWJ9-k_kIduleThK_okuc0C4fRq2fYHjAb5VQoRA_iYGxsZCHp8De3I7grI/s720/Marble%20small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="540" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ0spfebvH_GImUUnOmJOiEp87G0lYbhm7506h7M-21lZbWm0-2YNYQsBEGXWcXj_YDYZH_UgHyPPGIpqonhJO3yyOEr4j1Ck8Jc3gQcxVZbD6sTRCMahMBVri74GSDUWJ9-k_kIduleThK_okuc0C4fRq2fYHjAb5VQoRA_iYGxsZCHp8De3I7grI/s320/Marble%20small.jpg" width="240" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: inherit;">Although there are some marble grave markers scattered along the front and sides of the church, the vast majority (literally hundreds) of markers here are of the brownish-red sandstone variety, commonly found from central New Jersey north throughout New England. Most are adorned with either the winged death’s head skull, or the angel head with wings. Inscribed death dates range from the early 1700s to the early 1800s. </span><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhk56pimRsiIfEp-1hHFX5jarNTcNo9CFRnZrjSQfLuGvRZsyVMjaYQMQrXO9bKrI7heqPZrFc6Jx48ZR1s7o45viy93tx-sw5_I2sfev12wt4CQCjQwpRpWaHMH1CfJ5ofoM_U6ekhYdIgTFXldww2Bd2M4IkIjAg7jb_gLTHKwmy-yjmcJWviq9iL/s720/Willow%20small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="540" data-original-width="720" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhk56pimRsiIfEp-1hHFX5jarNTcNo9CFRnZrjSQfLuGvRZsyVMjaYQMQrXO9bKrI7heqPZrFc6Jx48ZR1s7o45viy93tx-sw5_I2sfev12wt4CQCjQwpRpWaHMH1CfJ5ofoM_U6ekhYdIgTFXldww2Bd2M4IkIjAg7jb_gLTHKwmy-yjmcJWviq9iL/w400-h300/Willow%20small.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">According to the Atlas Preservation article (<a href="https://atlaspreservation.com/pages/american-gravestone-evolution-part-1">ref.</a>), <i>Gravestone Evolution in America From the First Settlers to the Early Victorian Era</i>, this locally quarried sandstone has <i>“a very fine grain, and was relatively high in silicates. It tends to weather minimally and … concise lettering on stones dating back to as early as the middle to late 1600s can be easily read today…. “</i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1GkG-o_h7qUSnRWxiuBWm1Qdu7stPwNTKVXf5JBO3TFdehoxNQXSEAVIf6MUy7MTBVOx7rYbmjeugsu7J15IA_OpdfkWP0H8LboR5qNU8xeTUSjShDwZiNOAQH9nKCMJPYKkbXPE82d6FTU7bBPq9VAHD59K2hWr7XUxRXNW0e1Rr13zvMDO2QiVi/s720/In%20Memory%20small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="493" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1GkG-o_h7qUSnRWxiuBWm1Qdu7stPwNTKVXf5JBO3TFdehoxNQXSEAVIf6MUy7MTBVOx7rYbmjeugsu7J15IA_OpdfkWP0H8LboR5qNU8xeTUSjShDwZiNOAQH9nKCMJPYKkbXPE82d6FTU7bBPq9VAHD59K2hWr7XUxRXNW0e1Rr13zvMDO2QiVi/s320/In%20Memory%20small.jpg" width="219" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: inherit;">This material is commonly known as “brownstone,” the slang term for sandstone that is brown in color. In the Atlas Preservation article, the author states that the reason sandstone was used was because <i>“Stones needed to be soft enough to split and carved with hand tools, but durable enough to resist erosion.”</i> It seems odd that it is so durable – you would think the “sands of time” would wear it down easily. The author accurately states, <i>“A historical graveyard, and all that goes into it, is a kind of ancient puzzle, that I hope will intrigue you as it does me.”</i> - </span><a href="https://atlaspreservation.com/pages/american-gravestone-evolution-part-1" style="font-family: inherit;">https://atlaspreservation.com/pages/american-gravestone-evolution-part-1</a><p></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVMZVCRT9UT1XsiixKczRySCEoDXYDLuWB2a-x88j8w4Xa-CoznJqROSNZxme_lTL0rkhq6K79RvoaKvKV817mwS7kjeWK-Q7230karspC8SBNBZI4ixh670yV8Ntua3W6GcKZNguKg7xdO2plwJUqToSjbH_-EZz66RRN43avo9RNPwULVz0uHIjG/s720/Full%20Skull%20stone%20small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="540" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVMZVCRT9UT1XsiixKczRySCEoDXYDLuWB2a-x88j8w4Xa-CoznJqROSNZxme_lTL0rkhq6K79RvoaKvKV817mwS7kjeWK-Q7230karspC8SBNBZI4ixh670yV8Ntua3W6GcKZNguKg7xdO2plwJUqToSjbH_-EZz66RRN43avo9RNPwULVz0uHIjG/s320/Full%20Skull%20stone%20small.jpg" width="240" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: inherit;">I’m no aesthete, but what I find most fascinating about these stones is the soul effigy carvings, as my friend Phil refers to them. He been sort of a death’s head divining rod for me lately – I really had no idea where to find them. Phil has explained to our Cemetery photography meetup group that such imagery is quite common in the old church graveyards of central and northern Jersey. </span><p></p><p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjVIyk7wOvXp76vqXLhvCxXb1fzEXDch9kcJ6i4mhalPRKqBsfRwm26HOAK5cRJBa2QPEzLyOT0nDPuBc0oH40M4iVR5Wze4a2ZETzT_MYPmXkxxrqaELmiSt_Xit17yJWxE12g5XJ7Q2K5uicfPwyrcHzhg3G2tGCgq1pmxEdpiQpt25EDR5Gw-jH/s720/Door%20small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="540" data-original-width="720" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjVIyk7wOvXp76vqXLhvCxXb1fzEXDch9kcJ6i4mhalPRKqBsfRwm26HOAK5cRJBa2QPEzLyOT0nDPuBc0oH40M4iVR5Wze4a2ZETzT_MYPmXkxxrqaELmiSt_Xit17yJWxE12g5XJ7Q2K5uicfPwyrcHzhg3G2tGCgq1pmxEdpiQpt25EDR5Gw-jH/w400-h300/Door%20small.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Side door of First Shiloh Baptist Church, West Orange</td></tr></tbody></table></p>This particular church, formerly Presbyterian, established in 1718, is now operated as the First Shiloh Baptist Church. The gargantuan brick and wooden structure has seen better days. It appears to be abandoned, but it is hard to say. Partially eaten food and canned goods rest near the entrances, trash surrounds the front grounds of the church, the woodwork is cracked and peeling. Although I saw no homeless people or vagrants in the area, it did appear to be a rest stop of sorts. <p></p><p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirW8A-pt0ySeFx9X7-NndN0VM07OS76uCOH-dASgJL0mkKLJTd91pWLI9CI1weUuQk0S4-2TCL9_QzNJKnm1USB6jhDh81o_z0I92zVU2vPjn-ewKoMGNslVoF_nKsPr5FOJZyxH-rkLSJNugUsFHvhVkTrvo8P6_-ZA067U9PFJ3h9N_arbgPzeA-/s780/Trash%20small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="585" data-original-width="780" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirW8A-pt0ySeFx9X7-NndN0VM07OS76uCOH-dASgJL0mkKLJTd91pWLI9CI1weUuQk0S4-2TCL9_QzNJKnm1USB6jhDh81o_z0I92zVU2vPjn-ewKoMGNslVoF_nKsPr5FOJZyxH-rkLSJNugUsFHvhVkTrvo8P6_-ZA067U9PFJ3h9N_arbgPzeA-/w400-h300/Trash%20small.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Food at the front door.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKCaCa4KzvvUXVe0pUTdLqik0dB6hBIB8OW0PhaUkBpwphUth_EYh6E0zwEVSox8K1_HziqYuoC7xuz9XvDxj5sE8_jVmgMxIX2Krzg3fg2dy_x5QnxMBMb7KfrfIzu-L9SykcgeVmz3Or5WATKoc7CCSByDpCx1OUwkRp8qPHXK7yuCVaLfRUOjFX/s720/Skull%20small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="540" data-original-width="720" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKCaCa4KzvvUXVe0pUTdLqik0dB6hBIB8OW0PhaUkBpwphUth_EYh6E0zwEVSox8K1_HziqYuoC7xuz9XvDxj5sE8_jVmgMxIX2Krzg3fg2dy_x5QnxMBMb7KfrfIzu-L9SykcgeVmz3Or5WATKoc7CCSByDpCx1OUwkRp8qPHXK7yuCVaLfRUOjFX/w400-h300/Skull%20small.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />Why such an equal mix of death’s head and angel head grave markers? Perhaps a hundred of each? I should have paid more attention to the death dates to see if they validated the following statement from Archeology.org:</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>“…the death's-head motif accompanied the harsh beliefs of orthodox Puritanism. Its replacement by the cherub reflected eighteenth century religious liberalization during the "Great Awakening," a period when some scholars believe orthodox Puritan views were being replaced by a more liberal perspective.”</i> - <a href="https://archive.archaeology.org/8309/etc/gravestones.html">https://archive.archaeology.org/8309/etc/gravestones.html</a></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4irJElBTILthSUouaazOypZPaj6MI6XuHFfu0pwFbFfG9bNfUIVXaULN3CW4O876jmZ7FWHkGQ9nSp_wIrveayAoCtJCRrCCobNWmhgAbocgMDlPvW-tnTx1N-TtMxxdPMlx7LmMt5x7fU73KxRvNN_7ZfSdB289Vl9UEEQbuE1Ewp1GelWNOJ8wq/s720/Stars%20small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="540" data-original-width="720" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4irJElBTILthSUouaazOypZPaj6MI6XuHFfu0pwFbFfG9bNfUIVXaULN3CW4O876jmZ7FWHkGQ9nSp_wIrveayAoCtJCRrCCobNWmhgAbocgMDlPvW-tnTx1N-TtMxxdPMlx7LmMt5x7fU73KxRvNN_7ZfSdB289Vl9UEEQbuE1Ewp1GelWNOJ8wq/w400-h300/Stars%20small.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit; text-align: left;">It would be interesting to see if the death’s head stones were generally older than the angel head ones. Maybe on my next trip - I guess that’s why they make tomorrows. </span></div><p></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>My Next Adventure</b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBG6jpvFRFckG4b2QcHfvxss7dwOoniQm0oOGUaNr7_LccWQLTdDiBbK8Szq5uXbNNJFbnBrFC_gCKQ9OA5djlbcYTJ51Hwg0gvR5uNRQGBG8B7fitaZMkvMKwZ9q27on8UtwOVYqimfKziI-7tU_l-pEVh2hxnscUsaKGpvTM3FzzYaqncgKEmVud/s720/Rider%20small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="540" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBG6jpvFRFckG4b2QcHfvxss7dwOoniQm0oOGUaNr7_LccWQLTdDiBbK8Szq5uXbNNJFbnBrFC_gCKQ9OA5djlbcYTJ51Hwg0gvR5uNRQGBG8B7fitaZMkvMKwZ9q27on8UtwOVYqimfKziI-7tU_l-pEVh2hxnscUsaKGpvTM3FzzYaqncgKEmVud/s320/Rider%20small.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Statue at First Shiloh</td></tr></tbody></table>My next adventure turned out not to be Mount Pleasant Cemetery. After walking the grounds and photographing the headstones at First Shiloh for an hour, I jumped into the car to warm up, find a coffee shop, then zoom off to Mt. Pleasant Cemetery (about five miles away). As soon as I started my car, that pesky “Low Air in Tire” light came on my dashboard again. Rats! Obviously, I’ve got a slow leak. Where to find a tire repair place?!</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjP74okY6opMmeHmNLc69etPXadcfUHKFuAbJqPXn8cVWSszWrE1fhoB_FTjO4tIGQ1eG4N2vIOMeHxX7yDkrGd8IrWMi7J0eYgf0WGIYJXIftuuPNSnv9H02H6Dd3HYOPd2tmlG2cHaoHV0oGv3iASdkfVC7PrGZV3UIfF5CXQ23Wmv-avPLJqojxo/s780/Vets%20Plaque%20small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="780" data-original-width="547" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjP74okY6opMmeHmNLc69etPXadcfUHKFuAbJqPXn8cVWSszWrE1fhoB_FTjO4tIGQ1eG4N2vIOMeHxX7yDkrGd8IrWMi7J0eYgf0WGIYJXIftuuPNSnv9H02H6Dd3HYOPd2tmlG2cHaoHV0oGv3iASdkfVC7PrGZV3UIfF5CXQ23Wmv-avPLJqojxo/w280-h400/Vets%20Plaque%20small.jpg" width="280" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />Luckily, it was only 9 a.m. and I was scheduled to meet up with my friends at 11 a.m. So I had two hours. With my usual sangfroid, I typed “Tire Repair Near Me” into Google Maps on my cellphone instead of my typical message, “Cemetery Near Me.” Most places were closed, Firestone, gas stations, etc. However, there was a Mavis Discount Tire that opened at 9 am about five miles in the direction opposite my preferred direction. Beggars can’t be choosers, so off I went, tout de suite.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">Took about half hour to get there, through lots of congested traffic areas, but I arrived about 9:30, and pulled into a large suburban retail resort. Drove past a Whole Foods in a strip mall to the Mavis at the bottom of the parking lot. Many cars in the parking lot. Ouch. Docked the Pequod and went into the customer area. At the counter I asked the fellow if they could fix a slow leak quickly. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">The guy started filling out the work order and asked me how far away I was visiting from, as he took the info from my Pennsylvania auto registration card. I told him a hundred miles away, and I need to get to a cemetery in an hour. He quickly looked up and a bit startled, said, “We’ll get you on the road as quickly as possible, sir.” I didn’t think I needed to explain that I was not heading for a funeral.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioD6lMuHgnaorzOXet5YlRbZUKY8eBhwxTHsgkL2GR7Dl2RlSXa7JTYgwEb7yz6ShH8OJWfQ5911-7bppZjkXEq61C3QAmwC_Sm-B9iwo5PCN7mGz_Ivhzdp7Fb41H-7VXH2A2F0UaYMhV6SC047tTWE35WFrOXBqzAZwIZLd7_3arUbzzB6oe78WG/s720/Church%20front%20small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="525" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioD6lMuHgnaorzOXet5YlRbZUKY8eBhwxTHsgkL2GR7Dl2RlSXa7JTYgwEb7yz6ShH8OJWfQ5911-7bppZjkXEq61C3QAmwC_Sm-B9iwo5PCN7mGz_Ivhzdp7Fb41H-7VXH2A2F0UaYMhV6SC047tTWE35WFrOXBqzAZwIZLd7_3arUbzzB6oe78WG/w291-h400/Church%20front%20small.jpg" width="291" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">First Shiloh (Presbyterian) Church</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></div><span style="font-family: inherit;">I left my keys with him and told him I would walk up to the Whole Foods and be back soon. Feeling way more comfortable with the situation, I walked over to the Food Hole for coffee and a breakfast sammie. When I walked in I noticed they had potted gardenias on sale. I like having one in front of my house, so I figured I would buy one before I left. So after downing some breakfast, I bought a gardenia and headed down the parking lot toward Mavis Tire.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizRhaNqyrSmQnlADwr0vuTZiWmJSuOQLMCVqHbKjvkDpValOI3JKnYaKKpEIlbt4jWs8q6s7kTY7njm_iw2OAXOozx06YAG9HgIEeZeYP4Cobvev6WLEQ7phQKMeVsGD9wP81Yqq2nbaVMCYGd9-Apv6oww9y4IMIvzRBD7uYcxk1DEtdIdk6-xGlu/s780/Flat%20Stone%20small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="780" data-original-width="684" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizRhaNqyrSmQnlADwr0vuTZiWmJSuOQLMCVqHbKjvkDpValOI3JKnYaKKpEIlbt4jWs8q6s7kTY7njm_iw2OAXOozx06YAG9HgIEeZeYP4Cobvev6WLEQ7phQKMeVsGD9wP81Yqq2nbaVMCYGd9-Apv6oww9y4IMIvzRBD7uYcxk1DEtdIdk6-xGlu/s320/Flat%20Stone%20small.jpg" width="281" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: inherit;">When I was about a hundred yards away, my cell phone rang. My car was ready. Thirty-two dollars to fix the nail hole in my tire and off I headed toward Holy Sepulchre Cemetery. For anyone’s reference, I give a five-star rating to the Mavis Tire Supply, LLC, at 235 Prospect Avenue in West Orange, New Jersey!</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">I ended up putting in a full day with my meetup friends at Holy Sepulchre and Fairmount Cemeteries, experiencing zero lassitude given the fact that I was running on about three hours’ sleep from the night before! But more on that excursion another time. The preprandial at Dunkin Donuts across from Holy Sepulchre helped me begin my day a third time - like a new angel getting its wings.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2QB7sDGP0E9vTkhzxTlw_33tXpNGOW_6mculZtVHDVCnkEiWd252WwjuH6eCj2hR2KXbVpKs30AOxGqq5FXvMDLx-wO9UVb10V63vPooXFTjqKPIhIX7xk3I9CSh_ux0D5pfXjP_KS3E_vLDpCPePk4nFKDrE3ojQCQVJ6uyKD7CFLAr1SazYEaxF/s720/Angelface%20small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="540" data-original-width="720" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2QB7sDGP0E9vTkhzxTlw_33tXpNGOW_6mculZtVHDVCnkEiWd252WwjuH6eCj2hR2KXbVpKs30AOxGqq5FXvMDLx-wO9UVb10V63vPooXFTjqKPIhIX7xk3I9CSh_ux0D5pfXjP_KS3E_vLDpCPePk4nFKDrE3ojQCQVJ6uyKD7CFLAr1SazYEaxF/s320/Angelface%20small.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>StoneAngels: The Cemetery Travelerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02776945637111478231noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9091026817968807873.post-59908173069543579212023-02-19T16:23:00.001-08:002023-02-19T16:26:39.019-08:00"Lincoln in the Bardo" - Oak Hill Cemetery<p><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPJJJQYegHRzEPPfny4bJHESFCLAnBBhE_7e3wcppEWCgLEvWu2gXWAP9W_SgOmwyfnwW6l_eApDc6KpzFZyPOKEo2Xj5ADVV5Oe3vCiOvAaaZfS-RSzQDwPgN4U6S7Rqwd2Ex035GPU3pvFtlEnO6kTKTyII5tLArQ4BtmcBNKtIK3Th8zPHDQ_Z6/s900/Night_small%20for%20blog.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="508" data-original-width="900" height="226" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPJJJQYegHRzEPPfny4bJHESFCLAnBBhE_7e3wcppEWCgLEvWu2gXWAP9W_SgOmwyfnwW6l_eApDc6KpzFZyPOKEo2Xj5ADVV5Oe3vCiOvAaaZfS-RSzQDwPgN4U6S7Rqwd2Ex035GPU3pvFtlEnO6kTKTyII5tLArQ4BtmcBNKtIK3Th8zPHDQ_Z6/w400-h226/Night_small%20for%20blog.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />As I sit here in my living room typing this passage, my thirteen-year-old daughter is practicing Bach’s Prelude in C minor on our piano. I can’t help but think it would be the perfect soundtrack to George Saunders’ recent novel, <i>Lincoln in the Bardo</i>. The music is somber, as is the book. <p></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">You may be wondering what a “bardo” is. I didn’t know before I read the book. I actually didn’t know until AFTER I read the book and started writing this essay. Saunders does not actually mention the word, or define it, in his book. According to <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bardo#:~:text=Used%20without%20qualification%2C%20%22bardo%22,experiences%20a%20variety%20of%20phenomena." target="_blank">Wikipedia</a>:</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>'' ...bardo is the state of existence intermediate between two lives on earth. According to Tibetan tradition, after death and before one's next birth, when one's consciousness is not connected with a physical body, one experiences a variety of phenomena."</i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">The bardo, then. And you might also assume “Lincoln” refers to Abraham. But it does not, It refers to his son Willie, who died at age twelve.</span></p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwU7A0Mc5An2wfHCwZbTxCeA4AXxeb_tszgymI4GDe5GfGTuxosDGyeldY7QeG9RuCnGyVFMmQvftPE0Yzxv6YIbrtWhhSD7hueBeaIX23_-Cx-jJGqcafQhv1-IHD3IJYJQOrhDYx2A7xUZf6yEcps7MoYTGmd7X_endqKqIAaj9Faw2XNlBqvPJp/s900/Oa%20Hill_small.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="675" data-original-width="900" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwU7A0Mc5An2wfHCwZbTxCeA4AXxeb_tszgymI4GDe5GfGTuxosDGyeldY7QeG9RuCnGyVFMmQvftPE0Yzxv6YIbrtWhhSD7hueBeaIX23_-Cx-jJGqcafQhv1-IHD3IJYJQOrhDYx2A7xUZf6yEcps7MoYTGmd7X_endqKqIAaj9Faw2XNlBqvPJp/w400-h300/Oa%20Hill_small.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Oak Hill Cemetery gatehouse, Georgetown</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">The image you see at the beginning of this article is my photograph of the sculpture from the entrance to a mausoleum in Oak Hill Cemetery, in the Georgetown section of Washington, D.C. It is near the Carroll mausoleum, where Lincoln’s son was temporarily laid to rest when he died in 1862. As the story goes, Lincoln visited the mausoleum in the days following his son’s death, opening the casket and holding him in his arms.</span></p><p>I’ll let you digest that for a few moments. Maybe a few more moments if you are a parent.</p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsbs4DKKLWUbY8lwf9aY0ojFkVLYrUiOq3mFgaE0KFDC2FhbJQy7DST2k_hUFPwT5vpVk23SXp40G_cm6krPvjDrwQ9Tp5ytHQZtlEwJWiCRSEw89uldNISum570x5CMpM6fW7WCz5fvHZ4ZtPLkSYTY_btYXPLdON8WNwSPWuI80BrTZTz9fBALxi/s882/Willie.JPG" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="882" data-original-width="597" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsbs4DKKLWUbY8lwf9aY0ojFkVLYrUiOq3mFgaE0KFDC2FhbJQy7DST2k_hUFPwT5vpVk23SXp40G_cm6krPvjDrwQ9Tp5ytHQZtlEwJWiCRSEw89uldNISum570x5CMpM6fW7WCz5fvHZ4ZtPLkSYTY_btYXPLdON8WNwSPWuI80BrTZTz9fBALxi/s320/Willie.JPG" width="217" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><a href="https://tile.loc.gov/storage-services/service/pnp/ppmsca/19300/19390v.jpg" target="_blank">Library of Congress</a></span></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">I made the </span>"There Shall Be No Night There"<span style="font-family: inherit;"> photograph as well as many other images when I explored Oak Hill Cemetery back around 2005. I was unaware of the Willie Lincoln story at the time. In the fall of 2022, I learned of it through George Saunders’ novel, </span><b style="font-family: inherit;"><i>Lincoln in the Bardo</i></b><span style="font-family: inherit;"> (Random House, 2017). A librarian friend of mine told me about the book when I gave a lecture on abandoned cemeteries at her library. Sounded intriguing, so I bought and read the novel.</span></p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEHc04ksGkgsgSs__xB2lYwzXbh38eAw_eyVmYfXcN7GgR35b_U0HszDIh4SF3RjKT5oIUV822Y3L2U1PrKlnktH9IWaBKn5f4lJM2HiMOcR886Fcl2E_DoYKiANBA_qzEmVVNygFFc3SdLcaCVtM_6uBjRTUfmwH6cXHc_CEbwwoTSH4H1YoqNWy7/s900/forest_small.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="675" data-original-width="900" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEHc04ksGkgsgSs__xB2lYwzXbh38eAw_eyVmYfXcN7GgR35b_U0HszDIh4SF3RjKT5oIUV822Y3L2U1PrKlnktH9IWaBKn5f4lJM2HiMOcR886Fcl2E_DoYKiANBA_qzEmVVNygFFc3SdLcaCVtM_6uBjRTUfmwH6cXHc_CEbwwoTSH4H1YoqNWy7/s320/forest_small.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Densely wooded Oak Hill Cemetery</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">The book brought back vivid memories of how eerie Oak Hill was. I was there after a spring rain, and everything was slick and dripping. The caretaker warned me to stay on the sidewalks so I didn’t slip or fall into a sunken grave. He could easily have been Jack Manders, Oak Hill’s night watchman at the time of Lincoln’s visits. Manders, lantern in hand, would guide the President from the entry gate (see photo below) where he tied his horse, to the Carroll mausoleum in the dark. Manders would unlock the mausoleum door, and leave the father alone with his grief. This is all documented in Manders’ actual logbook from 1862.</span></p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgussRdlUrfUiCNYeknpA0a2_8vf0oIo3f-aolNdCeo8zkFYaj7hgNKSxO9f234xoAmWw0sgJL692qovbacGGlg1NZrWZz85b0KQX-ltaRlZOUOBq06yZcChLFuNeaoV-7pvFejIXd4h81g8tghJjaThldJ0cJf8hut6vWct4wgK-BvM8dWJQWbNqsW/s900/entrance%20bright_small.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="675" data-original-width="900" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgussRdlUrfUiCNYeknpA0a2_8vf0oIo3f-aolNdCeo8zkFYaj7hgNKSxO9f234xoAmWw0sgJL692qovbacGGlg1NZrWZz85b0KQX-ltaRlZOUOBq06yZcChLFuNeaoV-7pvFejIXd4h81g8tghJjaThldJ0cJf8hut6vWct4wgK-BvM8dWJQWbNqsW/w400-h300/entrance%20bright_small.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Entrance to Oak Hill Cemetery</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">I never saw the Carroll mausoleum – didn’t go looking for it when I was at Oak Hill. Didn’t know anything about Willie Lincoln at the time. So why was Willie “temporarily” laid to rest there? Well, the Lincolns expected to move the family back to Illinois after the President’s term had ended. They planned to take Willie back with them for a proper burial. A clerk of the Supreme Court, William Carroll, let the Lincolns use his family mausoleum as a temporary resting place until they returned to Illinois. Abe never made it back to Illinois alive.</span></p><p><i>Willie Lincoln’s death: A private agony for a president facing a nation of pain</i> - <span style="font-family: inherit;">The <a href="https://www.washingtonpost.com/lifestyle/style/willie-lincolns-death-a-private-agony-for-a-president-facing-a-nation-of-pain/2011/09/29/gIQAv7Z7SL_story.html" target="_blank">Washington Post</a>: </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>“The remains of Willie Lincoln lay in the marble vault, locked behind an iron gate, for more than three years. On numerous occasions, author James L. Swanson wrote, “his ever-mourning father returned to visit him, to remember, and to weep,” even as he tried to hold the country together.</i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>After Lincoln’s assassination in April 1865, Willie’s casket was exhumed and placed aboard the presidential funeral train for the journey back to Illinois. Father and son headed home together.”</i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">Again, I’ll pause and let you think about that for a bit.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVYL9y25QImAN3QgACDSqtTlcF3QIZ5GJ2hit9TN0oRw1dRuj1ZgVbizt9Xg4aE3zf0UDd8NJfSC8xrQLz5e1aEN08lDgw_fzJ_znEv1PiVdtm1ZkNY25vZsk6VMu-EXrG9VwaphmyPhk4meClFbKzYG9TldGdql_usBiXorrmpNEsmyK4VWIDMC-O/s2592/Mourner.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1944" data-original-width="2592" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVYL9y25QImAN3QgACDSqtTlcF3QIZ5GJ2hit9TN0oRw1dRuj1ZgVbizt9Xg4aE3zf0UDd8NJfSC8xrQLz5e1aEN08lDgw_fzJ_znEv1PiVdtm1ZkNY25vZsk6VMu-EXrG9VwaphmyPhk4meClFbKzYG9TldGdql_usBiXorrmpNEsmyK4VWIDMC-O/w400-h300/Mourner.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">The majority of Saunders’ book is about the experience of Willie’s “ghost,” after his body was delivered to the mausoleum in a funeral procession. Willie’s experience involves many other people – or, ghosts” - with which he interacts while in Oak Hill Cemetery. It is a rather riveting story, one that you want to end well. But the way it ends is quite unsettling. </span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1rrMYDv4z03TZBBWXGHPZ3rGXuXwtWqOThA9Oj8MsTaGuDXQuYRAtdMZPG8a27rI-OMHccR3Qh8aJGEgU-qjxGRJEQcZM0jD2g5IqbDsScL2cK2Iw8qs1JmmQivyCqXKvN4tF93V_LdFhUzfZ2kqgGqa9jfihRXBRyT8eZcjLIiUA2-Tn_xjByJqz/s900/chapel_small.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="641" data-original-width="900" height="285" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1rrMYDv4z03TZBBWXGHPZ3rGXuXwtWqOThA9Oj8MsTaGuDXQuYRAtdMZPG8a27rI-OMHccR3Qh8aJGEgU-qjxGRJEQcZM0jD2g5IqbDsScL2cK2Iw8qs1JmmQivyCqXKvN4tF93V_LdFhUzfZ2kqgGqa9jfihRXBRyT8eZcjLIiUA2-Tn_xjByJqz/w400-h285/chapel_small.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">The chapel on the cemetery grounds where Willie’s funeral service was held is shown in the above photo - Saunders refers to it in his story. I remember getting a creepy feeling walking past it those many years ago. The entire cemetery was gloomy, dark from its tall trees. I had a distinct sense of being alone.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuV2zGxbVmrC449VCMG4s5fVlXcWnhFsNGQ4XisOglNQ4_Vxc7-iRrQXCui16apBZZVjV_nQWBrpSXfc452XReQ-UBRVb2VbjLfnL2kHNRIoidBwrNZlJu1goJRSDiC0BbOOns_B0M9vOV1o5cRZodYm1-h33KQ5iNKrDpQ5cpQZsFIhY1G2Yb-TA4/s900/Maus_small.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="675" data-original-width="900" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuV2zGxbVmrC449VCMG4s5fVlXcWnhFsNGQ4XisOglNQ4_Vxc7-iRrQXCui16apBZZVjV_nQWBrpSXfc452XReQ-UBRVb2VbjLfnL2kHNRIoidBwrNZlJu1goJRSDiC0BbOOns_B0M9vOV1o5cRZodYm1-h33KQ5iNKrDpQ5cpQZsFIhY1G2Yb-TA4/s320/Maus_small.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: inherit;">Were I to return, I would probably not be able to think of anything but the characters and scenes from <i>Lincoln in the Bardo</i>, and the “matterlightblooming” phenomenon where the ghosts, or souls, disappear in a snap from the bardo and head to some other, undefined, state of existence. They avoid all talk (yes, they can talk to each other) of death, how they got to the bardo, or life itself – referring to our mortal world as the place they were before. They cannot admit to themselves that they are dead. Hence, the deep denial evinced by the sculpted phrase, "There Shall Be No Night There." Were I to return to Oak Hill Cemetery at this point, I think I would feel anything but alone. </span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><i><b>Further Reading: </b></i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">A review of <b><i>Lincoln in the Bardo </i></b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://sevencircumstances.com/2018/01/10/a-triumph-of-imagination-lincoln-in-the-bardo-by-george-saunders/">https://sevencircumstances.com/2018/01/10/a-triumph-of-imagination-lincoln-in-the-bardo-by-george-saunders/</a></span></p><div><br /></div>StoneAngels: The Cemetery Travelerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02776945637111478231noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9091026817968807873.post-79775872110879946582023-01-29T05:36:00.002-08:002023-01-29T05:38:39.124-08:00Clutching<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr_z1fti8fOG5cMPWgG63YSVlc-rHjzxOntugDC6dBWMgH_yBeFNf46IorDrDrTcYU91rGkw7wlIgiR4r7RIn7IhaAnuOr5V0Wb9G46rRUhDoJzOxXit8JXWWPdokZBqdM6ILZXVlxP5pgqhhvlgCIU8Rk2eUcXBmZtc2XsHOnebXMnEVVgJIDlthH/s840/clutching%20small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="630" data-original-width="840" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr_z1fti8fOG5cMPWgG63YSVlc-rHjzxOntugDC6dBWMgH_yBeFNf46IorDrDrTcYU91rGkw7wlIgiR4r7RIn7IhaAnuOr5V0Wb9G46rRUhDoJzOxXit8JXWWPdokZBqdM6ILZXVlxP5pgqhhvlgCIU8Rk2eUcXBmZtc2XsHOnebXMnEVVgJIDlthH/w400-h300/clutching%20small.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Laurel Hill Cemetery, Philadelphia</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br />Look closely at the hand above, see how it is pulling on the bed covers? It appears to have a death grip on the sheets. This is a fairly common sculptural element in cemetery art. It’s impact was rather lost on me until I made this photograph. Well, not exactly when I MADE it, more so when I reviewed the images on my phone the next day. Why? Mainly because it reminded me of a Cemetery Traveler blog I had written some years ago. <p></p><p>As I described in my June 17, 2020 post, “Johnny Thunders Dead in New Orleans,” (link below) I described how the guitarist formerly of the New York Dolls had a death grip on his bed covers when the hotel caretaker found his lifeless body. This was at the St. Peter Guest House – a rooming house - in New Orleans, in 1991. Thunders’ death grip may have looked just like what you see carved in this statue.</p><p><a href="http://thecemeterytraveler.blogspot.com/2010/06/johnny-thunders-dead-in-new-orleans.html">http://thecemeterytraveler.blogspot.com/2010/06/johnny-thunders-dead-in-new-orleans.html</a></p><p>So, what exactly is a “death grip?”</p><p> “Death grip: A cadaveric spasm described as an instantaneous tightening of the hand or other body part at the time of death, the mechanism of which is unexplained.”</p><p><a href="https://medical-dictionary.thefreedictionary.com/">https://medical-dictionary.thefreedictionary.com/</a></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDyS5XQES4CbPy0_IFCPa7MIRhtLJJKYVsg_b_Ix-sPzru1lrOWgW0q22hYifSWjXHWf0N3SLGWcw4XVtt6zw2Ueq-GmF-UFgxli3wozeOi6ZK88TokAD-4X9sLjShUilOrQlfUqjr6flmFUiSJJKx7WjsGOAWwNoNXl3F-u15mW53AKavVAAIzwyA/s840/Clutching%202%20small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="630" data-original-width="840" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDyS5XQES4CbPy0_IFCPa7MIRhtLJJKYVsg_b_Ix-sPzru1lrOWgW0q22hYifSWjXHWf0N3SLGWcw4XVtt6zw2Ueq-GmF-UFgxli3wozeOi6ZK88TokAD-4X9sLjShUilOrQlfUqjr6flmFUiSJJKx7WjsGOAWwNoNXl3F-u15mW53AKavVAAIzwyA/w400-h300/Clutching%202%20small.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Woodlands Cemetery, Philadelphia</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p>At some point back in 1999, I spent a couple days photographing New Orleans cemeteries. As I described in the blog post mentioned above, I also visited the St. Peter Guest House, being a New York Dolls fan. Johnny Thunders died here. The Dolls were a flamboyant glam rock punk band that came into being in 1973, the mechanism of their popularity being also largely unexplained. Back then, you would rarely admit in public that you listened to glam or punk. Now, of course, their music is almost considered “classic rock.” I doubt the Dolls would have expected that their music would be listened to FIFTY years later!</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL-BjoFVsv7CdKHuc6TngmsH1dEbkxoQOcO56wkpV9AZ09xUZAlU6GWZ37qcPIDX_L5Fsp4eAsWg0SpMXkT22HLHTvrml9kt2DtNBN4JN5ZPt4Ln1xTPZfJnDChfgu0_46jflUsjhwv5NJHb7pC4H8y_HHsINsTcB_zs5zEDf0isQmLtQ_UZuUQg7K/s840/Thunders%20small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="676" data-original-width="840" height="323" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL-BjoFVsv7CdKHuc6TngmsH1dEbkxoQOcO56wkpV9AZ09xUZAlU6GWZ37qcPIDX_L5Fsp4eAsWg0SpMXkT22HLHTvrml9kt2DtNBN4JN5ZPt4Ln1xTPZfJnDChfgu0_46jflUsjhwv5NJHb7pC4H8y_HHsINsTcB_zs5zEDf0isQmLtQ_UZuUQg7K/w400-h323/Thunders%20small.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p>By the same token, I certainly did not expect to be talking to the man who found Johnny’s body when I visited the St. Peter Guest House. As I have previously written, “Royce found Johnny on the floor next to his bed with the bedsheets crunched in a deathgrip by his stiff hands.” I invite you to read my account of this adventure <a href="http://thecemeterytraveler.blogspot.com/2010/06/johnny-thunders-dead-in-new-orleans.html" target="_blank">here.</a></p><p>It is odd how things you see, smell, hear, and taste can remind you of a past experience. Often, the memory jumps to the forefront of our consciousness without warning. This is actually a good description of the New York Dolls themselves. In 1973, they jumped to the forefront of the music world’s consciousness without warning. </p><p>In the same way as the death grip adds a stark, mortal detail to the serene form of these statues, we can be reminded of how Johnny Thunders and the Dolls added a stark, mortal detail to music’s serene form in 1973. The Dolls were scraping, clutching their way toward stardom, in the midst of the serene popular music hits of 1973. Take a look at the list below to see what they were up against. We always need someone to continually claw at the sheets of complacency.</p><p><b>Top Songs of 1973 (</b><a href="https://top40weekly.com/top-100-songs-of-1973/">https://top40weekly.com/top-100-songs-of-1973/</a>)</p><p>1<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Tie a Yellow Ribbon Round the Ole Oak Tree - Tony Orlando & Dawn</p><p>2<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Bad, Bad Leroy Brown - Jim Croce</p><p>3<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Killing Me Softly with His Song - Roberta Flack</p><p>4<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Let’s Get It On - Marvin Gaye</p><p>5<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>My Love - Paul McCartney & Wings</p><p>6<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Why Me - Kris Kristofferson</p><p>7<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Crocodile Rock - Elton John</p><p>8<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Will It Go Round in Circles - Billy Preston</p><p>9<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>You’re So Vain - Carly Simon</p><p>10<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Touch Me in the Morning - Diana Ross</p><div><br /></div>StoneAngels: The Cemetery Travelerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02776945637111478231noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9091026817968807873.post-62658091379581284882022-12-10T08:53:00.000-08:002022-12-10T08:53:19.612-08:00Cold Spring Church Graveyard, Cape May<p><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNKe92vABSkFlB5wwQdVaOvE0Bm1SyLXVxW1onc-ghcAMgTpfUXlLbz_LIFDKxXGH8C94eYAjQo2st-BgxiR_B0oI3LHsttjvgwjtv8WMDRbZtfFA4Hi610O2TMWG8alB6YJMD7H3RQFR6Yaav1slrOUXpBiytzmgsjwG8RvTKg9V41V5JsE9e3hHn/s960/Happiness%20small.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="960" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNKe92vABSkFlB5wwQdVaOvE0Bm1SyLXVxW1onc-ghcAMgTpfUXlLbz_LIFDKxXGH8C94eYAjQo2st-BgxiR_B0oI3LHsttjvgwjtv8WMDRbZtfFA4Hi610O2TMWG8alB6YJMD7H3RQFR6Yaav1slrOUXpBiytzmgsjwG8RvTKg9V41V5JsE9e3hHn/w400-h300/Happiness%20small.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />During a wedding my wife and I attended in Cape May, New Jersey in June, 2022, I made a side trip to a local cemetery and a graveyard. Well, not DURING the wedding, the day after. One was St. Mary’s Catholic Cemetery, and the other was the graveyard of the Cold Spring Presbyterian Church. Why the distinction, cemetery versus graveyard? Graveyards are technically the burial place surrounding a church, while a cemetery is not. Technically.</span><div><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCA9lgZx1UF0cGNWOq5GX-8TDZYX1xaXH_c60hGaHLp0cufsXtjmOnGmibWOnq8XwJKEkpg1Juc1fDvt9GL6XtQJP0Q-5o6Z_p_NrTLVWGULeTiqM12FpwE7xpj6EbmBuj5edbTYN8A1HVd9_-0fGU44UGlVSOFFstr6rvYJmmsWr_lMJJIjJqCVRY/s840/Forever%20small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="470" data-original-width="840" height="224" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCA9lgZx1UF0cGNWOq5GX-8TDZYX1xaXH_c60hGaHLp0cufsXtjmOnGmibWOnq8XwJKEkpg1Juc1fDvt9GL6XtQJP0Q-5o6Z_p_NrTLVWGULeTiqM12FpwE7xpj6EbmBuj5edbTYN8A1HVd9_-0fGU44UGlVSOFFstr6rvYJmmsWr_lMJJIjJqCVRY/w400-h224/Forever%20small.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">I had received a heads up about Cold Spring Presbyterian, that it was an interesting old Victorian church and graveyard. I had no idea how absolutely fascinating it was! But I’m getting ahead of myself.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">On Saturday morning, I got up around 7 a.m. and left my wife sleeping at the beachfront motel. The hotel was conveniently situated on Broadway, at the east end of the cape, where the commercial, touristy bustle winds down. Broadway becomes Seashore Road, and heads directly north to both locations I wanted to visit. It was a bit cool outside, so I grabbed a light jacket and headed out to the car. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNyaiLjxFkPlzofDBx2lcvjilgYHTGN8qLHBUdgHI47oCnv_IAJ80-r6Lx7k636hj-utAlzANnGFJK40kWcAZjZo4WvGrIlcV6ZfIksw9MnwVI5OEIf9ccX0uL-qpCXZ4cppw_8ZtJyeNYnl5N5uFwkuCuACjHeBc9MaH81u_wbne6uBTdI24616fr/s570/St%20May%20sign%20small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="477" data-original-width="570" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNyaiLjxFkPlzofDBx2lcvjilgYHTGN8qLHBUdgHI47oCnv_IAJ80-r6Lx7k636hj-utAlzANnGFJK40kWcAZjZo4WvGrIlcV6ZfIksw9MnwVI5OEIf9ccX0uL-qpCXZ4cppw_8ZtJyeNYnl5N5uFwkuCuACjHeBc9MaH81u_wbne6uBTdI24616fr/s320/St%20May%20sign%20small.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: inherit;">When I arrived at St. Mary’s, maybe two miles north, I drove in to a long, narrow cemetery with a center road. The place was maybe two city blocks long, with a separate cemetery to the left towards the end – Mt. Zion Cemetery. Both were rather nondescript, St. Mary’s had a few statues and one mausoleum. I got out of the car to check out the lovely headstone at the beginning of this essay and was surprised at how hot the air had gotten in the fifteen minutes since I left the hotel. Sunny Saturday at the beach, and here I am in a cemetery!</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgexpO7ce3oKRKtGdNl6o90VO-YGQbGG8Qy74MjUVc4TYoiS4BJCwCgtmMGoOIfJ9k-OBEMXNF_t97maY_ywUtIEUmn-6lrn_xRhzy0mHW_kQM_quSEkytKRIkQmauoWpa3FiDVBssZ2dGYE58wIZGPez877sdExoxju1uIBTJC2i22j5pjnHwsURS/s520/Cold%20Spring%20sign%20small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="510" data-original-width="520" height="314" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgexpO7ce3oKRKtGdNl6o90VO-YGQbGG8Qy74MjUVc4TYoiS4BJCwCgtmMGoOIfJ9k-OBEMXNF_t97maY_ywUtIEUmn-6lrn_xRhzy0mHW_kQM_quSEkytKRIkQmauoWpa3FiDVBssZ2dGYE58wIZGPez877sdExoxju1uIBTJC2i22j5pjnHwsURS/s320/Cold%20Spring%20sign%20small.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: inherit;">I didn’t spend much time here as it was not terribly interesting, and headed north another two miles. A quick drive made quicker as I listened to Black Sabbath’s song “Snowblind” on the car stereo. Cold Spring Presbyterian Cemetery is also known as the Old Red Brick Church Cemetery, which is what the sign says - “cemetery,” even though it’s a technically a graveyard. Go figure. But I don’t stand on ceremony. Saturday morning is preferable to Sunday when visiting a church graveyard, by the way. Why, you may ask? No services going on. When I arrived, there was not a car in the lot, not a soul around – well, not a living one anyway. </span><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5rQVjWA_AwOh-q7Vd2FLmcgNMxZ5SrdAZ056ZX9dwuLTRH98wXEzT912JMcwsurV97IBc0huyGR9VmTMPiLPgVaTzyGJaWf0hSwhx7WRrWY77bRb6euceyhaKI_IOYceOkoArUFtpY1kUxZ9idDijxsnqq4suYgniVtuWlAjXh7WT_mCzd-UuwujX/s840/Cold%20Spring%20church%20small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="630" data-original-width="840" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5rQVjWA_AwOh-q7Vd2FLmcgNMxZ5SrdAZ056ZX9dwuLTRH98wXEzT912JMcwsurV97IBc0huyGR9VmTMPiLPgVaTzyGJaWf0hSwhx7WRrWY77bRb6euceyhaKI_IOYceOkoArUFtpY1kUxZ9idDijxsnqq4suYgniVtuWlAjXh7WT_mCzd-UuwujX/w400-h300/Cold%20Spring%20church%20small.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Cold Spring Church, North Cape May, New Jersey</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">But oh were there the gravemarkers! All styles, all eras. And the ornamentation! I’ve not been this fascinated with Victorian ironwork since I visited Sleepy Hollow Cemetery in New York. Everywhere and in all directions, family plots with all the original Victorian fencing, decorative gates, and other design elements. The graveyard was immense, covering many acres on all sides of the church. Given the established date on the church itself – 1766 – I assume the graveyard is as old. There were modern graves on the south side of the property, with the oldest nearest to the church. </span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLiMIabI5YTi0E5ojh0r0x9OKqQe7a81ASv9ubZNQQwAOoI8jOatIQ22cL1i2029N9X99qgfbxDLYEDKNdalXVT4UXFK_9juOJ5xyNM1GCcK0dWLfU6fI2237q7olUCvj5D3hQCAF6CEKedtBINT9YNG5BukjbGBAvGY8qEW29fcm9y2IT2DNshl_G/s780/Ironwork%20small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="585" data-original-width="780" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLiMIabI5YTi0E5ojh0r0x9OKqQe7a81ASv9ubZNQQwAOoI8jOatIQ22cL1i2029N9X99qgfbxDLYEDKNdalXVT4UXFK_9juOJ5xyNM1GCcK0dWLfU6fI2237q7olUCvj5D3hQCAF6CEKedtBINT9YNG5BukjbGBAvGY8qEW29fcm9y2IT2DNshl_G/w400-h300/Ironwork%20small.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Victorian-era ironwork</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyu0CkIvGsKRTNktzbYs2cksoCQQQKu2n6KJ9H3ofs8jt0NTRBJ35CY4hixWDBfvWCA_UTHVhEQb4wowu1ngxRJ-zxrXiKcRzVqH9oWol3jh4m8I_0HTuHv2MFFI1miUCX4AfVMfWNaixpMCNLbL84LF-tQjNltGTHMLGkntemwzcBeIpJgxe-GCbZ/s700/Deco%20small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="585" data-original-width="700" height="167" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyu0CkIvGsKRTNktzbYs2cksoCQQQKu2n6KJ9H3ofs8jt0NTRBJ35CY4hixWDBfvWCA_UTHVhEQb4wowu1ngxRJ-zxrXiKcRzVqH9oWol3jh4m8I_0HTuHv2MFFI1miUCX4AfVMfWNaixpMCNLbL84LF-tQjNltGTHMLGkntemwzcBeIpJgxe-GCbZ/w200-h167/Deco%20small.jpg" width="200" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: inherit;">There was a fascinating bronze art deco style family plot with just one headstone. The green patina of the posts and other decorative elements were breathtaking. The date of the stone – 1922 – coincides with the art deco era. Decorative. Personalized gates were plentiful – on some plots, the fencing was gone, leaving only the gates. Such metal work is usually absent from cemeteries for a variety of reasons. Scrap metal was of great value during WWII, so much of the cast iron was scrapped to build more weapons.</span><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikFDA382m2LQejK3GYn_jL7Nvqf8JFfAV5zbBdPZCdYWEams4IjvD1qwAERZKqb_PTbhoo313cNAuVCxoa2GgJqZTWhJdJrmr7qjtl5G2fi-WqA4svT_mE8EFsuaS4VSGHEjqTv0EM_DPLWJBBJN9C4YCiyNh2ymACHsQbs6LX0GKjpg7UVEltZ0IA/s840/Art%20Deco%20small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="630" data-original-width="840" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikFDA382m2LQejK3GYn_jL7Nvqf8JFfAV5zbBdPZCdYWEams4IjvD1qwAERZKqb_PTbhoo313cNAuVCxoa2GgJqZTWhJdJrmr7qjtl5G2fi-WqA4svT_mE8EFsuaS4VSGHEjqTv0EM_DPLWJBBJN9C4YCiyNh2ymACHsQbs6LX0GKjpg7UVEltZ0IA/w400-h300/Art%20Deco%20small.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidhOTlnUkARvQuOflnAnpcMZ6alieDStqX7eFGFRnpyl2swgH5StooDmixprBZKGi7sHTgPVvj_a-TF5CeCl1evSJQXyFvKeGhRZH4pE1jDk-FbvWYXZneXmsS0MnCO80sLvbGc9Shtak-qOm2YWgQAILb5izw_l01aiM1EujZ9JvE2OjtpyVfUf-Y/s840/Post%20small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="840" data-original-width="630" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidhOTlnUkARvQuOflnAnpcMZ6alieDStqX7eFGFRnpyl2swgH5StooDmixprBZKGi7sHTgPVvj_a-TF5CeCl1evSJQXyFvKeGhRZH4pE1jDk-FbvWYXZneXmsS0MnCO80sLvbGc9Shtak-qOm2YWgQAILb5izw_l01aiM1EujZ9JvE2OjtpyVfUf-Y/s320/Post%20small.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>Also, the decorative ironwork prevalent in Victorian cemeteries fell into disfavor among the fashionistas of the 1920s – it was viewed as being too gaudy, elaborate, and dated. In essence, an embarrassment to the family owners, descendants! GOMI, or trash, as the Japanese would have called it. People forget that the avant garde of the 1920s was Art Deco. Families would remove and discard such beautiful Victorian Gothic ironwork as this harp-shaped gate, along with all the associated fencing surrounding a dynasty plot. <p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNSkDGHIK6eP0gtYYwPoJRFf_rBw7pmJGvITRNxJbzNTEeYHDMxAj6wFoP6ZV73Z7gfp4_uY8wk6D2JMpFauA3zPn5pFC8y9dhdofTdaWH086qZEfT8efoQzs8_54Eh-Avg8U8ojeNcxV7OFa5U2op0Ea0E09AtXDH55LJujKjQs6i_OyzS55uhVkw/s840/Harp%20small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="595" data-original-width="840" height="284" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNSkDGHIK6eP0gtYYwPoJRFf_rBw7pmJGvITRNxJbzNTEeYHDMxAj6wFoP6ZV73Z7gfp4_uY8wk6D2JMpFauA3zPn5pFC8y9dhdofTdaWH086qZEfT8efoQzs8_54Eh-Avg8U8ojeNcxV7OFa5U2op0Ea0E09AtXDH55LJujKjQs6i_OyzS55uhVkw/w400-h284/Harp%20small.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5QEOV7KW_d0byNEKXkU4gfMvgodMmoYpQPbibiXQ8Xx0MdR1Rm9AUJvzgHNSdjkkf9qWpoxP3jvb0F2b5LoTAHBBmFSbeNmxT_AeC9uDdSkQm3qzMJ02ljexLUuEEK_mQRcniZ1PsBmfbVnYLUpL7hozlCMWrmoOC4b0CxxH7gf8NlXyJ5UmNJ36O/s780/Angels%20small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="585" data-original-width="780" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5QEOV7KW_d0byNEKXkU4gfMvgodMmoYpQPbibiXQ8Xx0MdR1Rm9AUJvzgHNSdjkkf9qWpoxP3jvb0F2b5LoTAHBBmFSbeNmxT_AeC9uDdSkQm3qzMJ02ljexLUuEEK_mQRcniZ1PsBmfbVnYLUpL7hozlCMWrmoOC4b0CxxH7gf8NlXyJ5UmNJ36O/s320/Angels%20small.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Whatever ironwork remained in U.S. cemeteries after the 1920s was probably removed in the 1940s to help with the war effort. World War II ushered in a massive recycling era for scrap metal, as this was needed to build battleships. Americans were instructed to collect even the smallest hoard of scrap material so as to help the war effort. If you check the photos in this article, you can easily surmise how cemetery fencing may have disappeared (<a href="https://www.bygonely.com/scrap-metal-drives-world-war-ii/">https://www.bygonely.com/scrap-metal-drives-world-war-ii/</a>). <p></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSn3eAlwHeORtVpQZiYXp0MeS1NyFlTDGtFQ5RUnezTc8S7_73sJ81-8H-sIgB1uEUlrtcrK_uRAnQX63d8XTk1QWdVUFMTm9RuLz9QtwKtfV76dRURLk8jkQSGEAs_0o3-vvmFUnOBSxFldVsYvcCwSnasOf3-1YB8gL-x_LdfRTzNWYmF9BJSTjs/s840/Little%20Jack%20small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="840" data-original-width="630" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSn3eAlwHeORtVpQZiYXp0MeS1NyFlTDGtFQ5RUnezTc8S7_73sJ81-8H-sIgB1uEUlrtcrK_uRAnQX63d8XTk1QWdVUFMTm9RuLz9QtwKtfV76dRURLk8jkQSGEAs_0o3-vvmFUnOBSxFldVsYvcCwSnasOf3-1YB8gL-x_LdfRTzNWYmF9BJSTjs/s320/Little%20Jack%20small.jpg" width="240" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: inherit;">Yet so much of it remains here around the graves of the Cold Spring Presbyterian Church. I wish I knew why. Winters here in North Cape May (right on the Delaware Bay) are brutal, but the surrounding trees must protect the stones from the elements. The massive brick church is in fine shape. Many of the thousands of gravemarkers here are also in fine condition, marking the many more thousands buried here beneath the sand. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_QU04unhAXxkbOIQZZel5PTK-XCnEtzDIoCMd8783s1_VzQnXNa1lIQ9hoqRMgQdanfgeZU286xJ14k0bIDE_bTzWZnULCplccfZ4GNAnaL6xwPwfRwoD5Xw17A3Rf8oEd5seeRqW3X_XyNFfjoF1KRn4clBJdMkhLOs7xXhTSdAXKV16d_tNOdR7/s780/Bronze%20sign%20small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="780" data-original-width="585" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_QU04unhAXxkbOIQZZel5PTK-XCnEtzDIoCMd8783s1_VzQnXNa1lIQ9hoqRMgQdanfgeZU286xJ14k0bIDE_bTzWZnULCplccfZ4GNAnaL6xwPwfRwoD5Xw17A3Rf8oEd5seeRqW3X_XyNFfjoF1KRn4clBJdMkhLOs7xXhTSdAXKV16d_tNOdR7/s320/Bronze%20sign%20small.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><span style="font-family: inherit;">Certainly makes one ponder the whole idea of solipsism. None of my surroundings here are open to doubt, as far as I can tell. Such a scene that is all so different to me and unexpected just cannot be a figment of my imagination. My imagination is not that creative. </span>Around 9:30 a.m., my cell phone rang. It was not Rene Descartes, it was wife. “Where are you?” she asked. I responded, “Where else would I be?” Knowing the answer, she asked if I could bring coffee back for her.<p></p><p><br /></p></div>StoneAngels: The Cemetery Travelerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02776945637111478231noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9091026817968807873.post-85542853139036240402022-08-06T11:38:00.000-07:002022-08-06T11:43:13.365-07:00 The Day of the Cemetery Flood – 50 Years Ago<p><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjahpLWrF2Wrv8yw1c9N5oSRoiKJxcN0lhRF1d6tT2wIJDeQqAcjkEVdgKhNgTSy2pwC0FOQYDILJ4gnmU653FISlJ_QWKu97-D_-NPaBHIFYBQkTFrinHqS3kDqDoab3vCHoDPrh7iXg4M5pWDWfPt2M7hihuGx7sBz6WwgDmzSOBwAgV1H8wYxCGk/s840/epitaph%20small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="548" data-original-width="840" height="261" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjahpLWrF2Wrv8yw1c9N5oSRoiKJxcN0lhRF1d6tT2wIJDeQqAcjkEVdgKhNgTSy2pwC0FOQYDILJ4gnmU653FISlJ_QWKu97-D_-NPaBHIFYBQkTFrinHqS3kDqDoab3vCHoDPrh7iXg4M5pWDWfPt2M7hihuGx7sBz6WwgDmzSOBwAgV1H8wYxCGk/w400-h261/epitaph%20small.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />Well, its been 50 years this year, 2022, since Hurricane Agnes caused a massive flood in my hometown near Wilkes-Barre, Pennsylvania. The swollen Susquehanna River broke through the dike in Forty-Fort, PA, and gutted the Forty-Fort Cemetery on June 23, 1972. My parents, along with my younger brother and sister, lived a few miles from there. Our house was flooded to the second floor. The flood level was officially recorded as sixteen feet. Imagine that.<p></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">I always think of death in the summer – as well as during the other seasons of course – but especially in the summer, because of what I saw in this cemetery. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_AQYcZAEYR7BXq-eIhF_zxR6-HACljxnCZWQMskM30ndTColneHedTLloANyxP3kK4hhbEMPh6wv_CLyefxjrNr2z4pO7hnmGXMd99T3PsA5k8ZgXCIyFZkpHAflbJJd7Ykzw9bEnVHgymU6uWtYvxdsiJjnalTAv8w3g5tn3QKtj3uV02d0b3ZMc/s690/Agnes%20DVD%20small.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="690" data-original-width="491" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_AQYcZAEYR7BXq-eIhF_zxR6-HACljxnCZWQMskM30ndTColneHedTLloANyxP3kK4hhbEMPh6wv_CLyefxjrNr2z4pO7hnmGXMd99T3PsA5k8ZgXCIyFZkpHAflbJJd7Ykzw9bEnVHgymU6uWtYvxdsiJjnalTAv8w3g5tn3QKtj3uV02d0b3ZMc/s320/Agnes%20DVD%20small.JPG" width="228" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr></tbody></table>Sometime in July, 1972, maybe during the second week, the National Guard allowed us, along with thousands of other residents, back to our homes, to begin the cleanup. This was after then President Richard Nixon famously choppered over the devastation, which resulted in millions of dollars of disaster relief aid. You can read all about those trying times in the links at the end. A cinematographer has created a new video documentary called “Agnes 50th Anniversary,” a 90-minute film, which premiered at the F.M. Kirby Center in Wilkes-Barre on June 23, 2022 – the fiftieth anniversary of the day of the flood. (DVD can be purchased at this link: <a href="https://www.wbpreservation.org/store/p/agnes-50th-anniversary-documentary-dvd">https://www.wbpreservation.org/store/p/agnes-50th-anniversary-documentary-dvd</a>”)</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">At the time, the Hurricane Agnes flood was considered the worst natural disaster in U.S. history. Though like the Hurricane Katrina flood of New Orleans in 2005, it was really a disaster exacerbated by poor engineering. Yes, the hurricanes started the process, but it was the flood control systems built by humans that failed. In 1972, Wilkes-Barre, in the Wyoming Valley of northeast Pennsylvania, was the hardest hit of all areas affected on the east coast. I’ve not seen the new documentary yet, but it no doubt avoids the cemetery carnage. That part of the story is not for the faint of heart. Books and photographs rarely depict any detail of it, but you can see some photos on the blog I posted in 2020, “Corpse Recovery and Cadaver Bags” (link at end).</span></p><p></p><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiT82v97zG_i0V2VJN_deHSlHeSugL4fbf8LU9KttMPP4eubsOco8I5v15ZnlC75UtCU4aJlmfTX-EtkmXMg7oJxexVDWTqFt0YPIYG8D-6d_MkTL0FGx2AyeSV7QoH_ZleuvkXNmdNpGQ2tULbqpJQVDl0063ynJN3PvmSYDavXD6H4F4kzolB1AiV/s840/Day%20Break%20small.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" data-original-height="630" data-original-width="840" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiT82v97zG_i0V2VJN_deHSlHeSugL4fbf8LU9KttMPP4eubsOco8I5v15ZnlC75UtCU4aJlmfTX-EtkmXMg7oJxexVDWTqFt0YPIYG8D-6d_MkTL0FGx2AyeSV7QoH_ZleuvkXNmdNpGQ2tULbqpJQVDl0063ynJN3PvmSYDavXD6H4F4kzolB1AiV/w400-h300/Day%20Break%20small.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">It is true that the living were more concerned about their own plight, that of the living, than about the dead, during that disaster - at least at the time we all had to evacuate. But after it was made public that Forty-Fort Cemetery had been decimated, I would imagine that many people who had loved ones buried there were crushed. Did they go to the cemetery after the flood waters receded to see the devastation? Did they want to know – and see – that their family plot had been spared? What of then </span><i style="font-family: inherit;">recent</i><span style="font-family: inherit;"> burials like the one below? They wouldn't know until the day break, and the shadows flee.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwPqG9Q8XCKZywSx904868WbulUp4LyJIJhCFENezc27X8z1gBZixOD6J06fRAuuAbaMzRAcTcFTWsZ1sOk-1GRPAiQsDtPm3WVfDlbOUVUUCbLM_74h_l1lSWdMy_06yxwZqlbde4H1UEPpH5pnSZLpNB7utHs6K3MrMKEvEcqUeJBN6jkb-4sXGh/s840/Lamb%20small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="630" data-original-width="840" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwPqG9Q8XCKZywSx904868WbulUp4LyJIJhCFENezc27X8z1gBZixOD6J06fRAuuAbaMzRAcTcFTWsZ1sOk-1GRPAiQsDtPm3WVfDlbOUVUUCbLM_74h_l1lSWdMy_06yxwZqlbde4H1UEPpH5pnSZLpNB7utHs6K3MrMKEvEcqUeJBN6jkb-4sXGh/w400-h300/Lamb%20small.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">For many weeks – maybe months – after the waters went down, sheets of plywood blocked the view of the cemetery from the roadway. Behind that barricade, the Army Corps of Engineers filled in the chasm left by the raging Susquehanna River. Whatever grave markers were left in that area of 2,500 unearthed burials were likely buried. THOUSANDS of bodies and coffins that were torn out of Forty-Fort Cemetery and deposited in various locations throughout the region had to be collected. This was done, for the most part, before the public was allowed back into the many affected cities and towns – Wilkes-Barre, Kingston, Forty-Fort, Plymouth, Nanticoke, Swoyersville, and so on. There were coffins lodged on peoples’ porches.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">If any of my readers were involved in the cemetery cleanup and reinterment at Memorial Shrine Cemetery in Carverton, PA, please get in touch. I’d like to hear your story (I can be reached privately at mourningarts@yahoo.com). </span></p><p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEis_Ya9t1pFjBMR7Zvw94f-aYpo3MoWqpGiyZc5k1M0UKG4kpXQpYAA19wSprtzLaXGLsuIjUEuW25KfWh4b7fwmPyFMEyzWo-IhPed_d83zmUwxVBWdVYn0fg-xahRVrhnya7ymGaMbU5aD9MEGX-MqxbkAStAYQdOmQsKC3cetgdEazopDfq9lRMh/s780/Cemetery%20office%20small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="585" data-original-width="780" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEis_Ya9t1pFjBMR7Zvw94f-aYpo3MoWqpGiyZc5k1M0UKG4kpXQpYAA19wSprtzLaXGLsuIjUEuW25KfWh4b7fwmPyFMEyzWo-IhPed_d83zmUwxVBWdVYn0fg-xahRVrhnya7ymGaMbU5aD9MEGX-MqxbkAStAYQdOmQsKC3cetgdEazopDfq9lRMh/w400-h300/Cemetery%20office%20small.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Forty-Fort Cemetery office, Forty-Fort, PA.</span></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">Four acres of land (including burials) were torn from the center of Forty-Fort Cemetery and washed away. The chasm was about ten feet deep. I doubt anyone was around at the time to see this occur. Supposedly before the dike broke apart, the caretaker was wading through knee-deep water carrying books of burial records from the office to somewhere safe. There were people sandbagging on the dike (myself and my father included), but we all ran when the flood waters started shooting out of the storm drains in the streets. As the river rose over the dike, the dike gave way. Think about the Led Zeppelin song, “<i>When the Levee Breaks</i>” and think about what occurred in New Orleans during Hurricane Katrina in 2005 (which occurred in August of that year). </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i></i></span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikpQhSAmPTPCyDHhmE-e_T2dPlyM1n42vzvYLDH_ZXw1OPGvpVaGC5NrCpCUhyzCUbkAf7AE19a_Bnifluub0FyZXU7R-EPXsk3CeMdavWDufzu2CqSGtZHKeup5gFryOWGrU0RsIlZcHGaLuIrbOHEuTvSLec45TMeJZCdShfQniGQ5VEbLmr3WQS/s960/Inscription%20small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="568" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikpQhSAmPTPCyDHhmE-e_T2dPlyM1n42vzvYLDH_ZXw1OPGvpVaGC5NrCpCUhyzCUbkAf7AE19a_Bnifluub0FyZXU7R-EPXsk3CeMdavWDufzu2CqSGtZHKeup5gFryOWGrU0RsIlZcHGaLuIrbOHEuTvSLec45TMeJZCdShfQniGQ5VEbLmr3WQS/w236-h400/Inscription%20small.jpg" width="236" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Cenotaph inscription</span></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i></i></span></div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><div style="text-align: center;"><i style="font-family: inherit;">“Cryin' won't help you, prayin' won't do you no good</i></div></span><p></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>No, cryin' won't help you, prayin' won't do you no good</i></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>When the levee breaks, mama, you got to move …” </i></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">- From the Led Zeppelin song, “<i>When the Levee Breaks</i>”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">Sometime toward the end of July, I believe, my cousin Albert and I explored the gutted cemetery (we slithered under the plywood in a washed out area). You can read about what we saw in the introduction to my book, “<b><i>The Cemetery Traveler</i></b>.” I won’t go into those details here, but suffice it to say that you don’t want to read that right before bedtime. In the photo below, you can see the area of fence at the Wyoming Avenue side of the cemetery under which we gained access. (You may purchase the book from Amazon, if you are interested: </span><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Cemetery-Traveler-Selections-blog/dp/1717885950">https://www.amazon.com/Cemetery-Traveler-Selections-blog/dp/1717885950</a><span style="font-family: inherit;">)</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></p><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3DfXJjP1hPRB6Mn2fFrqHm5sPAiwpTi62X0qJqZRmj7kt429qvNndmNbH5eGVPjuMKzdwex4aaKtW9R3MmZMrgk07pR4CNMfDzne-Tr9QE9RHxardXUpG_422wOua2LpdOnDD0GO8O7AWSBp_JVKuNcfRHEcmg4vCi0BFRMQe4ZQQrv0ysGlLaNCH/s840/CT%20Book%20small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><br /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCjvB7mYosUqt36PMZQMP7Fxe0n8E15lUKEiuJ_RHRv90vcwQFroNzmQYWFfkS_5ziJujImHGH314jgQRB52x-ctF0jV0nD_QzB4WBmfxdJIjW2wowz9xFhkV7eUQP2bwUQvqJ9lfoCHEnU-JtBlSac1MRtwCHu_s-qaKiUb-WUlKGvkwF9xjDTj9M/s840/Fence%20small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="840" data-original-width="630" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCjvB7mYosUqt36PMZQMP7Fxe0n8E15lUKEiuJ_RHRv90vcwQFroNzmQYWFfkS_5ziJujImHGH314jgQRB52x-ctF0jV0nD_QzB4WBmfxdJIjW2wowz9xFhkV7eUQP2bwUQvqJ9lfoCHEnU-JtBlSac1MRtwCHu_s-qaKiUb-WUlKGvkwF9xjDTj9M/s320/Fence%20small.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Fence we climbed under, on Wyoming Ave.</span></td></tr></tbody></table>Albert died on November 15, 2021. He was 64. We grew up together and I do regret not discussing these events with him later in his life. Different people have different ways of looking at things and I should have asked his perspective on our experience. During and after the flood, my family stayed for several weeks with his family, on the high ground outside the flood zone. While this was all going on, my closest friend George, who lived a few blocks from us, was having his own adventures with his family. George wrote me recently suggesting that I ask him about what he went through the day the flood hit. Maybe I never knew this. It dawned on me, that of course each and every one of the thousands of people who were displaced and affected by the flood had their own unique story. I am looking forward to hearing his soon.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">August was spent clearing out the house, trying to figure out how to move forward, and not really wanting to begin my freshman year in high school at a new school. It’s August now, fifty years later. Its surprising how one can remember details of events this long after.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">I visited my Mom and brother a few weeks ago, they both still live in the area, Kingston, PA, in an apartment building that was built in the flood zone, after the flood. Yes, people rebuilt and moved right back into the previously flooded areas. How much prescience was involved in THOSE decisions is a mystery. My parents fixed their house up as best they could and then sold it. We moved to higher ground. </span></p><p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEVLtFIKhS69XUCFE2USMi05gHGLWKczudpCflj6fsC_maKIfRaIhUG4sCsWLT8XygVPYwY6dXmCSbdkCibpjuM5faVqcF3tG0dF22RI9zJcPl3yIZ8wBnP8EMRuwHds_nIOEOzyrawlKs602orocKg0L7Ay-h7h5ELmGrtuWOTSi8Ktr2WHo3xsmU/s840/Dike%20small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="630" data-original-width="840" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEVLtFIKhS69XUCFE2USMi05gHGLWKczudpCflj6fsC_maKIfRaIhUG4sCsWLT8XygVPYwY6dXmCSbdkCibpjuM5faVqcF3tG0dF22RI9zJcPl3yIZ8wBnP8EMRuwHds_nIOEOzyrawlKs602orocKg0L7Ay-h7h5ELmGrtuWOTSi8Ktr2WHo3xsmU/w400-h300/Dike%20small.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Memorial to the displaced, in Forty-Fort Cemetery</span></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQbDKfkJnko7Jna4je4sjdzsJISs_7dJhOiQk36jJ-0bmpsXlti6Ao4cSiCmvwAur8TIXkTkYPpTN_Bwhhkbe99o-2ip7KiYGwTeDxMn3WGoZVTrRgLE1gQBW9EvRbkrygD-yW4KATt41xm5eDKMmf24Q6d0FSB6hjhbH9s26qJ0kSJGumBrVY7Jga/s780/Tree%20vertical%20small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="780" data-original-width="585" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQbDKfkJnko7Jna4je4sjdzsJISs_7dJhOiQk36jJ-0bmpsXlti6Ao4cSiCmvwAur8TIXkTkYPpTN_Bwhhkbe99o-2ip7KiYGwTeDxMn3WGoZVTrRgLE1gQBW9EvRbkrygD-yW4KATt41xm5eDKMmf24Q6d0FSB6hjhbH9s26qJ0kSJGumBrVY7Jga/s320/Tree%20vertical%20small.jpg" width="240" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: inherit;">In the photo above, you can see the rebuilt green grassy dike in the background, keeping the river out of the Forty-Fort Cemetery. You can see a faint blue horizontal line following the top of the dike – this line is the tops of vertical steel piles that were driven into the ground through the miles of dike to provide support and additional height. That process took years. I took a drive and a walk through the Forty-Fort Cemetery, retracing the steps my cousin Albert and I took as we walked through it after the waters had receded. At left you see the tree that I refer to in the introduction to my book - the tree that had that object propped against. A woman who introduced herself as the caretaker of the property was busy cutting back bushes around gravestones. She obviously took great pride in her work. She didn’t look quite old enough to have been alive in 1972, so I just told her that I lived in the area back then and stopped by to visit.</span><div><p></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">Fifty people died in that flood in Pennsylvania alone (neighboring states were also affected), and 220,000 PA homes were flooded, including those of my parents, grandmother, and school friends. As I write this at the beginning of August, 2022, I’m listening to a radio interview with a victim of current flooding in Tennessee, in which 25 people died. He said something that struck me: <i>“When the flood comes, there’s no talkin’ to it.”</i> Having lived through such a catastrophe, I know what he means. There’s no stopping it. Whenever I hear about a flood somewhere, I know firsthand what those people went through. </span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjySFcAXu0utg8P37IudF3fjvKAy39zwvpsWXRnlp32x2rk9LDANgxG_S0YWtxmjRJ6tTz2qSMPJCeWrFK1xTSIi82Ho5rSGr-6AVZTme-YSTWY8_6g5Yuw4M1Ch9vku8zk89ortA5mJspsbiPiVNovuCaSHD8MbGERg19ff730mig-YnPpoMadDubC/s840/Agnes%20cenotaph%20small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="630" data-original-width="840" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjySFcAXu0utg8P37IudF3fjvKAy39zwvpsWXRnlp32x2rk9LDANgxG_S0YWtxmjRJ6tTz2qSMPJCeWrFK1xTSIi82Ho5rSGr-6AVZTme-YSTWY8_6g5Yuw4M1Ch9vku8zk89ortA5mJspsbiPiVNovuCaSHD8MbGERg19ff730mig-YnPpoMadDubC/w400-h300/Agnes%20cenotaph%20small.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Cenotaph with dike in background - the Susquehanna River flows beyond</span></span></td></tr></tbody></table><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">Humans can pretend they’re in control, but nature knows better. The cenotaph monument on the circular platform in the center of Forty-Fort Cemetery is a stark reminder of nature’s force. It commemorates the rude disinterments of those 2,500 bodies in 1972. What is now an unadorned grassy field, was once acres of graves and grave markers of all types. Now they’re gone. I imagine the markers that had not been washed away were simply buried here. The bodies and other remains were moved to a mass grave, miles away on much higher ground.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><b><i>Further Reading:</i></b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">My last blog about Forty-Fort Cemetery: <a href="https://thecemeterytraveler.blogspot.com/2020/06/corpse-recovery-and-cadaver-bags-after.html">https://thecemeterytraveler.blogspot.com/2020/06/corpse-recovery-and-cadaver-bags-after.html</a></span></p><p><a href="https://www.fema.gov/press-release/20220607/reflecting-hurricane-agnes-50-years-later " target="_blank"><span style="font-family: inherit;">https://www.fema.gov/press-release/20220607/reflecting-hurricane-agnes-50-years-later</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></a></p><p>Ed Snyder's book, "<b><i>The Cemetery Traveler</i></b>:" <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Cemetery-Traveler-Selections-blog/dp/1717885950">https://www.amazon.com/Cemetery-Traveler-Selections-blog/dp/1717885950</a></p><p>Agnes 50th Anniversary Documentary DVD — Wilkes-Barré Preservation Society (wbpreservation.org):</p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://www.wvia.org/tv/agnes-50/" target="_blank">https://www.wvia.org/tv/agnes-50/</a></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">Tennessee Flooding, July 2022 <a href="https://www.upi.com/Top_News/US/2022/07/31/Drenching-downpours-renew-flood-threat/9821659287913/">https://www.upi.com/Top_News/US/2022/07/31/Drenching-downpours-renew-flood-threat/9821659287913/</a></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://www.nucorskyline.com/globalnav/applications/levees-storm-protection">https://www.nucorskyline.com/globalnav/applications/levees-storm-protection</a></span></p></div>StoneAngels: The Cemetery Travelerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02776945637111478231noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9091026817968807873.post-31182924878368218842022-07-19T16:13:00.000-07:002022-07-19T16:35:43.060-07:00All the City Cemeteries of San Antonio in One Day!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6ajlFMFFJtvdFo8daRxFj4LLj72Mqs_iF8c-udp0PoY7bMA2ztqGg6lgYo8SLFW472Ufv6jbr7hWtthZAFdQ6hPwKyln_MUXnP1h6cIKo7ew3jUHeF2cklMHnOrSvX_hMG7xye7ABdFMStN4D2rGppjPPzJpHg4AN5L5sx8_CHYNxh33Et7cF0v4Q/s840/Marble%20monument%20small.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="630" data-original-width="840" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6ajlFMFFJtvdFo8daRxFj4LLj72Mqs_iF8c-udp0PoY7bMA2ztqGg6lgYo8SLFW472Ufv6jbr7hWtthZAFdQ6hPwKyln_MUXnP1h6cIKo7ew3jUHeF2cklMHnOrSvX_hMG7xye7ABdFMStN4D2rGppjPPzJpHg4AN5L5sx8_CHYNxh33Et7cF0v4Q/w400-h300/Marble%20monument%20small.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Thirty-one cemeteries across 103 contiguous acres, in five hours. That was the goal, anyway. However, I only hit twenty-seven cemeteries before I hit the wall of exhaustion. I totally ran out of steam toward the end of this marathon, 95-degree afternoon in San Antonio, Texas. It was so hot that my iPhone 12 was intermittently fading in and out because of the heat. Just needed it to keep enough juice to call an Uber for the ride back to the hotel later that afternoon.</span></div></span></div><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqyrtCcD5fdn6feHIH07fJGmu_ZZ35XzslfpNrotYPHE0_hHKfWKMdwNsvqCjpyLF6OMPoUYIiT6AiAOP0f8MYxLdCa0o8MTKNzWyUutQ0J07VDMtjuSruCafwcYmD0SdREqGsKzViu1HvJEZzpDb9XyuBUcOrpw-QCy4iJAYil0bhC1t767-OfEr4/s693/Cactus%20small.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="693" data-original-width="520" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqyrtCcD5fdn6feHIH07fJGmu_ZZ35XzslfpNrotYPHE0_hHKfWKMdwNsvqCjpyLF6OMPoUYIiT6AiAOP0f8MYxLdCa0o8MTKNzWyUutQ0J07VDMtjuSruCafwcYmD0SdREqGsKzViu1HvJEZzpDb9XyuBUcOrpw-QCy4iJAYil0bhC1t767-OfEr4/w240-h320/Cactus%20small.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">St. Joseph's Catholic Cemetery</span></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: inherit;">Of the four days I expected to be in San Antone, this first day, Friday, was forecast to be the coolest, at 95 degrees. Temperature was expected to slowly rise in subsequent days so that by Monday, it would be 108! Certainly not going on a long explore in that heat. And those people who say, <i>”Well, it’s a DRY heat…”</i> Well, no, its not. Relative humidity was 80 per cent. San Antonio is like a tropical rain forest (and it did actually rain Friday night into Saturday). </span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">The only other time I did a cemetery excursion of this magnitude was when a friend and I spent a day visiting about a dozen cemeteries in Brooklyn and Queens, NY. We drove from one to the next, all day long. In retrospect, having a car here in Texas would’ve made life easier. Even though the 31 cemeteries are contiguous (see map), it isn’t like you can easily leave one and enter the other at will. </span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3dRSVy5fj4MmsXy5nRV1_J_TNK86VUnFN7ed8GD7nHIVy8CgMCQjRdckLGsDxaxXWZKKFDLvaWUlfuWe2K-XtivmJx_1roaauLCMC7yC7ejIWpiI4AC0GbGNPg1745K1MPdIIzUZXo-DmCzqq9ATXsczmNK3al5Q1VwpOkbGJs1X2paG36Vc4_E1t/s780/Map-of-Cemetery-District%20path%20small.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="780" data-original-width="603" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3dRSVy5fj4MmsXy5nRV1_J_TNK86VUnFN7ed8GD7nHIVy8CgMCQjRdckLGsDxaxXWZKKFDLvaWUlfuWe2K-XtivmJx_1roaauLCMC7yC7ejIWpiI4AC0GbGNPg1745K1MPdIIzUZXo-DmCzqq9ATXsczmNK3al5Q1VwpOkbGJs1X2paG36Vc4_E1t/w309-h400/Map-of-Cemetery-District%20path%20small.jpg" width="309" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://stjohnssa.org/archives/"><span style="font-size: x-small;">St. John's Lutheran Cemetery, San Antonio (stjohnssa.org)</span></a></td></tr></tbody></table><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">Why is that? Well, when I was here about ten years ago I was driving a rental car. I did not recall the fact that all the individual cemeteries are either walled or fenced off from each other. Very rarely is the exit of one lined up with the entrance to the one next door. This, unfortunately, required much unproductive walking (sometimes as much as two city blocks) just to FIND the entrance! I did not have the luxury of having a map or photos showing WHERE the entrance and exits were located. Under normal circumstances, this would be no big deal. But with such unbearable heat that the ice in my thermos of ice water melted almost immediately upon arrival, it was quite aggravating. My suggestion? Drive. Even with gas prices over $5.00 per gallon for regular, drive. (By the way, there is a link at the end if you would like to read my 2012 blog, "The Cemeteries of Old San Antonio.")</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUqItrhYmqQLRHl53I7b4-Y7al60nBns1p0Kbsq1lUemb0nqbhIP10nJVG96QqnGXzMmXvmxTVW4a-MHiQB-hBoTwfWg_7gEpSrarRdnS-CWoFG8voT1UC_t1pSq2mzInA3hmeTWQjanLuefMFwEp92OX8Kp6c2aFdstSN7s6Bb2Oj64UKbn9KfeQV/s840/National%20plaque%20small.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="840" data-original-width="720" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUqItrhYmqQLRHl53I7b4-Y7al60nBns1p0Kbsq1lUemb0nqbhIP10nJVG96QqnGXzMmXvmxTVW4a-MHiQB-hBoTwfWg_7gEpSrarRdnS-CWoFG8voT1UC_t1pSq2mzInA3hmeTWQjanLuefMFwEp92OX8Kp6c2aFdstSN7s6Bb2Oj64UKbn9KfeQV/w274-h320/National%20plaque%20small.jpg" width="274" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: inherit;">That said, my Uber dropoff was at the San Antonio National Cemetery – I figured that actually had an address that the driver could find, as opposed to say, the Harmonia Lodge No. 1 Cemetery. So he found it with no problem, stating that no one ever asked him to drive to a cemetery before. (At some point in the future, I must get some rideshare driver to take me to some cemetery at NIGHT, just to see the driver’s reaction. Maybe I’ll carry a mallet and a wooden stake with me.)</span><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDKvZ7W69Pi12t7afyplQs4AUabJAm646y9A0JUIcqP6LB9C13AU0zLia2bTbM9EC-LeOf503y2EuI-Op3RbCdj06j9OyacqFknV8iOYkaLPxGd0XrVfyShcVJ1ZAlWHxh-mG1V7-k4CmYU-V9xYIe7TXIrYg-sLU4Fgx9qbXO-GvYyUy0pq1kniw7/s840/Tree%20small.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="630" data-original-width="840" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDKvZ7W69Pi12t7afyplQs4AUabJAm646y9A0JUIcqP6LB9C13AU0zLia2bTbM9EC-LeOf503y2EuI-Op3RbCdj06j9OyacqFknV8iOYkaLPxGd0XrVfyShcVJ1ZAlWHxh-mG1V7-k4CmYU-V9xYIe7TXIrYg-sLU4Fgx9qbXO-GvYyUy0pq1kniw7/w400-h300/Tree%20small.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Woodmen of the World gravemarker in the National Cemetery</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">I walked through a bit of the National Cemetery first, thinking that if any of the 31 would be locked up at the end of the day, this would be the first. Most of the gravemarkers were regulation-size government-issue marble headstones, but I could see a few monuments off in the distance. I exited the cemetery thinking I’d investigate these few pieces later on. The two large Woodmen of the World <i>marble</i> tree sculptures were rather unusual, for <i>any</i> cemetery. Typically such monuments are carved from granite.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8yoCpdkOITU0FCcVEKW2n2e82SK5KdY_9psOUzE24dCng8gcY8CMmZYB5HL0tDyUatjLfFdmTeL4zkE5zlsWlzMoCzb-UHEa780RKPvZZja57iKG2FCp2YMZf1CecwLovni4GUiW-Q1N9zEi_lcSd7sxos8sbNTavG7yvr_nC_Wk6wvD0cDZ0apjN/s693/Iron%20Crosses%20small.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="693" data-original-width="520" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8yoCpdkOITU0FCcVEKW2n2e82SK5KdY_9psOUzE24dCng8gcY8CMmZYB5HL0tDyUatjLfFdmTeL4zkE5zlsWlzMoCzb-UHEa780RKPvZZja57iKG2FCp2YMZf1CecwLovni4GUiW-Q1N9zEi_lcSd7sxos8sbNTavG7yvr_nC_Wk6wvD0cDZ0apjN/s320/Iron%20Crosses%20small.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Iron crosses in St. Joseph's Catholic Cemetery </span></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: inherit;">It is interesting how the city created its cemetery district in 1853 (Texas only became a state seven years earlier, in 1846). According to the San Antonio Parks and Recreation Department, new entities – fraternal organizations, churches, etc. - created their own cemeteries here on Powder House Hill, adding to it up until 1904 (<a href="https://www.sanantonio.gov/ParksAndRec/Parks-Facilities/All-Parks-Facilities/Historic-City-Cemeteries">ref.</a>). After that, new cemeteries were established in various areas outside the city center, beginning with San Jose Cemetery in 1922. These are all much larger, Victorian-type sculpture gardens (which you can read about in my 2012 blog post, link at the end).</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">I was as prepared as I thought I needed to be for the day’s excursion – sunblock, insulated water bottle with ice, baseball cap, shoulder bag with two real cameras in addition to my iPhone 12. I’m just going to give you a general overview of my day here, with specific experiences in certain cemeteries written up in future blogs. I will touch on some highlights, however. On the map above, you’ll see in red numbers the sequence of cemeteries I visited, starting with the National Cemetery. I did sort of plan this as far as seeing a few specific sites, some of which I found, others that I did not.</span></p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkT4M7ReP2p7hKurm9e2GhzFpV0AY4hiC0Raei6Nn5QceZLqpOrltPs-Kii9oUDSn0OCHamfGUSp7ylYo4mVf40KJ4eq-nva6DD9IPqy4zfLYJnYbnNJz0OzWnMadfAnmfYwwxyIi9cr4H_jPZYoxqCc_mBj9ZADhp8ZiIZFhOqv_6ZT7bIsXxhCe7/s780/West%20car%20plot%20small.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="584" data-original-width="780" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkT4M7ReP2p7hKurm9e2GhzFpV0AY4hiC0Raei6Nn5QceZLqpOrltPs-Kii9oUDSn0OCHamfGUSp7ylYo4mVf40KJ4eq-nva6DD9IPqy4zfLYJnYbnNJz0OzWnMadfAnmfYwwxyIi9cr4H_jPZYoxqCc_mBj9ZADhp8ZiIZFhOqv_6ZT7bIsXxhCe7/w400-h300/West%20car%20plot%20small.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Bare spot at lower right is where Sandra West is buried in her Ferrari</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgn3xRyRPg_WToGtEN5hrTivIJ6-AbtiwLKhZTmLvVjg5kTFg8vUbFycziP80czW7BUt6s22tlhrhn-hfL5ywS5abIZo92RktCSSwY_AVL_ElBUL3nOXS9awL0wpJxXUXZ6yyF7Tu9W60kmYbHpALy8UJ_TsFT5bAGIArkHjVV6DzqAXvFGcwi_7iFr/s733/West%20selfie%20small.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="616" data-original-width="733" height="269" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgn3xRyRPg_WToGtEN5hrTivIJ6-AbtiwLKhZTmLvVjg5kTFg8vUbFycziP80czW7BUt6s22tlhrhn-hfL5ywS5abIZo92RktCSSwY_AVL_ElBUL3nOXS9awL0wpJxXUXZ6yyF7Tu9W60kmYbHpALy8UJ_TsFT5bAGIArkHjVV6DzqAXvFGcwi_7iFr/s320/West%20selfie%20small.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: inherit;">One of the first graves that I successfully located belongs to Sandra West - in which she is buried, behind the driver’s seat, of her 1964 Ferrari 330 America. In the photo below, you can see the concrete vault holding the car and body being lowered into her grave.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn-aih6i0SrN7kucZAt-2LNuVaUMKPsHS3rEKCJ_L8p75Rv7vrof8IiNuzpFu-xZ6JY9tT3j56hXTN-CEez8LlU17np6GSnWUxFDSTXIDs7qzBQbkPxT2fl9W6QV5GDWE9sVXaS34r-5Hj-a6-Kb5lMQHzDeTA0InfAQ-q_iGtsHx0fC0-m91vCJwt/s840/Sandra%20West%20small.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="448" data-original-width="840" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn-aih6i0SrN7kucZAt-2LNuVaUMKPsHS3rEKCJ_L8p75Rv7vrof8IiNuzpFu-xZ6JY9tT3j56hXTN-CEez8LlU17np6GSnWUxFDSTXIDs7qzBQbkPxT2fl9W6QV5GDWE9sVXaS34r-5Hj-a6-Kb5lMQHzDeTA0InfAQ-q_iGtsHx0fC0-m91vCJwt/w400-h214/Sandra%20West%20small.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.cultofweird.com/death/sandra-west-buried-ferrari/"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Sandra West: The Woman Who Was Buried in Her Ferrari (cultofweird.com)</span></a></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />West, a wealthy Beverly Hills socialite, died in 1977. You’d never guess by looking at the barren ground in this photo that a car is buried beneath, now would you? There is a large open area at the foot of her headstone that is about the size of a car. Here's a selfie of me standing above that half-million dollar sports car. This is in the Masonic Cemetery, Alamo Lodge. Oddly, this is the only cemetery in San Antonio's Eastside Cemetery Historic District that does not have a fence around it - but more on that later.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvOYCwGW-xX5JwKNjmkeCt2BN0OhgLM7Gki_LRgZgoknL_j5nIqHDpm6rXdnL-npOcpZg0hz66ebN8naxtoGePx5xxM8mvIDpgdhJZEi0Ct0qq8zYYAR21XWwIpRfEaI1OEg79jRyfA5HSdHf0PxEeHQGUlwIOXXO77tnib3xOawhBDw3HwAwNTcdl/s780/Zinc%20Jesus%20small.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="585" data-original-width="780" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvOYCwGW-xX5JwKNjmkeCt2BN0OhgLM7Gki_LRgZgoknL_j5nIqHDpm6rXdnL-npOcpZg0hz66ebN8naxtoGePx5xxM8mvIDpgdhJZEi0Ct0qq8zYYAR21XWwIpRfEaI1OEg79jRyfA5HSdHf0PxEeHQGUlwIOXXO77tnib3xOawhBDw3HwAwNTcdl/w400-h300/Zinc%20Jesus%20small.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Fractured zinc Jesus on an iron cross</span></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnfAEJn5Ol8VcqM6wJZ-KfhwBMWjd1SRlh5PUnn025CsszIdjY1-fAqB3HfHJx1Fx7ZByB_xFLhNFO7CxH_MKDkHmbbow10FQCUlZdjO2IkDYv9qL_O3E-_tZ-XAGQ7GVRNMU8qGH5YxW1bm1Ipg9YJw1WC9tXm7TB0zPRL5TJsO_3O9ndK5WWRVPU/s780/Zinc%20repair%20small.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="780" data-original-width="585" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnfAEJn5Ol8VcqM6wJZ-KfhwBMWjd1SRlh5PUnn025CsszIdjY1-fAqB3HfHJx1Fx7ZByB_xFLhNFO7CxH_MKDkHmbbow10FQCUlZdjO2IkDYv9qL_O3E-_tZ-XAGQ7GVRNMU8qGH5YxW1bm1Ipg9YJw1WC9tXm7TB0zPRL5TJsO_3O9ndK5WWRVPU/s320/Zinc%20repair%20small.jpg" width="240" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: inherit;">One of the things I did not locate was the large zinc, or “white bronze” angel with the wing broken off, which I had photographed on my last visit (see photos in my 2012 blog post, link at end). It was near the zinc Jesus on the iron cross in the Old German Lutheran Cemetery. Alas, the angel had flown. Stolen, maybe? It did adorn a grave on the ground, and was about four feet high. I’d like to think it was spirited away for safe keeping somewhere, possibly by the same person who did the body work on the zinc cradle crave a short distance away.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgmWfjc-AbQyDtmXLuxVXfU_u5SrGVhtcQyNx5R4tgj-3pUVTPUNHZTC5BEsqLq7gzG0BAmEp1qqKwmqzDJ_GUhyYjnr1qVNeUuO4JDCV_n3idx1FZ17mwaWAh2IvG7W_DmNYCfreXuzgU2eZvaMQ8BIiNYnDU6_7qgRQYXH_jNC8-70vTXqMRNOVa/s520/Zinc%20cradle%20small.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="520" data-original-width="390" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgmWfjc-AbQyDtmXLuxVXfU_u5SrGVhtcQyNx5R4tgj-3pUVTPUNHZTC5BEsqLq7gzG0BAmEp1qqKwmqzDJ_GUhyYjnr1qVNeUuO4JDCV_n3idx1FZ17mwaWAh2IvG7W_DmNYCfreXuzgU2eZvaMQ8BIiNYnDU6_7qgRQYXH_jNC8-70vTXqMRNOVa/s320/Zinc%20cradle%20small.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Zinc cradle grave, with body work</span></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: inherit;">But let’s talk about the map for a bit. You can find it at this link, which is the site for St. John’s Lutheran Church (<a href="https://stjohnssa.org/archives/">https://stjohnssa.org/archives/</a>). St. John’s “Old Lutheran Cemetery,” which was Stop #20 on the map, was established in 1866. The map seems to have been created by the San Antonio Parks and Recreation Department, but I cannot find it on their website. They receive credit for its creation, I suppose, and if it is copyrighted, I will gladly remove it.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">There is a great variety of grave markers throughout these 31 cemeteries. From simple handmade concrete slabs to giant granite Victorian-era obelisks and other sculpture, there is just about everything you can imagine. There are tiny carved angels and large, finely sculpted marble and granite statuary. The different cemeteries have different styles of grave markers, for example the large iron crosses in the Old German Lutheran Cemetery and St. Joseph’s Catholic Cemetery. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHjRPZpMh2Y7kkF3JegOZBE-ZrVoouwK16yFq4wASqwWX7-ScazNcjRob6e50dN7wofhbpBCsy0a5FdVvjrfqadQhj4sca_9Tq-yhnQoGZoIY6taujghyLokW_lBXNwLSokZeEJhOS0qQhDPMrdtU_pzrMps0runpXdEHZ3MCdHCv5lLyEEwR8ybeA/s780/Hands%20small.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="585" data-original-width="780" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHjRPZpMh2Y7kkF3JegOZBE-ZrVoouwK16yFq4wASqwWX7-ScazNcjRob6e50dN7wofhbpBCsy0a5FdVvjrfqadQhj4sca_9Tq-yhnQoGZoIY6taujghyLokW_lBXNwLSokZeEJhOS0qQhDPMrdtU_pzrMps0runpXdEHZ3MCdHCv5lLyEEwR8ybeA/w400-h300/Hands%20small.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />There were also some pleasant surprises, like the German-inscribed white marble stones in German Lutheran. These were beautifully preserved and lovely to see. <p></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCfXIHOZGbQfjt0JIvhfxfpwHVTAyM4A8xkrzmKRwsY2fODiwqCN_6qvYIXJmuubV3vDXfmKSnnCVzigN0y2tgdkvKdvyFRpElNcqta78by3RAop_-bl4cEV8MBpMHX0C8hV0NQ6CGVoRn8RH35vIpza8G6QKacE62VYJnC0u7C7tZwg5kCCPiDt-N/s780/Jelly%20jar%20small.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="780" data-original-width="585" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCfXIHOZGbQfjt0JIvhfxfpwHVTAyM4A8xkrzmKRwsY2fODiwqCN_6qvYIXJmuubV3vDXfmKSnnCVzigN0y2tgdkvKdvyFRpElNcqta78by3RAop_-bl4cEV8MBpMHX0C8hV0NQ6CGVoRn8RH35vIpza8G6QKacE62VYJnC0u7C7tZwg5kCCPiDt-N/s320/Jelly%20jar%20small.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Spell jar at the foot of a grave</span></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: inherit;">I also came across two graves (in two separate cemeteries) which had jelly jars half buried in the dirt in front of the headstone. These were not new jars of Smuckers jelly, but repurposed jelly jars, sealed, with some sort of unguent inside. Hoodoo offerings - ritual spell jars - I assume. One was in City Cemetery No. 1 and one in the Anchor Masonic Lodge Cemetery.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">For a fascinating look at such practices, do check out Sharon Moses’ paper, “Cemetery hoodoo: Culture, ritual crime and forensic archaeology” in the publication, Forensic Science International: Synergy (</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://www.sciencedirect.com/science/article/pii/S2589871X1930155X">Volume 2, 2020, Pages 17-23 by Sharon K. Moses</a>).</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">Below you see the portrait from Jack Harris' grave in City Cemetery No. 1. Harris was an entrepreneur who was shot to death in 1882 by the City Marshal </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">of Austin, Texas, as a result of a gambling debt. In 1875, he had changed the name of his San Antonio saloon to the "Jack Harris Vaudeville Theater and Saloon," and is credited with popularizing the term "vaudeville" for variety theaters in the United States.</span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJzIMtt0qyq4jTNanKNHr3632HdsTo6aU2g22Y-duOm-fGrQ-KMEz88I6LQTF4eRbfvDVJaHZMTIBB17YAweKDaH-jR0_LzC9cgnYV2vYAYqH-ZBAgfiyRn2HkOPzTE67qxPg9h94SJKhxUXw7WZqPG76d541zkOyvx-Le8bGHI7vsVNRZahyz_iII/s780/Portrait%20small.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="780" data-original-width="697" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJzIMtt0qyq4jTNanKNHr3632HdsTo6aU2g22Y-duOm-fGrQ-KMEz88I6LQTF4eRbfvDVJaHZMTIBB17YAweKDaH-jR0_LzC9cgnYV2vYAYqH-ZBAgfiyRn2HkOPzTE67qxPg9h94SJKhxUXw7WZqPG76d541zkOyvx-Le8bGHI7vsVNRZahyz_iII/s320/Portrait%20small.jpg" width="286" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">D.A. "Jack" Harris, 1834 - 1882</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDVXpwwpE1IQvQC8gZVKJsajitlfoeN3bEd03N6pxUK_wUaTFruOxlghK5ANTOvoZ3WtveP5DoPGcuoHfTdnrn-640wFMvNEj1oXvgygjsvRthHjA0vGUdoohNeEfBdP4W_b5u1D_S0ViOaEjLlIv8Q-y6TwnzP07NwTXkkUiB90ZhtoNKWC_BajnE/s780/Broken%20small.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="780" data-original-width="585" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDVXpwwpE1IQvQC8gZVKJsajitlfoeN3bEd03N6pxUK_wUaTFruOxlghK5ANTOvoZ3WtveP5DoPGcuoHfTdnrn-640wFMvNEj1oXvgygjsvRthHjA0vGUdoohNeEfBdP4W_b5u1D_S0ViOaEjLlIv8Q-y6TwnzP07NwTXkkUiB90ZhtoNKWC_BajnE/s320/Broken%20small.jpg" width="240" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: inherit;">You can see from the map that these 31 cemeteries are all different shapes and sizes. Some were several city blocks in magnitude, some were only maybe ten by twenty feet. Most were in reasonably good condition, although a couple were trashed – broken walls, graffiti, garbage strewn about. The Dullnig Family Plot – stop #4 for me, was by far in the worst condition. Headstones were pushed over and broken, the stone walls were smashed and covered with graffiti. Not sure who, if anyone, maintains the cemeteries that are not owned by the city. Cutting grass is probably a non-issue, since in this heat, it doesn’t really look like any flora proliferates beside the palm trees and cacti.</span><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEkmEi2I_nazGsdm4_lSSZ5itCubX1hMq_VGyfxrffvwUCZMZvxJ2Nn3_ZbHPrVRFj8cVNQRKES8PoRPAoiFPyenIr_ANK3Kwkd2JyGR5SRh6zeYF6e9qB_PvFgBhzIWCJyjlSaKTCtoUQBK-ltYWnkblWgqxt-NpVrS9ONsp6TRIIb_sO2sotJe1f/s780/Maus%20grafitti%20small.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="585" data-original-width="780" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEkmEi2I_nazGsdm4_lSSZ5itCubX1hMq_VGyfxrffvwUCZMZvxJ2Nn3_ZbHPrVRFj8cVNQRKES8PoRPAoiFPyenIr_ANK3Kwkd2JyGR5SRh6zeYF6e9qB_PvFgBhzIWCJyjlSaKTCtoUQBK-ltYWnkblWgqxt-NpVrS9ONsp6TRIIb_sO2sotJe1f/s320/Maus%20grafitti%20small.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Mausoleum in City Cemetery No. 5</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">City Cemetery No. 5 (again, at my stop #4) was tiny, with a few headstones and one graffiti-covered mausoleum. It was quite secluded, shaded with palm trees and walled-in with a locked gate. There appeared to be bedding laid in the shaded grass next to it. The two Jewish cemeteries, Temple Beth-El and Agudas Achim, along with the National Cemetery, were the best kept properties.</span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgs95qasXTOr2UFBl-RSSbMUmeFLB6hmZn-XzNr1OuKjhRM1MlRUe1IDIIU1sZF2Jlg3d-qEOu30oA4byHYgy4ufOVhiqUfKRccRh9x0t6bMyB9ENTldVjOMOaZ07zSXQVTBDq5Idb-wYU3xaNbORzfqaSXbt5vyyMwcm1ubPwXskIFcZIiZt0e5yJd/s780/Landa%20small.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="525" data-original-width="780" height="269" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgs95qasXTOr2UFBl-RSSbMUmeFLB6hmZn-XzNr1OuKjhRM1MlRUe1IDIIU1sZF2Jlg3d-qEOu30oA4byHYgy4ufOVhiqUfKRccRh9x0t6bMyB9ENTldVjOMOaZ07zSXQVTBDq5Idb-wYU3xaNbORzfqaSXbt5vyyMwcm1ubPwXskIFcZIiZt0e5yJd/w400-h269/Landa%20small.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">The magnificent Landa mausoleum, Temple Beth-El Cemetery</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">When I left St. Joseph’s Catholic Cemetery (stop #9) on my way to the IOOF (Independent Order of Odd Fellows) Cemetery, I hopped the wall at Center Street to cut through the National Cemetery. There were a few things I wanted to see in here that I noticed from outside the wall as I walked up Paso Hondo earlier. I found a large tree near the wall and took a water break in the shade. In retrospect, I should’ve rented a burro and thrown all my gear into a panier strapped across its back. But hey, that’s why there are erasers at the end of pencils – people make mistakes.</span></p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr_7h79dBIGwHXQPlviRT7YdKP3kI4CgODV6aNv0thrryrvRLqA40ywow83zMH-Glnm6dr_jyo9_hwuTdO8r3hjcVHhGTtmKCRHZ5MzocaPXXpXLpKKbpsn3nOgsm91OiZzE_nUNMMwlV30okicRhfMBOV7J95AfPvLk_9MFG-W-gPzWovOrZJ5Vpp/s780/Angel%20horiz%20small.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="585" data-original-width="780" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr_7h79dBIGwHXQPlviRT7YdKP3kI4CgODV6aNv0thrryrvRLqA40ywow83zMH-Glnm6dr_jyo9_hwuTdO8r3hjcVHhGTtmKCRHZ5MzocaPXXpXLpKKbpsn3nOgsm91OiZzE_nUNMMwlV30okicRhfMBOV7J95AfPvLk_9MFG-W-gPzWovOrZJ5Vpp/w400-h300/Angel%20horiz%20small.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Angel in the National Cemetery</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5o4hndtiGDaKDWhk-Gf03qX6KfvxIPpxEYKXFHIU68d1o7YnLyYHG2mZIvBOVt8QC_wssDtNk8aTkLlehAafqG7p3nNwWTBO9VqA6sKWTp7v6pIu1KHAWy_qmzLz1vnDzEYne6fYfe59GnR1pN3uYMrZ0tutviw71sL8BHtEDki4HOwUcYFdgyteH/s827/Angel%20small.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="827" data-original-width="520" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5o4hndtiGDaKDWhk-Gf03qX6KfvxIPpxEYKXFHIU68d1o7YnLyYHG2mZIvBOVt8QC_wssDtNk8aTkLlehAafqG7p3nNwWTBO9VqA6sKWTp7v6pIu1KHAWy_qmzLz1vnDzEYne6fYfe59GnR1pN3uYMrZ0tutviw71sL8BHtEDki4HOwUcYFdgyteH/s320/Angel%20small.jpg" width="201" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: inherit;">There can be many translations for “paso hondo.” The one I like is “warrior passage.” Certainly, this seems appropriate for the veterans of the many wars interred in this National Cemetery. One of these warriors had an angel standing guard over his grave, or accompanying him through the passage to the great beyond. Unusual to see such a sculpture in a military, National Cemetery. </span>Around this time I entered No. 4, with the Confederate Cemetery at its center. Curious why this is separate from the National Cemetery, and I suppose there’s a story there. <p></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqFzOxIIyz_yQDAr0NIsUFHB0MjpaktGSm2hb8DShVf_tJyfUrAJssVQLYyhQwQVlbn6it3NMtWsDF8KUN0QnmNYXTPkorWiWhEQynO3uANrajL0Ym5dAtII20X0GP5fBpdrfjVFmnmUntct6wZxhpyv8rYYE_al0I-tHTAg4bVyvWmZfGABY9I9rW/s780/Winn%20monument%20small.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="585" data-original-width="780" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqFzOxIIyz_yQDAr0NIsUFHB0MjpaktGSm2hb8DShVf_tJyfUrAJssVQLYyhQwQVlbn6it3NMtWsDF8KUN0QnmNYXTPkorWiWhEQynO3uANrajL0Ym5dAtII20X0GP5fBpdrfjVFmnmUntct6wZxhpyv8rYYE_al0I-tHTAg4bVyvWmZfGABY9I9rW/w400-h300/Winn%20monument%20small.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Marble statuary atop the Winn monument</span></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />The Winn monument greeted me, which was one of my planned destinations. This is a life-sized white marble statue on a pedestal, of a woman with three children. Last time I was here, I remember this being my last stop. I had snapped a photo of it, but didn’t examine it thoroughly. I don’t believe I had a map with me at that time, and I remember being so overwhelmed with the vast quantities of cemeteries that I think I got to this point and thought, “OMG – ANOTHER cemetery!” I never went in. </span><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkgNDCNLlyhDn1bwTFAR4hJwyje0kYfJgO9gyIiYjl5r-tnQdDyiBWFWOKYfwrv8yOmFHCJj6x5UAN9iWhfLXslIO8bEzcmkthqvLSxqgshiMVHf8_qQqhKz8TRDtrBaDdT7Z5iGihFLx1vIES9eKVSzHa9m02HJOU3apIe9C9mifZFRyc72cgxbvz/s780/Alamo%20small.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="455" data-original-width="780" height="234" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkgNDCNLlyhDn1bwTFAR4hJwyje0kYfJgO9gyIiYjl5r-tnQdDyiBWFWOKYfwrv8yOmFHCJj6x5UAN9iWhfLXslIO8bEzcmkthqvLSxqgshiMVHf8_qQqhKz8TRDtrBaDdT7Z5iGihFLx1vIES9eKVSzHa9m02HJOU3apIe9C9mifZFRyc72cgxbvz/w400-h234/Alamo%20small.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Detail of the "Spirit of Sacrifice" memorial in front of the Alamo</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">The Winn monument was created by the famous San Antonio sculptor, Pompeo Coppini. I really have no idea about the significance of the Winn sculpture – another bit of research for the future. That’s why they make tomorrows, right? Coppini’s most well-known work in this city is the sixty-foot high sculpture, “Spirit of Sacrifice,” a cenotaph in front of the Alamo honoring those who perished at the Battle of the Alamo (<a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Alamo_Cenotaph#Inscription">ref.</a>).</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqZYaxeS5SMzBvGLGEZ0ukWrnz7ywaZjaFSKEr67QNEmMQcHLDbr7vYB4nyT1sgBfYezwFoXOAiSn4Bc1nlqf6a-5J6VUf_5B98-Lx_9C0-NcTIrcEfC5y07_MZMn94IeqUwYIoxlp5cY9_rsJNtuuQvGwoPEJjVaFRlWkoFONkDuBWcPB5cEwL9nR/s780/Marble%20flames%20small.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="780" data-original-width="585" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqZYaxeS5SMzBvGLGEZ0ukWrnz7ywaZjaFSKEr67QNEmMQcHLDbr7vYB4nyT1sgBfYezwFoXOAiSn4Bc1nlqf6a-5J6VUf_5B98-Lx_9C0-NcTIrcEfC5y07_MZMn94IeqUwYIoxlp5cY9_rsJNtuuQvGwoPEJjVaFRlWkoFONkDuBWcPB5cEwL9nR/s320/Marble%20flames%20small.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Coppini's burning bodies</span></span></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: inherit;">A cenotaph, if you’ve not seen that word, is a monument to the deceased, who is/are buried elsewhere. In this case, the 200 men who died in 1836, defending the Alamo against Mexican General Santa Anna and his army of 4,000. The side facing the Alamo itself has bas reliefs of such Alamo heroes as Jim Bowie and Davy Crockett, while the sloped west side features a riveting marble relief of bodies on fire, their spirits ascending to the heavens. Bodies of the dead Alamo defenders were actually piled up and burned by Santa Anna’s army a few blocks from the Alamo. An historic marker currently indicates the site of that funeral pyre.</span><p></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8aRXp6kYE0Uy8YWJMOZ1LgqLKTjmvXPNSKt8fG09rSy5qbSEXX9EawdZwGmeO9PsNCKIiYUJr2MoVVbMS5xesS_xcqdnOYHGS4T0-KoVw0dvVKFMIM9zPqC5Uz1wzbjneWE6ya1vD5wBMccgyRsINDGv_n8H3QYWjHLm2L13ZqVlCRvgxNemyYcVo/s780/Confederate%20flag%20small.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="780" data-original-width="636" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8aRXp6kYE0Uy8YWJMOZ1LgqLKTjmvXPNSKt8fG09rSy5qbSEXX9EawdZwGmeO9PsNCKIiYUJr2MoVVbMS5xesS_xcqdnOYHGS4T0-KoVw0dvVKFMIM9zPqC5Uz1wzbjneWE6ya1vD5wBMccgyRsINDGv_n8H3QYWjHLm2L13ZqVlCRvgxNemyYcVo/s320/Confederate%20flag%20small.jpg" width="261" /></a><span style="font-family: inherit;">And speaking of battles, I also explored the Confederate Cemetery, which is sandwiched between City Cemeteries No.’s 6 and 4. With its high-flying Confederate flag at center, bordered by roadways named after military heroes of the Confederacy, this relatively large plot is the final resting place of many Texan soldiers who fought in the “War Between The States,” as they call it in the South. So the high-flying flag is not actually the official flag of the Confederacy. Did you know that? </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4uv49hC9jkLd3sI0KJ1WyYUopCmVdrM6VAxw_lAeIzwcuNZiOOL8Bu_z-tLh6DP9_CFnzObypvIX6nDqNX7OvS7d-6Vc7GImsxu5OGd-epBkB_skMnpUQNJoC7mZi9mA2QZ-swQBPtnTiyB1NPtIXWbWFHnDJjoUNesVps0rDXnZH-J8vMjaZBrQ1/s780/Robert%20E%20Lee%20small.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="780" data-original-width="585" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4uv49hC9jkLd3sI0KJ1WyYUopCmVdrM6VAxw_lAeIzwcuNZiOOL8Bu_z-tLh6DP9_CFnzObypvIX6nDqNX7OvS7d-6Vc7GImsxu5OGd-epBkB_skMnpUQNJoC7mZi9mA2QZ-swQBPtnTiyB1NPtIXWbWFHnDJjoUNesVps0rDXnZH-J8vMjaZBrQ1/s320/Robert%20E%20Lee%20small.jpg" width="240" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: inherit;">What is commonly thought to be the official flag of the Confederacy is actually the Confederate <i>battle</i> flag. The battle flag design was adopted early on in the war because the original design of the flag of the Confederacy posed a problem on the battlefield. Due to its similarity to the "stars and stripes" flag used by the United States, it was difficult to tell the two apart unless the flags were unfurled in the wind! (<a href="https://www.allstarflags.com/facts/flags-of-the-confederacy-an-overview/">Ref</a>.) You can see t</span>he First National Confederate Flag in the photo below over a veteran's grave.<p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigBr7llL_H1tTsBH0KDkmCPTA0DY-VQkqtq2Iz2L0pFQrRnEqt4FlP55MTPygpfnzhioZqYhkuvQhHsBLNzg2a7oi2DrrNX_8s63lSQYXnHcaPJdp0IMuETM38pMjfFKxDoHwDpw2i42uW89QFO21Uqah8ULJajf-2JLf5SNbmJ_ysRJ3ce7ujeHGp/s780/Confed%20Flag%20small.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="667" data-original-width="780" height="274" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigBr7llL_H1tTsBH0KDkmCPTA0DY-VQkqtq2Iz2L0pFQrRnEqt4FlP55MTPygpfnzhioZqYhkuvQhHsBLNzg2a7oi2DrrNX_8s63lSQYXnHcaPJdp0IMuETM38pMjfFKxDoHwDpw2i42uW89QFO21Uqah8ULJajf-2JLf5SNbmJ_ysRJ3ce7ujeHGp/s320/Confed%20Flag%20small.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">First National Confederate Flag</span></span></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTmIbb-XCBRDqSttSKI4IQpjMBZXHyWVjNbuxSJeN9IBzfXxLSBK5RXbiPkWstXQH3fBaY0TB1jT5wRcl-LDqb1Ppkdcfkt-2x30QOv-4gGKQ3Rf3o1DidIOAIp4dx1DZy0Y2NxCuDTyUzsnbJvsHy3he0QvSbJnzgHi2B5uvdIM8y9BVMevz0JMfX/s780/Community%20mausoleum%20small.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="585" data-original-width="780" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTmIbb-XCBRDqSttSKI4IQpjMBZXHyWVjNbuxSJeN9IBzfXxLSBK5RXbiPkWstXQH3fBaY0TB1jT5wRcl-LDqb1Ppkdcfkt-2x30QOv-4gGKQ3Rf3o1DidIOAIp4dx1DZy0Y2NxCuDTyUzsnbJvsHy3he0QvSbJnzgHi2B5uvdIM8y9BVMevz0JMfX/w400-h300/Community%20mausoleum%20small.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Community mausoleum in City Cemetery No. 4.</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">As I made my way through this block of three cemeteries on my stop #14, I entered City Cemetery No. 4. There was a community mausoleum ahead which proved interesting. The entrance gates were closed, but I could see two crypt covers propped against their openings at the far end. There was a window at that end, so I went around to the other side of the building, thinking I could peer inside and see what was in those open crypts. Unfortunately, there was a large bush below the window, blocking my access. I went back around to the front, and realized that the gated doors were only held closed by a stick! They were not locked. So I ventured inside (cue up creepy music...).</span></p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkPyr_r0af4_qk0JXMSCxaIj0sz2fUNmK3Kfju9g--GtnQpIkWAaueNC3Efwgy10CEsf2sY__8EcKLsZ_97Crs_5pDLkdG4v10Ukski4w4DBlpZwHUEexiaF8npmek6yectDIlE78UQKvxUDYncJPfpJQOIHYKv30rDY3PrFIo0crBV_Q3W_E_O09J/s780/Stick%20small.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="585" data-original-width="780" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkPyr_r0af4_qk0JXMSCxaIj0sz2fUNmK3Kfju9g--GtnQpIkWAaueNC3Efwgy10CEsf2sY__8EcKLsZ_97Crs_5pDLkdG4v10Ukski4w4DBlpZwHUEexiaF8npmek6yectDIlE78UQKvxUDYncJPfpJQOIHYKv30rDY3PrFIo0crBV_Q3W_E_O09J/w400-h300/Stick%20small.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Community mausoleum lock</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">I reached the open crypts, their marble covers ajar, bent down and peeked inside. Nothing. Empty. Speaking of ajar, I noticed this empty peanut butter jar in the maw of a vacant crypt as I was leaving. (In comedian Jim Gaffigan's whispery voice: <i>"He's going on and on about <u>jars</u> - what's his <u>problem</u>...?"</i>)</span></p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2uW1SYXJnwnvOnqNl4gSbltS1tW6_N_vQinHa4Rb5Ph6sj47de2WbV5Xp33dsmXfhvRVOIyHzlBD29DBFFqi2SHxhLqwt700ESEJutfq6hrBEVdv9l7gpsLNx0c_y83p5nKrjrNDfhL4V9450Mqb5evmBnXba-yEGoShbnyRlKzFAiv1Bl0ZQ5pO1/s780/Peanut%20butter%20small.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="585" data-original-width="780" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2uW1SYXJnwnvOnqNl4gSbltS1tW6_N_vQinHa4Rb5Ph6sj47de2WbV5Xp33dsmXfhvRVOIyHzlBD29DBFFqi2SHxhLqwt700ESEJutfq6hrBEVdv9l7gpsLNx0c_y83p5nKrjrNDfhL4V9450Mqb5evmBnXba-yEGoShbnyRlKzFAiv1Bl0ZQ5pO1/w400-h300/Peanut%20butter%20small.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Peanut butter crypt</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLkRTj6d07tNMH-EUnAaEDfw9Yr6WFtXQTAnx-Mw88NLjZVwuklfWx0dntcnEMoO9dDa9_A92FxNmnTYpYrlg-DVw4CEQkaqLIrQTGgqZMPvO-cnlZfye3E5O_tNvLu69PlnpVY9Yia_rNqeQnV_DEBnZtPmnLf6l19qAa3tD4HNduDqcZ4ozp2Dgx/s2111/Weather%20iphone%20small.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2111" data-original-width="1170" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLkRTj6d07tNMH-EUnAaEDfw9Yr6WFtXQTAnx-Mw88NLjZVwuklfWx0dntcnEMoO9dDa9_A92FxNmnTYpYrlg-DVw4CEQkaqLIrQTGgqZMPvO-cnlZfye3E5O_tNvLu69PlnpVY9Yia_rNqeQnV_DEBnZtPmnLf6l19qAa3tD4HNduDqcZ4ozp2Dgx/s320/Weather%20iphone%20small.jpg" width="177" /></a></div>The shade in the mausoleum did my phone a world of good. It was so hot and bright, this torrential Texas sun, and as a result I was dripping with sweat. It was rather difficult to make a photo, to hit the right button on the iPhone. Half the time I accidentally put it in “Live View” when trying to take a still photo. When I would try to make a short video, I ended up with the display upside down! The ambient temperature was so hot that my phone would overheat if I kept it in my pocket. I had to carry it in my hand and try to walk in the few shady spots I could find. As you can see from the image at left, it was expected to get hotter as the days progressed, although the humidity mercifully would drop. Funny how my first iPhone, a model 7, would lose battery power outside if I was using it in the cold; this iPhone 12 is just fine in the cold, but flakes out if it gets too hot. I did have real cameras with me, so that was not an issue. What WAS concerning was losing battery power to the phone and not being able to get an Uber back to the hotel. While it was only about three miles away, it would’ve been a death march in this scorching heat.<p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYWjJ5hPWd35dzV09JjDzeeKuoZX5zcTvHy-UVw_bncpDWPfSRdElekpLa3R4nXSvrU7_12D18xEZz1E17LmWaZkK74ohLl83pJC8s6joOSdYyfMAdVEu44Cq32-lIPGOPcLVKXy_w9an1jhmjMhMxEMsh_ezfnroiPPIA01gjUYtNGaqbvXiNlHDH/s780/Gate%20entrance%20small.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="557" data-original-width="780" height="286" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYWjJ5hPWd35dzV09JjDzeeKuoZX5zcTvHy-UVw_bncpDWPfSRdElekpLa3R4nXSvrU7_12D18xEZz1E17LmWaZkK74ohLl83pJC8s6joOSdYyfMAdVEu44Cq32-lIPGOPcLVKXy_w9an1jhmjMhMxEMsh_ezfnroiPPIA01gjUYtNGaqbvXiNlHDH/w400-h286/Gate%20entrance%20small.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Entrance into one of several African American cemeteries </span></td></tr></tbody></table><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLsqsEWH74CKUDB0wj86XgCdgSubslYOXOGuUTfADRuBxRaaaJM9vzIeCKNaELZ7RCoYBz4s_podHPFSyy2xM2hdya8dO1Kfk9yb2h1q-qeonNvTgfZokCBzeZDkrCS3CLdbX4OniJ-EK3rAKUKb7Opf1ujfiPc3-m7LQwDktNa2CVuCWnoWrUhAaT/s780/Man%20with%20hat%20small.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="780" data-original-width="585" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLsqsEWH74CKUDB0wj86XgCdgSubslYOXOGuUTfADRuBxRaaaJM9vzIeCKNaELZ7RCoYBz4s_podHPFSyy2xM2hdya8dO1Kfk9yb2h1q-qeonNvTgfZokCBzeZDkrCS3CLdbX4OniJ-EK3rAKUKb7Opf1ujfiPc3-m7LQwDktNa2CVuCWnoWrUhAaT/s320/Man%20with%20hat%20small.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Greeter at the gates of City Cemetery No. 3</span></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: inherit;">I crossed Montana Street into City Cemetery No. 3. One of several African-American burial grounds within this cemetery is The Old United Brothers of Friendship. It's metal entrance sign, and those like it, are always interesting to me, for both style and content. You probably get the idea that most of these cemeteries are easy to maintain, with regard to grass-cutting. Not sure what time of year the grass grows, if at all. </span><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnl-KWufsV5P4RdaOTf7dRc6v5DwcMiojUslZvnSwdLJiTxWKO4kTwDOuUBO0Biy3CbB_8aKAoosa2ov575-cMjoAvcJFoj7_DS96whMIndcIqURbGgLV-mugt7LdAKtaY6UxZ9oCGP5I8jGbKzboIjvfiK6eJ1N190ZG2at1O65mLueUmao9bA9vK/s780/Historic%20sign%20small.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="585" data-original-width="780" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnl-KWufsV5P4RdaOTf7dRc6v5DwcMiojUslZvnSwdLJiTxWKO4kTwDOuUBO0Biy3CbB_8aKAoosa2ov575-cMjoAvcJFoj7_DS96whMIndcIqURbGgLV-mugt7LdAKtaY6UxZ9oCGP5I8jGbKzboIjvfiK6eJ1N190ZG2at1O65mLueUmao9bA9vK/w400-h300/Historic%20sign%20small.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Plaque at entrance to United Brothers of Friendship Cemetery</span></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: inherit;">About four hours after I began my adventure, I was shuffling my way through The Knights of Pythias Cemetery, thinking how the parched cowboys (knights, of a sort) might have felt as they crossed that Mexican desert in Cormac McCarthy’s book, “Blood Meridian.” Totally parched, no water left, I saw a distant strip mall and a gas station convenience store. As if it were a mountain spring on the horizon, I quickly traversed the sacred ground of the smaller cemeteries within City Cemetery No. 3, heading for the convenience store. I spent some final moments exploring The Grand United Order of Odd Fellows Cemetery on the corner of Montana and New Braunfels Avenue, but found nothing that I was looking for, e.g. the mortician’s grave that was supposedly there. I had originally studied the <a href="http://historichouston1836.com/san-antonio-historic-cemeteries/">Historic Houston</a> website showing this grave and thought the mortician was in the Odd Fellows Cemetery. However, as I peruse it now, I see that the grave is actually in the adjacent St. Elmo's Lodge 25 Knights of Pythias Cemetery. See how confusing thirty-one adjacent cemeteries can be?</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSamubJC0Ecbn6FU-pOksc0JhZsSil3zC0jPiI2vnLQKhMD8J-YVy0CVRGFcbYL_d60R14VMHIyLUGZNSPJ1p2Dm14t1dAmrTNwBq7sPC2iH5Ye4zZo0lGexXl4p0tO21sQzX9fGZkKYUHfuXdsV6mFjy3hw1U8GDKliRjV4DEzGlqwgrJLKVO2zQp/s780/Texas%20Rangers%20small.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="780" data-original-width="585" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSamubJC0Ecbn6FU-pOksc0JhZsSil3zC0jPiI2vnLQKhMD8J-YVy0CVRGFcbYL_d60R14VMHIyLUGZNSPJ1p2Dm14t1dAmrTNwBq7sPC2iH5Ye4zZo0lGexXl4p0tO21sQzX9fGZkKYUHfuXdsV6mFjy3hw1U8GDKliRjV4DEzGlqwgrJLKVO2zQp/s320/Texas%20Rangers%20small.jpg" width="240" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: inherit;">Eventually, I crossed New Braunfels Avenue headed for the convenience store and cold liquid to ingest. But hey, as I approached the strip mall, there was a pawn shop. First things first. Twenty seconds into the pawn shop I saw that the guitars were all shitty, so I left and bought a 20 oz. Gatorade and a Slim Jim (I was also famished, as it was getting close to 7 pm) at the gas station. Downed the Gatorade in the shade and scarfed down the meat stick there across New Braunfels Avenue from Immanuel Lutheran Cemetery (this is in the same block as St. Mary’s Catholic and St. John’s Lutheran cemeteries). </span><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7WYOOMxQEpHvnhMV2MlUY-c92-YxycKQvofzl-N9ggvFkp1D1RWPmahEhvD5I1D-C6nIqoT21QjPGOupLYfTTvRjyc8_8a1rITuJrRKREz52yBitjfQwQBIkiURl-ySuunVIl1FybqAIo05V8_ehR8LbAp1Az2XnyATRPy8evrPf2gas_OfB7wBUA/s780/Hermann%20small.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="585" data-original-width="780" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7WYOOMxQEpHvnhMV2MlUY-c92-YxycKQvofzl-N9ggvFkp1D1RWPmahEhvD5I1D-C6nIqoT21QjPGOupLYfTTvRjyc8_8a1rITuJrRKREz52yBitjfQwQBIkiURl-ySuunVIl1FybqAIo05V8_ehR8LbAp1Az2XnyATRPy8evrPf2gas_OfB7wBUA/w400-h300/Hermann%20small.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Blazing sunset, San Antonio, Texas.</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCEicjSljectUf2t6ctemmx4SF1VLculbMDbWEeD5NI1PF0g0uSOUanbqjZ6J_bPFXesVCPWVy1H7o5za9OCMnHRBu935yJYvMBTVRXt5IG0X28C_utIczwT_uRaUajPSehFLnYHDZiXYQhfSetFxDcohut1w4ZDeuvZSKAkw9FvCvQK9gCuLJgvT_/s780/Shadow%20small.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="780" data-original-width="585" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCEicjSljectUf2t6ctemmx4SF1VLculbMDbWEeD5NI1PF0g0uSOUanbqjZ6J_bPFXesVCPWVy1H7o5za9OCMnHRBu935yJYvMBTVRXt5IG0X28C_utIczwT_uRaUajPSehFLnYHDZiXYQhfSetFxDcohut1w4ZDeuvZSKAkw9FvCvQK9gCuLJgvT_/s320/Shadow%20small.jpg" width="240" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: inherit;">A block or so away, I saw Church’s Chicken fast food joint. As I was still hungry and the air temp was still in the upper nineties, I decided to partake of their air conditioning. Here’s a selfie in the shadow of the last cemetery I didn’t visit, Hermann Sons, as I headed across the avenue for dinner. That cemetery, along with Immanuel Lutheran, both had locked gates and high fencing. I really didn’t feel like scaling the fence or walking the blocks looking for an entrance. My day was done. Whatever fascinating sights may lay in these last few burial grounds will remain unexplored. Supposedly, St. Mary’s Catholic Cemetery has quite an assortment of fine statuary (<a href="http://historichouston1836.com/san-antonio-historic-cemeteries/">ref.</a>)</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">I entered Church’s, ordered, then went into the bathroom to see how badly my face was sunburned. Beet red, as they say. I had been wearing a hat, but the blazing sun had been low on the horizon, beating me in the face no matter which direction I faced, or so it seemed. My sunscreen had long run off. I grabbed my chicken sammie and diet Coke and sat down. I pleasantly realized this was not the same Church’s fried chicken chain from Philly. This stuff actually tasted good! </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">I called an UBER driver in a few minutes, who quickly zipped me west on Dakota, then north up Palmetto, the cemeteries I missed appearing as a blur out my window. As we sped by these burial grounds, it occurred to me that in the entire time I spent traversing these 27 cemeteries, I saw not one other person. Odd. Exhausted and with a full weekend conference and trade show ahead of me, I headed back to the hotel for a shower and rest. I do hope you enjoyed this little account of my trip, so go get yourself a drink and relax, I’m sure that reading this must have made you thirsty.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><b>Further Reading:</b></span></p><p>Ed Snyder's 2012 Cemetery Traveler blog post, <a href="https://thecemeterytraveler.blogspot.com/2012/02/cemeteries-of-old-san-antonio.html">"The Cemeteries of Old San Antonio."</a></p><p><a href="https://www.sanantonio.gov/portals/0/Files/HistoricPreservation/Eastside_Cemeteries-2011.pdf#:~:text=Cemetery%20No.%203%20Contains%20several%20African%20American%20cemeteries,Lodge%20Cemetery%2C%20and%20St.%20Peter%20Claver%20Catholic%20Cemetery.">Eastside Cemeteries Historic District</a></p><p><a href="https://www.sanantonio.gov/ParksAndRec/Parks-Facilities/All-Parks-Facilities/Historic-City-Cemeteries">https://www.sanantonio.gov/ParksAndRec/Parks-Facilities/All-Parks-Facilities/Historic-City-Cemeteries</a></p><p><a href="http://historichouston1836.com/san-antonio-historic-cemeteries/">Old San Antonio City Cemeteries | Historic Houston: (historichouston1836.com)</a></p>StoneAngels: The Cemetery Travelerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02776945637111478231noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9091026817968807873.post-57827545162906622702022-06-24T13:53:00.000-07:002022-06-24T13:55:26.606-07:00Allentown Presbyterian Church Graveyard<p><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKXgBhTkZ9nDlc2cAoyG1DmYlVVhyH3xhTjbl4Ci4SBfSpBWYDx5H5t2BJv2ucnP7ire5Rx7p2uPbOlvuv1jtjnxb0k_cDVABEalQbVxYjSaHgrf79UDaXJT9tzjC1Y1hGnlZZK7EN7lDVffiCxFgvU-OI4_5VACvfipYpiVIcyB1Fvhrq44l1WHRx/s780/Dogwoods%20small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="780" data-original-width="585" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKXgBhTkZ9nDlc2cAoyG1DmYlVVhyH3xhTjbl4Ci4SBfSpBWYDx5H5t2BJv2ucnP7ire5Rx7p2uPbOlvuv1jtjnxb0k_cDVABEalQbVxYjSaHgrf79UDaXJT9tzjC1Y1hGnlZZK7EN7lDVffiCxFgvU-OI4_5VACvfipYpiVIcyB1Fvhrq44l1WHRx/s320/Dogwoods%20small.jpg" width="240" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: inherit;">And we find ourselves in Allentown - not the one that Billy Joel sings about in southeastern Pennsylvania, but the one in central New Jersey. You probably wouldn’t know it was there unless you saw the exit sign off the New Jersey turnpike. On my way from Philly up to the Freehold area in mid-April, 2022 (to meet a large group of people for a cemetery tour), I had a discretionary hour along the way, so I thought I’d check out A-Town. A quick one while he’s away, as the song by The Who goes. My neighbor told me the town was totally quaint, with Victorian style homes and old mills. </span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">Well, my neighbor was right. Cool old small town, great place to retire to. More of a draw for me, though, was that Google Maps showed a cemetery there. A full course in noetics would be required to understand what drives me to do such things. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">So about 9 A.M. one sunny spring Saturday, I jumped off the turnpike and headed into Allentown. The town itself is a couple miles off the highway, but certainly worth a cemetery road trip. The Allentown Presbyterian Church (founded 1756) has one of the most lovely and cared for graveyards I’d ever seen. Meticulously maintained, this relatively small (a few acres) plot of land has gravestones from all the major eras, beginning with colonial times, all the way to the present day. And by the way, a churchyard burial place is technically called a graveyard, not a cemetery.</span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1AdQ5-TAECCeR-lHTFl0zP6V7Cskh3b-1TV_u0fUoPccYYXcaykuU2Yf0C5pLD3TjQrXp4vp_azSGQekofCDfdVvgOivjsE9gXGfmDCSTuhq4vJoNjoiwsGrkJus7FcATRwviSrKmHvULX4UMwgmsk7siWwU0V0mUk68QS9oxwDWK3hR9FKeE2df3/s780/Church%20small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="585" data-original-width="780" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1AdQ5-TAECCeR-lHTFl0zP6V7Cskh3b-1TV_u0fUoPccYYXcaykuU2Yf0C5pLD3TjQrXp4vp_azSGQekofCDfdVvgOivjsE9gXGfmDCSTuhq4vJoNjoiwsGrkJus7FcATRwviSrKmHvULX4UMwgmsk7siWwU0V0mUk68QS9oxwDWK3hR9FKeE2df3/w400-h300/Church%20small.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Allentown Presbyterian Church</span></span></td></tr></tbody></table><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">But I’m getting ahead of myself here. Finding the graveyard was a bit challenging, as Google Maps got confused as to which side of the millpond the property was actually located. After three U-turns in the middle of the downtown area (which gave me ample opportunity to scope out the many coffee shops and diners open this fine morning), I finally spotted the tombstones through the trees, up on the hill across the pond.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSqyC2HriNypsxYMEKSfWUfDPODGHXkU2jT5kQplSwfKmiH81PDmemN-3LY3GWa5kFDkexPqXr-c3btoXX7gy9Kz9lkWCqwZt6LAUIAWR3rEVdm1cwQFk401cWg_qtMPfVeNIlkGz2LKw4vICyAbl23UAJXHFHNKhvOHyWGAhP_3nMhoIa81iNcq0r/s780/Our%20father%20small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="585" data-original-width="780" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSqyC2HriNypsxYMEKSfWUfDPODGHXkU2jT5kQplSwfKmiH81PDmemN-3LY3GWa5kFDkexPqXr-c3btoXX7gy9Kz9lkWCqwZt6LAUIAWR3rEVdm1cwQFk401cWg_qtMPfVeNIlkGz2LKw4vICyAbl23UAJXHFHNKhvOHyWGAhP_3nMhoIa81iNcq0r/w400-h300/Our%20father%20small.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />Maybe you’ve been in this situation yourself – a new cemetery presents you with so many fresh opportunities, you’d don’t quite know where to start. The old church was an architectural gem, gleaming wooden white steeple, well-preserved, surrounded by dogwood trees in pink and white bloom. I immediately began photographing the wolf-table grave markers under its side windows, but then realized people were looking out at me from inside the church. Oops - there was a service was going on! </span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXWyFGbPdWjrlplc9WAMqHkUtfxqm6xnwx_Gxm4Fgwb3oNWebZRIZ0k2fIAU-9hNzrDj0pK_hSbJCGiMOJujXbAGwMWBhQ2GX60O9Z6aPi_PxjbKBvrfO6t6h0lHWjScpJYTjUUiSTUHOQI7pgA_7mYwdM-1C3mz0XrLLQzL2Xi1LWmKqaY2wKj8uz/s780/Brownstone%20small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="780" data-original-width="585" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXWyFGbPdWjrlplc9WAMqHkUtfxqm6xnwx_Gxm4Fgwb3oNWebZRIZ0k2fIAU-9hNzrDj0pK_hSbJCGiMOJujXbAGwMWBhQ2GX60O9Z6aPi_PxjbKBvrfO6t6h0lHWjScpJYTjUUiSTUHOQI7pgA_7mYwdM-1C3mz0XrLLQzL2Xi1LWmKqaY2wKj8uz/s320/Brownstone%20small.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Soul effigy stone, 1762</span></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: inherit;">By the way, wolf tables are called that because the design prevented wolves from digging up the freshly buried bodies for food. (See photo at end for a better look at this open-pillared style grave marker.) Luckily, there were many interesting things to see and photograph away from the church. I really got carried away by the wonderful colors of the blooming dogwoods, and so veered toward the back of the church, overlooking the pond. This old brownstone death's head angel grave marker was probably the oldest on the property, and the ages of the various stones spanned the mid-1700s to the present day. There was a zinc monument from the late 1800s, many intricately-carved bespoke white marble markers from the Victorian era, and several old stones that had been carefully repaired. </span><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHAPUtE1WXp07KFRCSzOFcbWUYp6JFsKOq4MyU8cKjarjePood7FU5M3xP24aNpTSp383MP7wUqNTHQ61FuZ1ALiypu5ltLw4X_1IDVYTRt5ZUqgCe-s3jir1Ssz1D6DOw0iwYJY9l-fwcrWEA5RVGj32_TythiVtOkmQNtedwYOU72qwhYOI2DKpl/s780/zinc%20small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="602" data-original-width="780" height="247" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHAPUtE1WXp07KFRCSzOFcbWUYp6JFsKOq4MyU8cKjarjePood7FU5M3xP24aNpTSp383MP7wUqNTHQ61FuZ1ALiypu5ltLw4X_1IDVYTRt5ZUqgCe-s3jir1Ssz1D6DOw0iwYJY9l-fwcrWEA5RVGj32_TythiVtOkmQNtedwYOU72qwhYOI2DKpl/s320/zinc%20small.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Zinc, granite, and marble grave markers</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">The gentle grassy hillside was perfectly manicured, the turf clipped neatly around each grave marker and monument – no small feat - and no grass clippings anywhere. Truly, as great an effort is put into preserving this remarkable graveyard, as is put into the preservation of the church building itself. It just invites people to explore and enjoy.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbc6ThvxVPhHY1Xsu5KXvvpnE9RTJi0Fqrqsj55HyHReFH6ZSmnNEPJv57HGKm5wAyT4qNk23OgX3eYkBX957jYGvBpJSqT4dcydnG-r0_KNbLgWQPiHuQy_RvP8v4NEykZaWKzx8nW8B1eulLxB8BLkI60uo3-1B4qcIxbPnAFV-OKN0o9xlEc3nU/s780/BW%20stones%20small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="522" data-original-width="780" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbc6ThvxVPhHY1Xsu5KXvvpnE9RTJi0Fqrqsj55HyHReFH6ZSmnNEPJv57HGKm5wAyT4qNk23OgX3eYkBX957jYGvBpJSqT4dcydnG-r0_KNbLgWQPiHuQy_RvP8v4NEykZaWKzx8nW8B1eulLxB8BLkI60uo3-1B4qcIxbPnAFV-OKN0o9xlEc3nU/w400-h268/BW%20stones%20small.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span>Shot with Leica R5 film camera</span></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />I spent my entire discretionary hour here in this graveyard, walking, reading the stones, enjoying the view. I got to test out my new forty-year-old Leica R5 film camera with some black and white film. Here’s an image of headstones behind the church – overlooking the millpond – lit by the morning sun. I’m really happy with the way it turned out.<br /></span><br /><div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEin0YVqApxw47vBgRgexuTGH8kfEFZ-g_kAp3oGSEP5JnyUyBBr7RJx7g9rYOSSfzY0H04S3ARj97G0VRAay_KgE-YcilccGfjtUgYNUz8-rYVA4ZLliC-qU-tP1EkOsE3z6610KjLeous2t55Vc725p_-ebbjR-1XllelftPv1Mn2MUI5OJ_lSwhvE/s780/Stations%20small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="780" data-original-width="585" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEin0YVqApxw47vBgRgexuTGH8kfEFZ-g_kAp3oGSEP5JnyUyBBr7RJx7g9rYOSSfzY0H04S3ARj97G0VRAay_KgE-YcilccGfjtUgYNUz8-rYVA4ZLliC-qU-tP1EkOsE3z6610KjLeous2t55Vc725p_-ebbjR-1XllelftPv1Mn2MUI5OJ_lSwhvE/s320/Stations%20small.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">"Jesus is Condemned."</span></td></tr></tbody></table>Many of the carved marble headstones were quite unique, as were the Stations of the Cross signs placed throughout the graveyard. The latter was a first for me – my visit being just after Lent and Easter, it appeared that the church would hold stations in the graveyard, with small groups of praying congregants moving from one station to the next, amidst the tombstones. Each station had a sign with the religious precis describing that particular station. Interesting way to give people the opportunity to explore the church’s burial ground – something not everyone would think of doing, or might even avoid doing.<p></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2ArNEQw0y__X36mJxlHOuHrp-ATSbbpWOL3y-rPMMaE6_DBC1XpK5RHqDytJ4dnZYwe8gURS90XnBTFc-VNzIloroLQJVloOBfg3vkqDNNUHnKbnnRgk2sMK0VJQzJEe642ZS8FB25E0sWr4LMEUqIpHMDFJwhXwBY0dY3hr26-xBwvaP3vOBOZgB/s780/Marble%20small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="780" data-original-width="585" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2ArNEQw0y__X36mJxlHOuHrp-ATSbbpWOL3y-rPMMaE6_DBC1XpK5RHqDytJ4dnZYwe8gURS90XnBTFc-VNzIloroLQJVloOBfg3vkqDNNUHnKbnnRgk2sMK0VJQzJEe642ZS8FB25E0sWr4LMEUqIpHMDFJwhXwBY0dY3hr26-xBwvaP3vOBOZgB/s320/Marble%20small.jpg" width="240" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: inherit;">You typically won’t see a crucifix in a Presbyterian church (or its graveyard, I assume), as they are not totally acceptable here. Why, you may ask? Presbyterians, like most Protestants, will typically use a cross, but not a crucifix. Their theology focuses on the risen Christ as opposed to the crucified Lord. (<a href="https://www.answers.com/Q/Do_presbyterians_wear_crucifixes">ref.)</a></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">When I first began printing my cemetery photography (which was initially only black and white images of stone angels) back in the early 2000s, I tried to get art galleries to exhibit my work. Many turned me down saying the work was “too religious.” Now, twenty years later, I come across this 2022 article in the National Review, “<i><a href="https://www.nationalreview.com/the-tuesday/the-specter-of-christianity/">The Specter of Christianity</a></i>,” in which the author, Kevin Williamson, opines that “Western civilization is Christian civilization.” He states that “Christian culture, Christian philosophy, and Christian themes dominate our art, literature, and political thinking.” So, really, there is no getting away from religion.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">I suppose I could photograph the plain grave markers in non-religious cemeteries, “Strangers’ Burial Grounds,” as they used to call them. However, that would STILL refer to Christianity in much the same way that demonic metal bands like Judas Priest would have no basis for their rebelliousness if they did not have Christianity to rebel against. </span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNyqT7ijF2jCaESspTfFPQmYEkn5RiBTUc3obXaJSbz_pSVYBf4fyhn4yyaqLtnoHMlttK_SMfNbiIhq6x1MO_QBcDk7wDXVu2lnLetH0wKcMbNUAAH7epZsCwz4YE6Nh4jWd0wJVP6wQqB7JIqTmbaUz8NSFtEdEv0kWEs6jKjy3_b4mAFKcXKpvy/s780/Judas%20Priest%20small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="585" data-original-width="780" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNyqT7ijF2jCaESspTfFPQmYEkn5RiBTUc3obXaJSbz_pSVYBf4fyhn4yyaqLtnoHMlttK_SMfNbiIhq6x1MO_QBcDk7wDXVu2lnLetH0wKcMbNUAAH7epZsCwz4YE6Nh4jWd0wJVP6wQqB7JIqTmbaUz8NSFtEdEv0kWEs6jKjy3_b4mAFKcXKpvy/w400-h300/Judas%20Priest%20small.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Judas Priest in their current 2021-22 Fiftieth Anniversary Tour (yes, I went!)</span></span></td></tr></tbody></table><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">Williamson’s perspective on anti-religious subjects is interesting. Rob Halford, singer and songwriter for the band Judas Priest, for all their doom metal, totally define themselves in terms of what they reject. Same for Black Sabbath, Slayer, and so on. Their symbol, seen here above the stage, is of course, a variation of the cross. “The underside of Christian civilization is still Christian civilization: The Omen is a scary movie because of its religious context; we don’t have scary movies about liberal humanism or yoga, says Williamson.” We are “powerless before the cross,” he adds. To paraphrase Williamson, Halford can mock the cross or reject it, but he cannot escape it, because he has nothing to put it its place.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEN1s9U7NtdfPhkm-0lUOC0VKw9BZrWHZTZt0LWhWV_OawM-gvGHSyzOTWsQ7YCehISlyLCwdRIPiwoNkUDplv8oqa7bCpxvNqidvbIEVo89cJSAnNHXCU4UY6UcW2AMKfxLS001Bdf2eRSCZv0kP_YH6ELhVVTOoIBNmKOkZyNMUaOMBna6DQZ8xf/s780/Newell%20small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="585" data-original-width="780" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEN1s9U7NtdfPhkm-0lUOC0VKw9BZrWHZTZt0LWhWV_OawM-gvGHSyzOTWsQ7YCehISlyLCwdRIPiwoNkUDplv8oqa7bCpxvNqidvbIEVo89cJSAnNHXCU4UY6UcW2AMKfxLS001Bdf2eRSCZv0kP_YH6ELhVVTOoIBNmKOkZyNMUaOMBna6DQZ8xf/w400-h300/Newell%20small.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgal1QaO53j-X41WTl1R_7-p2dfaFaDB6n_ocTKB6P_epTby1dIcM1qsdGUcdVvB-bEa0aqmppB1B5RTzy3sfRwuG60USja_sk1X8cDfT7-4T7Zs5zZ66xBek9umeMyCL_ikdQ7JqcAM8ILjS1CxdjeXq-7REY43b21DwEn1_-C-ViE0nHj225tPctL/s780/Wolf%20Tables%20small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="780" data-original-width="585" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgal1QaO53j-X41WTl1R_7-p2dfaFaDB6n_ocTKB6P_epTby1dIcM1qsdGUcdVvB-bEa0aqmppB1B5RTzy3sfRwuG60USja_sk1X8cDfT7-4T7Zs5zZ66xBek9umeMyCL_ikdQ7JqcAM8ILjS1CxdjeXq-7REY43b21DwEn1_-C-ViE0nHj225tPctL/s320/Wolf%20Tables%20small.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Wolf table graves alongside church</span></td></tr></tbody></table>Soon, the congregation let out and so I ambled up the hill to the church to make some photographs of it. Noticed this historic sign nearby – I had walked right by the grave of William A. Newell (1817 – 1901) – Father of the United States Coast Guard. I walked past the few people who were gathered outside the church, chatting. Jumped in the car and took off so I could reach my next cemetery destination on time. Grab coffee at the smalltown diner in the center of town and then head out to the highway, I got nothing to lose at all...</span></p></div>StoneAngels: The Cemetery Travelerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02776945637111478231noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9091026817968807873.post-38829900862871645872022-06-18T13:38:00.002-07:002022-06-18T13:40:51.937-07:00Uvalde and the Cathedral of San Fernando<p><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_asPV3Yechnt35oE78lOZIrJpz5p2rqLBpHw7uq2tBsvik8WGH8jI5ZxC_yatPI0x0FUVPTc3aYIQtfHHsWSHMMbXfDLSSBeRXkfDSuRRnOQva3qXNQ-llTylxo8kFRG3kynNScSnyufe_9BiqWNC0bp4RmimLJn-regN80T1k6pysUmGNrvK8aan/s780/Uvalde%20small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="585" data-original-width="780" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_asPV3Yechnt35oE78lOZIrJpz5p2rqLBpHw7uq2tBsvik8WGH8jI5ZxC_yatPI0x0FUVPTc3aYIQtfHHsWSHMMbXfDLSSBeRXkfDSuRRnOQva3qXNQ-llTylxo8kFRG3kynNScSnyufe_9BiqWNC0bp4RmimLJn-regN80T1k6pysUmGNrvK8aan/w400-h300/Uvalde%20small.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4Pf6oTGmCGHSusiYf0tc93zhUc_mR59sRAKEO7MW_9DGDbfV0lQ6dCgS3jozt3G5E71eE0aWbUKWvIA9_rZu7sJx_JfWLxtDg-Nou71Jqq3SpHzFMQ1oHc9keCPfLhD9F2SuBkpHdoAzyk82KGqaGE6Q4Siuf3v1NW-9bPBkfZMNlTr5Blg4ViPUk/s780/Cathedral%20small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="780" data-original-width="585" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4Pf6oTGmCGHSusiYf0tc93zhUc_mR59sRAKEO7MW_9DGDbfV0lQ6dCgS3jozt3G5E71eE0aWbUKWvIA9_rZu7sJx_JfWLxtDg-Nou71Jqq3SpHzFMQ1oHc9keCPfLhD9F2SuBkpHdoAzyk82KGqaGE6Q4Siuf3v1NW-9bPBkfZMNlTr5Blg4ViPUk/s320/Cathedral%20small.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Cathedral of San Fernando</span></td></tr></tbody></table>During my trip to San Antonio, Texas, at the beginning of June, 2022, I stopped by the Cathedral of San Fernando (est. 1728) to visit Davy Crockett and Jim Bowie. This was the day after a marathon day of visiting all the cemeteries of Old San Antonio (which I will write about another time). Given that it was only a bit over a week since the massacre of the school children and teachers at Robb Elementary School in Uvalde, my Mom asked me to say a prayer for those 22 victims of senseless gun violence. </span>Uvalde is only about 65 miles west of San Antonio. <span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMK-RuyhsHpu4FHNrmPmaVfdKimTdWyCE00K55pq5BW-ENAEykqNM_M-aHxqKScVXLQzmA88T7QcPb7lNhEFLowMsA8a-rd4nF_wYge9zfrSSlLZ8ZSsoiLB-hR7coBODOLpoiILp_oexEkW8VokQe2UZ4OCzHAPqpMGFkvtoE1IfPwc4xYjyAiT2J/s780/Crypt%20small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="585" data-original-width="780" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMK-RuyhsHpu4FHNrmPmaVfdKimTdWyCE00K55pq5BW-ENAEykqNM_M-aHxqKScVXLQzmA88T7QcPb7lNhEFLowMsA8a-rd4nF_wYge9zfrSSlLZ8ZSsoiLB-hR7coBODOLpoiILp_oexEkW8VokQe2UZ4OCzHAPqpMGFkvtoE1IfPwc4xYjyAiT2J/w400-h300/Crypt%20small.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnykwWXJttZwmFiGdEOtliBqzImpQVQ8_QA-M6ykEzVjecxCOxIvRM9wm3U6FzcjP2-rvH0kSKch4u3nqSaJovaCi6FKgMVGB71uoYJ9wMJuNtXs3M6Oz7yX1cYwslhbV9ImibGKj6wvLpi_rWG2sCJJZhHhJ00pe_QUw8Mk3d6m5Jl6utrJqCFZ2i/s780/Heroes%20small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="780" data-original-width="585" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnykwWXJttZwmFiGdEOtliBqzImpQVQ8_QA-M6ykEzVjecxCOxIvRM9wm3U6FzcjP2-rvH0kSKch4u3nqSaJovaCi6FKgMVGB71uoYJ9wMJuNtXs3M6Oz7yX1cYwslhbV9ImibGKj6wvLpi_rWG2sCJJZhHhJ00pe_QUw8Mk3d6m5Jl6utrJqCFZ2i/w240-h320/Heroes%20small.jpg" width="240" /></a></span></div>I'm not religious, but I told her I would do this for her. (I was raised Catholic - fourteen years of Catholic school and church that I've been recovering from all my life.) <span style="font-family: inherit;">I figured I would say a prayer for her at the cathedral since I was going there anyway. When I was here last, about fifteen years ago, there was a service going on, so I did not get to see the inside of the church. I did get to see the sepulcher, however, in the vestibule of the church, that supposedly holds the remains of Crockett, Bowie, and William Travis – heroes of the Alamo (they all died, in case you didn’t know, defending the Alamo mission from Mexican General Santa Anna’s army in 1836 – this, part of the struggle to achieve Texas’ independence from Mexico). The sarcophagus was still there where I’d remembered, and there was a guy photographing it. There was a donation box nearby, so I dropped in a couple bills and snapped some photos.</span><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgl2GTVWG8gMzdp3XrLcKm3kOBbEPuGi6R4ujTy9tSGrNJHMgnSxUN9N7p4YK3TvEclOlTVsEGWiw48UlNP2FpLUkQ58uT_TTaz6nj3w0rFIJGUeCiJC1rMSZ77jdkr7eEdyLbhQF2u3haJcy66Kvw2Ljcu4bcbP75tEIY63T_Hkw9SoIixmlByv1QW/s780/Stained%20glass%20small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="585" data-original-width="780" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgl2GTVWG8gMzdp3XrLcKm3kOBbEPuGi6R4ujTy9tSGrNJHMgnSxUN9N7p4YK3TvEclOlTVsEGWiw48UlNP2FpLUkQ58uT_TTaz6nj3w0rFIJGUeCiJC1rMSZ77jdkr7eEdyLbhQF2u3haJcy66Kvw2Ljcu4bcbP75tEIY63T_Hkw9SoIixmlByv1QW/w400-h300/Stained%20glass%20small.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-UoEhk6aZXrs7JTRWYCUe5ZI0M3s-g_3t0kk6Bmo5neDzRpeetmGKKczhxlI_5FVqEMD_HNwVlXBLu8pdGQ5i5TCU1t4J76JWKEtDUk8tFGacOdWB6XAX3fvJE8zF0M6cQ9nJSzEyPsz2CTGz2odQrXk02KGceFmEkKx15eKNnjQ6LkNeHEla-S-B/s780/Jesus%20small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="780" data-original-width="585" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-UoEhk6aZXrs7JTRWYCUe5ZI0M3s-g_3t0kk6Bmo5neDzRpeetmGKKczhxlI_5FVqEMD_HNwVlXBLu8pdGQ5i5TCU1t4J76JWKEtDUk8tFGacOdWB6XAX3fvJE8zF0M6cQ9nJSzEyPsz2CTGz2odQrXk02KGceFmEkKx15eKNnjQ6LkNeHEla-S-B/w150-h200/Jesus%20small.jpg" width="150" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: inherit;">There was no service in session, so I explored the church. It was quite large and well cared for. I walked the outer aisles so I could better appreciate the stained glass windows along the sides of the building. There were stations of the cross sculptures and several of the Mexican-style religious statues with the glass eyes.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6NJWwaEu5NJ9Q_WpsE2hJe9e3nyqG1bajY86mm2KU0pmMBT8w6lPsT1zLQzXEgECsSUjK8ASiVPVZQVMsrN38UNJfAOS2tAGMWaJ2DK_R5xprCQUDRD2ZigW5Lq90P8EoisQj0wqceeJNWZYM2FVLci7zzmCFK35KSdTt0uPrL60VQtDP7RcD_08R/s780/Cross%20small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="780" data-original-width="585" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6NJWwaEu5NJ9Q_WpsE2hJe9e3nyqG1bajY86mm2KU0pmMBT8w6lPsT1zLQzXEgECsSUjK8ASiVPVZQVMsrN38UNJfAOS2tAGMWaJ2DK_R5xprCQUDRD2ZigW5Lq90P8EoisQj0wqceeJNWZYM2FVLci7zzmCFK35KSdTt0uPrL60VQtDP7RcD_08R/s320/Cross%20small.jpg" width="240" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: inherit;">As I made my way to the altar, I noticed a large wooden cross in that area – maybe twelve feet tall. As I got closer, I was startled to see stuffed toy animals surrounding its base, each with a slip of paper with a different typed name attached to it. These were the first names of the 19 children and two teachers killed in the Uvalde school massacre on May 24, 2022 (<a href="https://www.chicagotribune.com/nation-world/ct-aud-nw-texas-school-shooting-20220528-a4jf6yjiprcjrmcpoipgalfp7u-story.html">ref.</a>). My heart went to my throat. Seeing such a memorial, so close in time and location to the tragedy, makes the abstract instantly real and scary.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkRMEhLm1w5a_YN3tVlbPNpiyonRUpWcw8-l89g1o8el4op9j-K99i5Y-eplVqFTXQhDoEl5f4SwWOLFwhs8tTdA8W0PxUSyjsSGBA5cqV75hpH466b-n-bJ5mFsWQGD9STJ2udz48YFskEtzoa_xJoo0yd16cXhpp1nkBpON2PIhZ2mljQ2KoAhov/s780/toys%20small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="585" data-original-width="780" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkRMEhLm1w5a_YN3tVlbPNpiyonRUpWcw8-l89g1o8el4op9j-K99i5Y-eplVqFTXQhDoEl5f4SwWOLFwhs8tTdA8W0PxUSyjsSGBA5cqV75hpH466b-n-bJ5mFsWQGD9STJ2udz48YFskEtzoa_xJoo0yd16cXhpp1nkBpON2PIhZ2mljQ2KoAhov/w400-h300/toys%20small.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />I walked around to the other side of the altar, where in a small chapel, there were votive candles and the sign you see above, “Prayers for Uvalde.” I donated some money, lit a candle, and offered a prayer on my Mom’s behalf. Many of the glass-eyed statues seemed mournful, as they seemed to pity their lowly, faulty human counterparts who knelt before them. </span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOiF-LdScKGyIiqOwWgspqIyP3r073f5QvjaAlEHUri64peiKPjkDeS7L4uVwIhTf2eZcPlghT0WYUefTL-Qn8hpFuw_Xap9zCPbM1YnMdwM-GwH1l8h6_HQr6clBqC6VDPW1b4AC0za1Ir72_H07vgRpLkvxDP2QVYt4YCOICyae_KIGlyr8f5jT-/s780/Cherubs%20small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="597" data-original-width="780" height="306" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOiF-LdScKGyIiqOwWgspqIyP3r073f5QvjaAlEHUri64peiKPjkDeS7L4uVwIhTf2eZcPlghT0WYUefTL-Qn8hpFuw_Xap9zCPbM1YnMdwM-GwH1l8h6_HQr6clBqC6VDPW1b4AC0za1Ir72_H07vgRpLkvxDP2QVYt4YCOICyae_KIGlyr8f5jT-/w400-h306/Cherubs%20small.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />When I was at my hotel later, there was a man and woman, of obvious Spanish descent, leaving with their two little boys. The boys were maybe four and six. I instantly pictured them dead. Not something I would normally do in my wildest dreams, but the reality of Uvalde gripped me – these kids were no different than the 19 innocents who were shot. I imagined for a second the horror the parents would be subjected to. </span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">As I heard someone say in the news the following week, the time for thoughts and prayers is over. Politicians, get off your asses and change the laws that will prevent such things from recurring. I have an idea for a punishment for shooters, which would easily act as a great deterrent to future criminals. Describing that here would probably ban me from social media for life. At the very least, card-carrying NRA members should have been forced to attend all the funerals associated with the Uvalde massacre. So lets just make sure we all recall the phrase “Remember Uvalde” as often as people repeat, “Remember the Alamo,” and don't let the politicians sweep Uvalde under the rug like they've done with all the other mass shootings.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">Link to "<a href="https://www.theatlantic.com/family/archive/2022/06/only-thoughts-and-prayers-we-should-offer-uvalde/661156/">Thoughts and Prayers</a>"</span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRI9uZT3BFnqsX1hmgmnCQ6tOIKDLX-NS0t7S6NOJOCsF2uYI-Nz1bnkGIJREhYdJ1X3VzqMCso7xmNN5MBMYVst5qyRVx1WAOx6iCW77BeGSRUhR7WWkHm4qU4jzjhfC98rp0cPRCns7zcz90kiTxGG4XoM79T-vdTYMxR6p9YkysrWLF3Fwv8J2o/s780/Alamo%20small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="585" data-original-width="780" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRI9uZT3BFnqsX1hmgmnCQ6tOIKDLX-NS0t7S6NOJOCsF2uYI-Nz1bnkGIJREhYdJ1X3VzqMCso7xmNN5MBMYVst5qyRVx1WAOx6iCW77BeGSRUhR7WWkHm4qU4jzjhfC98rp0cPRCns7zcz90kiTxGG4XoM79T-vdTYMxR6p9YkysrWLF3Fwv8J2o/w400-h300/Alamo%20small.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">The author, remembering the Alamo, in San Antonio, Texas, June 2022</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p><br /></p><div><br /></div>StoneAngels: The Cemetery Travelerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02776945637111478231noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9091026817968807873.post-33088389921572054242022-05-28T08:49:00.000-07:002022-05-28T08:51:48.707-07:00Black Swamp Cemetery and Annie Oakely<p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizH2PCYiZ_WKyFn-UMNHopYjrXAyX_Pl7tSmuRKPKXXOBxZnnHar06y8Z0WylSXC0ELbEN1a0nB-pApWi4IgoXXFgpsd2jntduNl06m2EwYG7FbY31vH78bHnq7_qiJB374BfSkWYifyaDTt_X5lnm9JK8etLf6Q5ch2aWvyzcuBU8MgZvcdjQkTNx/s780/maus%20small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="438" data-original-width="780" height="219" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizH2PCYiZ_WKyFn-UMNHopYjrXAyX_Pl7tSmuRKPKXXOBxZnnHar06y8Z0WylSXC0ELbEN1a0nB-pApWi4IgoXXFgpsd2jntduNl06m2EwYG7FbY31vH78bHnq7_qiJB374BfSkWYifyaDTt_X5lnm9JK8etLf6Q5ch2aWvyzcuBU8MgZvcdjQkTNx/w389-h219/maus%20small.jpg" width="389" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Community mausoleum, Black Swamp Cemetery</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br />Back in early April 2022, I flew to Versailles on business. Not France, unfortunately, but Ohio. Where they pronounce it “Ver-SALES.” Private jet, strictly a one-nighter, no time for cemetery travel. Bummer. The real kicker is that the factory I was visiting had a cemetery right behind it, Black Swamp Cemetery, though I would have no opportunity to visit. The overnight accommodations were in a fancy lodge type deal a few miles away, so I couldn’t even get to the cemetery on my very little time off. Sigh. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">Cemetery enthusiasts have been in this situation many times – they drive by an interesting graveyard, and are not able to stop. Pining for the grave. The photos you see here, actually, are photos of Black Swamp Cemetery in Versailles, Ohio, the main one that I didn’t get to visit. I snapped these out the van window as our small group was en route to the lodge after leaving the factory tour on the day of our arrival. </span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLQ0msRypefUuyVUKNHEfMqX9n6DuasHpAoL3fKx-490rNz7zhdLomhOayIcNJcvoLQxShkbjOWaHmobZA0qcU45InF6oZ3zMqz7fmnGVhBriK5Pvf3MmuS0HPkGKFgsKy2bcWGcTgk9yHDnAgj2XSKv_lZCMlb4Ti58MSa-5b2Rp7ZhUMOK4_rT6X/s780/cannon%20small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="553" data-original-width="780" height="274" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLQ0msRypefUuyVUKNHEfMqX9n6DuasHpAoL3fKx-490rNz7zhdLomhOayIcNJcvoLQxShkbjOWaHmobZA0qcU45InF6oZ3zMqz7fmnGVhBriK5Pvf3MmuS0HPkGKFgsKy2bcWGcTgk9yHDnAgj2XSKv_lZCMlb4Ti58MSa-5b2Rp7ZhUMOK4_rT6X/w386-h274/cannon%20small.jpg" width="386" /></a></div><p></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">Versailles is a small mid-Western town surrounded by thousands of acres of cornfields. Old Victorian-era downtown buildings and old wooden houses. Another cemetery I didn’t get to visit is just outside Versailles in Greenville - Brock Cemetery, where Annie Oakley is buried. Super bummed about that. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIx0WMk7Qkp9qhwmyKBbEzoCvZOtT9zCcmOLr70GqzhpNT7iV5DJxvkHva8Wu3OXD7HMRZBsSQnfjgE-4hJG85AXQQOnn1ZVok2XQ2UNGQE3N8Gmo1VB-SutzxtzFxOVia4scJGmye9HYk_21yNeGhA1Mfk5KgI6G5RsUUrireBtWnmPQbor3W5rCM/s780/obelisk%20small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="418" data-original-width="780" height="210" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIx0WMk7Qkp9qhwmyKBbEzoCvZOtT9zCcmOLr70GqzhpNT7iV5DJxvkHva8Wu3OXD7HMRZBsSQnfjgE-4hJG85AXQQOnn1ZVok2XQ2UNGQE3N8Gmo1VB-SutzxtzFxOVia4scJGmye9HYk_21yNeGhA1Mfk5KgI6G5RsUUrireBtWnmPQbor3W5rCM/w395-h210/obelisk%20small.jpg" width="395" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />The lodge where we stayed outside Versailles was creepy, though, so the trip was interesting in that regard. An absolutely vacant, private lodge owned by this company to board its short-term guests during factory visits. There were six of us in our party, and we were the only guests. There was no check-in desk, no personnel. We were each shown by the van driver to a private suite on various levels of the building. It was cold outside, the lake behind the building was being rained on. The doors to the rooms had no locks. Weird.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">The huge dining area was empty – oddly, there was an acoustic guitar on a stand off to the side of the room. I asked if there was going to be entertainment later. Our driver pointed out, that no, anyone can pick it up and play. Again, weird.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgxnbx2V9HVF4d9bQqktoIojiMbe4_vrxeID-TzhrB5GIz3IlQ35ZrKDKiBQJE99N1WVRB8QjfvWTCuvggWkhz6uH_Dl6ue4ephdACUM4mfINE6qqQtpBguljNEzsvdw4triL2JiV7KU0gKQTsneMWFaDV2x5levKgDcJBWMKRuc_Q4hqGWEZRIbba5" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="2016" data-original-width="1512" height="292" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgxnbx2V9HVF4d9bQqktoIojiMbe4_vrxeID-TzhrB5GIz3IlQ35ZrKDKiBQJE99N1WVRB8QjfvWTCuvggWkhz6uH_Dl6ue4ephdACUM4mfINE6qqQtpBguljNEzsvdw4triL2JiV7KU0gKQTsneMWFaDV2x5levKgDcJBWMKRuc_Q4hqGWEZRIbba5=w219-h292" width="219" /></a><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></div><span style="font-family: inherit;">As we were being led around to our rooms (hopefully not our <i>final </i>resting places), I felt like we were in the hotel from the movie, “<i>The Shining</i>.” I dumped my stuff in room 13 – a ground-level room with a private door out to the lake – perfect access for the madman to gain entry to my room in the night. Our driver said dinner would be served at 7 pm and there was an open bar. Shortly, I headed up to the bar, hoping that it was not us on the menu.</span><p></p><p></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1qRROW33K8pVPP_s2svUJa9RymP4wnM94ADHuJoBqDCHQTDHEbp5LbuhhI6nfnwaMj4xrafXdzXPCNCF4e4A70pL7H_o5AqukiHa0T42Zpu5BVpYRV99ckRw9q03dbmfo-cJh3xfLYhqG8rOLwjxAl1sFu8MPdKJWrmLh5gr-2JR7PE4rcccGbdU7/s780/Weller%20small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkPzETc3fRWmEyO2Inm9n98NVPGkF4jb18FLCmgrCO8cN9NvMrCL4lN7LMESYh_B8xw_GMrTtvw9nRgk7PpRMTnSPnTTdiCyGLkcVNUJSuB7DPm6sIU4wCEvihIcN5upZUlf5nCBtuXnGXyb28TZTsPN3QgLQIcH8FTBPIpN4z4okx0WFkYpiMqgca/s780/Bar%20small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: inherit; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="512" data-original-width="780" height="257" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkPzETc3fRWmEyO2Inm9n98NVPGkF4jb18FLCmgrCO8cN9NvMrCL4lN7LMESYh_B8xw_GMrTtvw9nRgk7PpRMTnSPnTTdiCyGLkcVNUJSuB7DPm6sIU4wCEvihIcN5upZUlf5nCBtuXnGXyb28TZTsPN3QgLQIcH8FTBPIpN4z4okx0WFkYpiMqgca/w391-h257/Bar%20small.jpg" width="391" /></a></div>Turned out to be a completely unattended fully-stocked hotel-style bar, that was, well, open. You just went behind the bar and helped yourself. Truly fine choice of bourbons, I must say. We gathered there for an hour, in the emptiness, wondering where the dinner would come from. I went over and grabbed the guitar, slid the capo up the neck and played “Here Comes the Sun” to dispel the gloom.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">At 7, the kitchen opened and a chef with full crew began serving a fine five-course meal. Truly sumptuous. Afterwards, a few drinks and off to bed - fattened up, hoping I would actually wake up alive in the morning.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPXwX-tnKZdAfUIb480FmH5E8MTUU4VAEsHTHJ3aSAA2z8YLyf5CpwXYCp9-vmHvlyiWH1DCkIR01dp3qGJhckj0GmGA53y10slE1azVnC6yXVeSzODJ_hXsJiRUeMycOsS-Y-ei3WeVwLoTJw1HpNmajiY-IK-v7ejPLDADx2FUNpitDQdsZrNT1o/s780/lake%20small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="585" data-original-width="780" height="297" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPXwX-tnKZdAfUIb480FmH5E8MTUU4VAEsHTHJ3aSAA2z8YLyf5CpwXYCp9-vmHvlyiWH1DCkIR01dp3qGJhckj0GmGA53y10slE1azVnC6yXVeSzODJ_hXsJiRUeMycOsS-Y-ei3WeVwLoTJw1HpNmajiY-IK-v7ejPLDADx2FUNpitDQdsZrNT1o/w395-h297/lake%20small.jpg" width="395" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">A random lake in Ohio, outside my room, in the bleak dawn.</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br />Which I did, and strolled out into the dawn to shoot a few photos of the still lake. Got Wordle in four tries. We packed, were fed breakfast, then were picked up and taken to the factory for the second half of the tour. Lunch and then back to the little Darke County Airport in Versailles and the trip home (you’ll agree, I’m sure, that “Darke County” is a great name!). We didn’t even get to fly over a cemetery at take off.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi140cnIr47wXOwgDyxt_DLMZqsqITp1mpyzUafQziJxy4LgoWytyn7SQqQ8HJ1D5KdiWgGcUY-Fge3dH9iJP_SO1zlACnMgiblDTHI0DgJDyI6wKwJ_kfADFo4up7DeGj7ubfVso5-SMBzUl8QN1W4vvlAso-f6S_E4DeSM0m3CCDoFiDm3aunfJIw/s780/airport%20small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="352" data-original-width="780" height="173" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi140cnIr47wXOwgDyxt_DLMZqsqITp1mpyzUafQziJxy4LgoWytyn7SQqQ8HJ1D5KdiWgGcUY-Fge3dH9iJP_SO1zlACnMgiblDTHI0DgJDyI6wKwJ_kfADFo4up7DeGj7ubfVso5-SMBzUl8QN1W4vvlAso-f6S_E4DeSM0m3CCDoFiDm3aunfJIw/w387-h173/airport%20small.jpg" width="387" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />We cracked open a bottle of champagne at altitude, nibbling fresh fruit. Here’s my cup and the book I was appropriately reading during this whirlwind of a trip, William Gibson’s <i>Mona Lisa Overdrive</i>. The flight was only about forty minutes between Darke County Airport and Philly International. And I have to say – don’t ever feel sorry for those rock stars touring across the country in a private jet. There’s no baggage claim, TSA, fighting over masks, stowing luggage, barf bags. Just hop on, have a chat with your mates, and get off at the next stop. </span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjA_1VEzO-kpJllOfLV9Hq7EC7clAaEYzG4cORzJo3tsVkuMaIODXDKRrAkBrGg7uuoVkpVm4SXTA67HqZwXsSucGIaff1S4hn5CgMmGQXYM74bzbteBtn_CBSTckI9Kwy-oTyXUcamRIH34MsXmKcBL5y6t7vQ12FlpzSLAqCHL3yQuPPDNg1AB7tC/s780/book%20small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="585" data-original-width="780" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjA_1VEzO-kpJllOfLV9Hq7EC7clAaEYzG4cORzJo3tsVkuMaIODXDKRrAkBrGg7uuoVkpVm4SXTA67HqZwXsSucGIaff1S4hn5CgMmGQXYM74bzbteBtn_CBSTckI9Kwy-oTyXUcamRIH34MsXmKcBL5y6t7vQ12FlpzSLAqCHL3yQuPPDNg1AB7tC/s320/book%20small.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: inherit;">My next business trip, to San Antonio, Texas, will definitely include a planned cemetery excursion. Planning is good. Hell, when Mott the Hoople toured the U.S. for the first time, maybe in 1973, the band planned all their free time hitting pawn shops looking for cool guitars. That is where Ian Hunter, according to his autobiography (<i>Diary of a Rock ‘N’ Roll Star</i>), found that weird “H” shaped electric guitar he played – I always thought it was custom made for him. As Space Ghost says, you gotta make your own fun.</span><p></p>StoneAngels: The Cemetery Travelerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02776945637111478231noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9091026817968807873.post-31069486637397026252022-05-14T05:43:00.002-07:002022-05-14T05:48:05.188-07:00Old Tennent Church and Graveyard<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiA6lLuf8Iz8mjD2ulJpHyue0GUk1clSsWM_Em120ehp5XMcz1kf5uJ85ypfJvlYanf3HATkbKXBDr6LUToCZ95cbhvwZLOrIvGMNn1cFyACgWU3cnHHASQJQ_EcF46oEVfbIxL8tGBTCaEpr-OLXDsMGuw5d4BedjQHSxKRcZ88oYgZ2hTFXhSUcd/s780/Deaths%20Head%20small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="619" data-original-width="780" height="254" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiA6lLuf8Iz8mjD2ulJpHyue0GUk1clSsWM_Em120ehp5XMcz1kf5uJ85ypfJvlYanf3HATkbKXBDr6LUToCZ95cbhvwZLOrIvGMNn1cFyACgWU3cnHHASQJQ_EcF46oEVfbIxL8tGBTCaEpr-OLXDsMGuw5d4BedjQHSxKRcZ88oYgZ2hTFXhSUcd/s320/Deaths%20Head%20small.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">While procursive behavior can potentially lead to defenestration, running to the cat lady posed no such issue. When our informal tour guides led us to her final resting place in the graveyard at Old Tennent Church in Tennent, New Jersey, I just had all these catastrophic thoughts going through my head. I could not help but think of Mark Twain’s cat story, “A Cat Tale,” in which he composes a bedtime story for his young daughters based on words beginning with “cat.” They would pick a word from the dictionary, and he would use it in the fictitious story, even if he did not know its meaning. Then the daughters would catch him in his fib and make him alter the story to make the word fit into the story! I actually know the meaning of the two five-dollar words in the first sentence, by the way.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvbvApoqCgSHCuRFNOduzAKrWiC9umqEyc8_OPryDQc06MfL6L5l6dQ07_bXZbWqStjesnjkZTFKG4vdVc-Hh-dEsaOMr3YIXsohQF9MK2WPGSwrJsg5vq18GXqcyiLRrzgRVk2WG6zFO168G4UMNoxr2hg0WGzSiX5AJz1l4NwwERyyXUwKKxxurJ/s780/Cat%20small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="586" data-original-width="780" height="276" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvbvApoqCgSHCuRFNOduzAKrWiC9umqEyc8_OPryDQc06MfL6L5l6dQ07_bXZbWqStjesnjkZTFKG4vdVc-Hh-dEsaOMr3YIXsohQF9MK2WPGSwrJsg5vq18GXqcyiLRrzgRVk2WG6zFO168G4UMNoxr2hg0WGzSiX5AJz1l4NwwERyyXUwKKxxurJ/w368-h276/Cat%20small.jpg" width="368" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Cat Lady</span></td></tr></tbody></table></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">Old Tennent resides in Manalapan Township in Central New Jersey (my Jersey-native neighbors can actually pronounce “Manalapan”). This is near Freehold, which I suppose is where Bruce Springsteen’s ranch is – I probably drove past it on the way. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5Z88-kCN1hR1phjMFjbfhfVUPBmjSCKSzePsuS2FeC6WNAsctkWk8efe9MlOpQUou3njLe4UGzQ4xLz126MqUOam8Jan7--VPtcWqM0DjHVRxPcZayIfLbjDbcVsrAXGAgtSa9kD2FF9HKWXj_EUSGhAo0UuB3pq27dJrpRfAyHIfxGnRxZ8mOIvX/s780/zinc%20small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="780" data-original-width="585" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5Z88-kCN1hR1phjMFjbfhfVUPBmjSCKSzePsuS2FeC6WNAsctkWk8efe9MlOpQUou3njLe4UGzQ4xLz126MqUOam8Jan7--VPtcWqM0DjHVRxPcZayIfLbjDbcVsrAXGAgtSa9kD2FF9HKWXj_EUSGhAo0UuB3pq27dJrpRfAyHIfxGnRxZ8mOIvX/s320/zinc%20small.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Zinc memorial marking family plot</span></td></tr></tbody></table>I don’t know the story of the woman who has cat reliefs carved in her granite memorial, it was just our first stop on our wonderful spring walk through a colonial-era graveyard. There was so much more to see – the old church which was built in 1753 (<a href="https://www.oldtennent.org">https://www.oldtennent.org</a>), the death’s head soul effigy gravemarkers, the mausoleums, and so on. The Old Tennent graveyard was established in 1731, and is STILL an active cemetery, i.e., there are still new burials. </span></p><p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0Nwov0QliYkG2mcdw2BkuZ05lO2RDG253tGsF95y-t3LeR9YhKfdyd4d81fojhzrhHmeQO2gGcukXI9TT9_HiFJZavRy954R_yMxUjJJazIHM4OPIuXVlnNKZG1YHG47rdDmeMH2aC_YSrGLCzC7keZuQTmfJDdwpMVzJCNaBPujMraA03JNortSI/s780/church%20small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="585" data-original-width="780" height="290" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0Nwov0QliYkG2mcdw2BkuZ05lO2RDG253tGsF95y-t3LeR9YhKfdyd4d81fojhzrhHmeQO2gGcukXI9TT9_HiFJZavRy954R_yMxUjJJazIHM4OPIuXVlnNKZG1YHG47rdDmeMH2aC_YSrGLCzC7keZuQTmfJDdwpMVzJCNaBPujMraA03JNortSI/w387-h290/church%20small.jpg" width="387" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Old Tennent Presbyterian Church, Tennent, New Jersey</span></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: inherit;">The property is quite large, and the grave markers are arranged in sort of a timeline, with the oldest around the church, and branching out by era (and that era's symbolism) as the stones appear to orbit the church. The newest stones are in the outermost orbit. There are even a few zinc, or "white bronze" markers to be found near the church (these were popular from the late 1800s until about 1930).</span></p><p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiURvH1Ia3kFzxNxLYYoqgsiB_vYO2XlWm6ExapvFl1VSA500oTvhwd_syAFhtnhvcjJ-svHXwuJCPnNO0kcU1tGIkr-kpjPszUd0HQz6yAG-lS8aB8Qb06ubWwQ9E_hpdk_UJXc4hRK_lu4lzkLEx1hv1qywPP8KIf30XOWHekDOvZUfvZwJ0jBGZs/s780/Starfish%20small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="585" data-original-width="780" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiURvH1Ia3kFzxNxLYYoqgsiB_vYO2XlWm6ExapvFl1VSA500oTvhwd_syAFhtnhvcjJ-svHXwuJCPnNO0kcU1tGIkr-kpjPszUd0HQz6yAG-lS8aB8Qb06ubWwQ9E_hpdk_UJXc4hRK_lu4lzkLEx1hv1qywPP8KIf30XOWHekDOvZUfvZwJ0jBGZs/s320/Starfish%20small.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">"Starfish" angel soul effigy?</span></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: inherit;">Most fascinating for me were the soul effigy brownstone carved stones. I had never seen so many in one place – there were dozens. Most seemed to be carved by two or three carvers, as the styles were all quite similar. The state of preservation of most of these stones is intriguing. Some have lichens growing on them, but are for the most part in great condition. There is a caretaker of the graveyard, and that person obviously does a wonderful job. Simply keeping the grass cut between all these stones and monuments is, well, a monumental task!</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDIIcbAGqppbEOECc9n8BAFV1NF6H52r8KwvB4jWtmTGIlniAKMSOAxcLwWpv4m-iB4FmUsb6v3iAa5vKUUpjXtBPAxZF-Bq5d43gVyNTI7E6z7WsP5n0Dz7Ffvkm_TXfh7CMkviN2xWjtkquvwDpNhO3ug0p5wpT_kSuj4q6cci-gZxN07bJ3nsk8/s780/Vert%20angel%20small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="780" data-original-width="585" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDIIcbAGqppbEOECc9n8BAFV1NF6H52r8KwvB4jWtmTGIlniAKMSOAxcLwWpv4m-iB4FmUsb6v3iAa5vKUUpjXtBPAxZF-Bq5d43gVyNTI7E6z7WsP5n0Dz7Ffvkm_TXfh7CMkviN2xWjtkquvwDpNhO3ug0p5wpT_kSuj4q6cci-gZxN07bJ3nsk8/s320/Vert%20angel%20small.jpg" width="240" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: inherit;">I must mention the reason I was here in the first place. Some friends who are part of the Instagram Cemetery Meetup group we formed last year live in the area and have suggested we all meet there for a walking tour. The group has done this about six times so far, congregating in various cemeteries between Philadelphia and Perth Amboy, New Jersey. About fourteen of us met on this sunny spring Sunday in Tennent – one of the largest attendances we’ve had. There are about twenty people who are part of the group and maybe ten on average will attend a meetup.</span><p></p><p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiz5HatE7CeHwVVsLdEQbxB6u-2f8Uikc61sSCdILlVDgFhP2oWyp_AHJiX4QMP3GeImteQT7_HlLbTeCJr5chR93VcwuxcMAAyD3ovShobuYksYiO9bifcQlk-CfjyzP-nw6a86ZM3E5tjp_jd9wDxVXotFDCwybyvG9glgNitZZiZVyR25aJgOQp7/s780/group%20at%20church%20small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="585" data-original-width="780" height="274" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiz5HatE7CeHwVVsLdEQbxB6u-2f8Uikc61sSCdILlVDgFhP2oWyp_AHJiX4QMP3GeImteQT7_HlLbTeCJr5chR93VcwuxcMAAyD3ovShobuYksYiO9bifcQlk-CfjyzP-nw6a86ZM3E5tjp_jd9wDxVXotFDCwybyvG9glgNitZZiZVyR25aJgOQp7/w366-h274/group%20at%20church%20small.jpg" width="366" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Some members of our meetup group outside church</span></td></tr></tbody></table></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTuzaTuTaoyLiI0fvm6zvazlCOk9GD3OF4-gEb3oh6bg45oQf2kdPc9CaYbP81wEBj9MShqSVav0p6OrHP5fC4WqGuChPqEvrmtte7vI1jeZjvgW3cGIeVhTWAKDgKOlZfGPuFL40l2946iRqFJRmARzvRJdSWKu3pxesAJovL3DsFmW3jpU5-ubPv/s780/Leica%20small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="780" data-original-width="585" height="258" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTuzaTuTaoyLiI0fvm6zvazlCOk9GD3OF4-gEb3oh6bg45oQf2kdPc9CaYbP81wEBj9MShqSVav0p6OrHP5fC4WqGuChPqEvrmtte7vI1jeZjvgW3cGIeVhTWAKDgKOlZfGPuFL40l2946iRqFJRmARzvRJdSWKu3pxesAJovL3DsFmW3jpU5-ubPv/w194-h258/Leica%20small.jpg" width="194" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: inherit;">We had hoped, as our guide had planned, to see the inside of the church. We arrived as a service was letting out and we asked if we could go inside. The people in the church politely declined, so we went about the grounds exploring and photographing. I made these group photos with my iPhone 12 on self-timer. I also brought my new old camera, a forty-year-old Leica R4 35mm <i>film</i> camera, which I needed to test before the warranty expired. A few members of our group graciously posed for photo portraits, as I wanted to test out the camera’s (with Leica 28-70mm f3.5 lens) ability to capture humans, which I have seen can be done with astounding crispness on a shallow depth of field.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYg4_lbLRIShqWMuNjdOeD5YB13sr3blmZBlsdmdt02wmQQ8de9uUzzyuu9C-JiB4THiZe0-O4uhUAN_GNTj3_iYTpr3o2Eq7ZyAaeg-NYcLzvxYlaEheThKRBLrmpM6Cb72E98ceChRmTURqmrjJrIjBOi00A1eys5YEbOBCOcE-a-aLFBaGKNxTU/s780/Neumann%20small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="780" data-original-width="560" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYg4_lbLRIShqWMuNjdOeD5YB13sr3blmZBlsdmdt02wmQQ8de9uUzzyuu9C-JiB4THiZe0-O4uhUAN_GNTj3_iYTpr3o2Eq7ZyAaeg-NYcLzvxYlaEheThKRBLrmpM6Cb72E98ceChRmTURqmrjJrIjBOi00A1eys5YEbOBCOcE-a-aLFBaGKNxTU/s320/Neumann%20small.jpg" width="230" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: inherit;">Someone asked me how the camera has been performing, and I said, <i>“I’ll let you know in a week when I get the film back.”</i> I don’t photograph live people, generally, so the results will also reflect my paucity of skill in that regard. I say “live” people, because I intend to visit the dead as well at Saint John Neumann church in Philadelphia soon. One of our group mentioned that in addition to his headless corpse which is preserved in state behind glass under the altar at this national shrine in Philadelphia (<a href="https://stjohnneumann.org/our-st-john-neumann/about-st-john-neumann">https://stjohnneumann.org/our-st-john-neumann/about-st-john-neumann</a>), they’ve also put on display Neumann’s personal collection of saint’s skulls. I mean, what’s not to like there?! Oh, and if you go, this IS the place <i>“where prayers are answered”</i> (<a href="https://stjohnneumann.org">https://stjohnneumann.org</a>).</span><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHr0roKjpOHz-EcSupeIJptwa44gv4ynAh5uCjjXidgORMj5NwGm2h6lzd8KwvJQlGnaf0YBMMYTSPgkonIKMDRBdx4PB_Aanu0D1fgCEAWBiVj4YGHZR2Y3_0wkhareWu7KUSivWlBS_RNi1PfPVKilZOQLkySzpVUWvSgOL_YNXoYB8l3TDNP2bI/s780/Church%20tour%20small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="585" data-original-width="780" height="281" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHr0roKjpOHz-EcSupeIJptwa44gv4ynAh5uCjjXidgORMj5NwGm2h6lzd8KwvJQlGnaf0YBMMYTSPgkonIKMDRBdx4PB_Aanu0D1fgCEAWBiVj4YGHZR2Y3_0wkhareWu7KUSivWlBS_RNi1PfPVKilZOQLkySzpVUWvSgOL_YNXoYB8l3TDNP2bI/w374-h281/Church%20tour%20small.jpg" width="374" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">A bit later, I was surprised to see members of our group filing into Old Tennent church! It seemed that our guide somehow convinced one of the church volunteers to not only let us in, but to also give us a half-hour tour! This was wonderfully educational and totally appreciated by everyone. The old wooden structure has been kept in fine shape, inside and out. The subscription pew boxes are labelled with small bronze plaques indicating the name of the person or family who pays “rent” on the box. </span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhp_0Xb4w8cFevCK7FFaHpv3G07ID1UQ038rSvpLb0ND50yEWZYJZH-R6fpGEyVTVuWVNwVYLbYvchslOau7zNTbXx0ay46Qim91eur02nLCBSU-fF6NBgAXhKorET2rSa9ckSL_7wfZIP5P8OWPuysAuIlfYSga7TFzQTQBEmk64W-hS3OfYWmSid3/s780/Notch%20small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="585" data-original-width="780" height="276" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhp_0Xb4w8cFevCK7FFaHpv3G07ID1UQ038rSvpLb0ND50yEWZYJZH-R6fpGEyVTVuWVNwVYLbYvchslOau7zNTbXx0ay46Qim91eur02nLCBSU-fF6NBgAXhKorET2rSa9ckSL_7wfZIP5P8OWPuysAuIlfYSga7TFzQTQBEmk64W-hS3OfYWmSid3/w367-h276/Notch%20small.jpg" width="367" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Notch in church pew caused by saw used in amputation</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">The church had been used as a hospital for the American army (led by General George Washington himself) during the Battle of Monmouth, which was fought on the hill opposite the graveyard on June 28, 1778. As you would expect, then, there are many Revolutionary War soldiers buried in Old Tennent. Our guide pointed out blood stains on a wooden pew seat and another pew with a notch in it’s seat – supposedly this was made by a saw as a soldier’s leg was being amputated.</span></p><div style="text-align: right;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtS_hiPc3VXyBS-BaVO5ugJFovGX-lUPe1ETLHzLdLprKGrbN7d_MCm3KGrGqjCMWx4zls06OgYK9JnGOJOCsU6GrlNNW8CHAu8lfNXd0hyL20G5tm0TPjw_N4IjW0vETdyLikzVCcwqU1HTmwM8DXA1Y5gONyoed-mTzd-x7GtqhcwLURQyH0c_N9/s780/stained%20glass%20small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="780" data-original-width="489" height="278" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtS_hiPc3VXyBS-BaVO5ugJFovGX-lUPe1ETLHzLdLprKGrbN7d_MCm3KGrGqjCMWx4zls06OgYK9JnGOJOCsU6GrlNNW8CHAu8lfNXd0hyL20G5tm0TPjw_N4IjW0vETdyLikzVCcwqU1HTmwM8DXA1Y5gONyoed-mTzd-x7GtqhcwLURQyH0c_N9/w174-h278/stained%20glass%20small.jpg" width="174" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">So that’s all very sobering, right? There was also a display case with cannonballs, rifle shot, and other historic memorabilia from the local battle. The Monmouth fight was pivotal in Washington’s career, as he, personally, along with his army, successfully drove the British farther from Philadelphia (which the British had occupied), a victory which prompted people to begin describing Washington as the Father of Our Country (<a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Battle_of_Monmouth">https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Battle_of_Monmouth</a>).</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKR5GJcFlauM-86uQcjKIDFxZMaA9WTOhjSEYamsE__3F0DS90LZahzt_CtjKqPxBnygdK9oAz8o7KPlKzFRY-wSWWYWsbBdJoYf6nrOvLpQM4sIwUxdwWsTKj0pnNU6sVf2-Yo2zK7sNf_C2-kJjtSbHgJ1PZahlCb21lMTMs98XKx-GhsTeifdw-/s780/shirt%20small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="780" data-original-width="585" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKR5GJcFlauM-86uQcjKIDFxZMaA9WTOhjSEYamsE__3F0DS90LZahzt_CtjKqPxBnygdK9oAz8o7KPlKzFRY-wSWWYWsbBdJoYf6nrOvLpQM4sIwUxdwWsTKj0pnNU6sVf2-Yo2zK7sNf_C2-kJjtSbHgJ1PZahlCb21lMTMs98XKx-GhsTeifdw-/s320/shirt%20small.jpg" width="240" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: inherit;">After our tour of the church, our group continued its exploration of the grounds. We all posed for a group photo (again, taken with my iPhone 12) in front of a mausoleum. I’ve noticed that many members of the group sport great T-shirts and other items of clothing which serve as an effective starting point to begin a conversation with someone you’ve only ever met on Instagram! The social media platform is being used to create and nurture actual social in-person relationships. </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">I look forward to our next planned meetup, which may be around Elizabeth or Newark, New Jersey. Our friends (and we truly have all become friends) from that area are anxious to show us two cemeteries that boast even more gravemarkers with angel and death’s head soul effigy carvings. </span><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjA9aVpVlhhVdfQtlh8i159I1_MZsjJZ18H4GLYRlPSCAp2IwduWs9kFgW_UZv2TdAb8dMHe1MqiXhslo6HyVdZSceut_ZiCe2iaajAmDibHetb-j9AIyydQgDv7mp8AlzKoKNh-JSOqmQLgYx-RpwQMO-p-Ukdm59vny40N_CaMxrSTxdSrBxjex14/s780/mausoleum%20small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="780" data-original-width="776" height="355" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjA9aVpVlhhVdfQtlh8i159I1_MZsjJZ18H4GLYRlPSCAp2IwduWs9kFgW_UZv2TdAb8dMHe1MqiXhslo6HyVdZSceut_ZiCe2iaajAmDibHetb-j9AIyydQgDv7mp8AlzKoKNh-JSOqmQLgYx-RpwQMO-p-Ukdm59vny40N_CaMxrSTxdSrBxjex14/w353-h355/mausoleum%20small.jpg" width="353" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: inherit;">In parting, let me just say that it always pays to look inside mausoleums. You can see some amazing stained glass, or even engraved crypt covers such as the one you see below. Seriously, would you ADVERTISE that you were a descendant of witch burners Cotton and Increase Mather? This Puritan clergy father/son duo was responsible in large part for the witch hunts and resulting murders in New England during the late 1600s. But seriously, if it hadn’t been for the Salem Witch Trials, how would we ever have known that witches can’t swim? Turns out that the Monty Python witch trial scene from the movie, “Monty Python and the Holy Grail,” was a fairly accurate depiction of how skewed this Puritanical logic was (<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rJFA6uEfUlM">https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rJFA6uEfUlM</a>). As an aside, “Cotton Mather” is also the name of a pretty cool power pop band. </span><p></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhseJXkqxLP2GP3nMS_DIYgqTXODGMwh_WGKbgky9s2Vsy2UuwdRkKv6Q_mpF8U4kdcPoYOh0UF3CrkEBtJabw5lfAdWXM1_2qSWK-rhvEFJX-Edsb8i-_fSZi0sY7RUUjGrWhp-A2lS_K9PffPmQhHImaKfnSra0uGokif-MA9hJZs8bQEBUFz5fER/s780/Mather%20small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="368" data-original-width="780" height="187" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhseJXkqxLP2GP3nMS_DIYgqTXODGMwh_WGKbgky9s2Vsy2UuwdRkKv6Q_mpF8U4kdcPoYOh0UF3CrkEBtJabw5lfAdWXM1_2qSWK-rhvEFJX-Edsb8i-_fSZi0sY7RUUjGrWhp-A2lS_K9PffPmQhHImaKfnSra0uGokif-MA9hJZs8bQEBUFz5fER/w396-h187/Mather%20small.jpg" width="396" /></a></p><div><br /></div>StoneAngels: The Cemetery Travelerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02776945637111478231noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9091026817968807873.post-38733238995354014982022-03-03T16:10:00.002-08:002022-03-03T16:17:03.105-08:00Secrets Revealed from Philadelphia's (Underwater) Monument Cemetery<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjFETFqPYBvWCrd60nwBBCrfL_YzHtGQWHA7HBS7uRwXZXhfmDlMufKRktldHSxHL2z-62E0JkQeBJqIHNfQYDZ3AI7VYpTvLGEMFxwwxE5KM45kukrrpGoLWYD0jLJCLxXz24NuF9WWf-ZXOvkhEeBc3qspWrtCt9A2fSLVtl8eL3Ae0MYtZpZbrGQ=s861" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="452" data-original-width="861" height="168" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjFETFqPYBvWCrd60nwBBCrfL_YzHtGQWHA7HBS7uRwXZXhfmDlMufKRktldHSxHL2z-62E0JkQeBJqIHNfQYDZ3AI7VYpTvLGEMFxwwxE5KM45kukrrpGoLWYD0jLJCLxXz24NuF9WWf-ZXOvkhEeBc3qspWrtCt9A2fSLVtl8eL3Ae0MYtZpZbrGQ=s320" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">On Saturday, March 12, 2022 – at 6 p.m. – I will be giving a virtual presentation on the 1956 destruction of Monument Cemetery in Philadelphia. Many of you have seen my photographs or read my blogs from 2011 and 2012 (see links at end) concerning this landmark event in the city's history. Some of you have probably attended one of my physical or virtual presentations, which I've been calling, "</span>Secrets Revealed from Philadelphia's (Underwater) Monument Cemetery." <span style="font-family: inherit;">With each successive presentation, I update the content based on new research. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">The 2022 edition will follow suit and is being sponsored</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> sponsored by the Philadelpha bookstore, <b><i>A Novel Idea</i></b>. I appreciate their help and urge you to visit this lovely boutique bookstore in the Passyunk Avenue neighborhood of South Philly. </span></p><div><span style="font-family: inherit;">A Novel Idea</span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;">1726 E Passyunk Ave, Philadelphia, PA 19148 </span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;">(267) 764-1202</span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;">Each time I make this presentation, I advertise the event on social media. I typically get a slew of comments from people who were unaware of the situation. Last week when I posted the event, someone wrote, “<i>How could this happen?</i>” Another person responded quite succinctly:</span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;">“<i>70 years ago Temple needed parking. A cemetery was in the way.</i>”</span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;">That is, of course, the gist of it. However, my presentation fleshes out the story, covering the history of Monument Cemetery (established in 1837), its destruction, and the aftermath of its obliteration. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjVtYsRnchTvRYngXnNs78Kiu7DSDPuLdnipqq50bldVdxYA4pkxGNYzcee0He17ZxjoYju9akzkI9cNEd6RHnI5aRGoIAZgnvwcTlmnTIiEuBTRbK0nM1q5Tw0fQKvQlm3rQe_Cqk38cQc6yD4wRvF0kQCipnTuaRKSbQtem5k6uDMx_8Xk6nirqY9=s640" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="306" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjVtYsRnchTvRYngXnNs78Kiu7DSDPuLdnipqq50bldVdxYA4pkxGNYzcee0He17ZxjoYju9akzkI9cNEd6RHnI5aRGoIAZgnvwcTlmnTIiEuBTRbK0nM1q5Tw0fQKvQlm3rQe_Cqk38cQc6yD4wRvF0kQCipnTuaRKSbQtem5k6uDMx_8Xk6nirqY9=w408-h306" width="408" /></a></div></div><div><br /></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;">Above you see the </span>Monument Cemetery gatehouse is it stood on North Broad Street in Philadelphia, in 1852 (Gleason’s Pictorial, Vol. III, No. 9, Aug. 28, 1852).</div><div><br /></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg_po20izG29H-9_R1i4v8uG_J_vFG17k4qrWueP2ieaOBQirVJGQtclUKfTgIV7arx6DKFr0bUueaq1ryl0tlvDaFUkHPOJ4jAid7tjDlEbmgcoDziridGZbKsNifAUz52IWG2YMQfqcp50jahSo0YI3MncDGJM1OUbbP4PbZ07mPr1cO2fIP9dUnU=s1441" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1441" height="296" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg_po20izG29H-9_R1i4v8uG_J_vFG17k4qrWueP2ieaOBQirVJGQtclUKfTgIV7arx6DKFr0bUueaq1ryl0tlvDaFUkHPOJ4jAid7tjDlEbmgcoDziridGZbKsNifAUz52IWG2YMQfqcp50jahSo0YI3MncDGJM1OUbbP4PbZ07mPr1cO2fIP9dUnU=w356-h296" width="356" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>The comments people make (at both my in-person presentations as well as in Zoom virtuals) often provide me with missing details or ideas for further research. Examples include eye-witness accounts by people who were Temple students at the time the cemetery was razed, which certainly casts doubt upon the care which was supposedly exercised in the removal of the bodies.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;">When I advertise this presentation on Instagram or Facebook, I might get thirty comments, 95% of which will be in the “OMG-how-could-they-let-this-happen” category (which I expect), but there might be another 5% that will go something like this:</span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><span><i>“…the graves were relocated, the headstones were used as backfill - no disrespect ...”</i></span></div><div><span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjdIvunAt8Xtix973Ey7XCfC-U1GVDAUG695NV3Xmkx3HE5ObYGKcocdX13tqgg3nhUd3m0FKDLsNLWqKoM6QEn30yGswGyOY1AGLHmpEESQFj_W0sjtryDeDk_qwvdrRzUtJMBxsHAssspMQrK4Ygx04rxY9z_xKkwmDLdiVSOXrwLEZq7mJZ_xciF=s627" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="627" data-original-width="418" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjdIvunAt8Xtix973Ey7XCfC-U1GVDAUG695NV3Xmkx3HE5ObYGKcocdX13tqgg3nhUd3m0FKDLsNLWqKoM6QEn30yGswGyOY1AGLHmpEESQFj_W0sjtryDeDk_qwvdrRzUtJMBxsHAssspMQrK4Ygx04rxY9z_xKkwmDLdiVSOXrwLEZq7mJZ_xciF=s320" width="213" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Gravestones along the Delaware</span></td></tr></tbody></table>So yes, many of the gravestones were dumped into the Delaware River to help create a strong foundation for the Betsy Ross Bridge (which was then in the planning stage). Dozens of gravemarkers can still be seen at low tide under the bridge. There are differing points of view on this situation, and I am certainly open to everyone's opinion. We learn more about ourselves when we listen to others. Removal of cemeteries happened on a grand scale across the United States after the Industrial Revolution, as cities grew. Small church graveyards as well as large cemeteries often found themselves occupying land that was valued highly by developers. Probably the most disruptive example of this was in 1912 when San Francisco evicted all existing cemeteries - and those buried in them - from within the city limits. In 1929, it began moving the majority of its cemeteries to the town of Colma, California, just outside San Francisco. About 150,000 bodies were moved and many of the gravestones ended up in San Francisco Bay, where some can still be seen today. All in the name of progress.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;">Monument Cemetery was no different. It sat squarely in the way of the city’s expansion. Like San Francisco, Philadelphia’s population was growing, housing and factories needed to be built. And Monument Cemetery was not the only Philadelphia cemetery moved in that time period. While Monument held about 28,000 bodes, Lafayette Cemetery held about 47,000. Lafayette occupied the land where the present day Capitolo Playground sits in South Philly, next to the two famous cheese steak emporiums – Pat’s and Geno’s. The city paid a contractor to relocate the bodies, but wasn’t much concerned about their actual, eventual destination. But that's another story…</span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjlIfYN0yjuzEIBnZwHV21BCeihEbR3byo74YkIUu9M6aZwh9wIIN6oBkJoT2vmYqYr1k8Bnkrlz4agigRf4ceXbopGg0wfb0q3QBky5_WQ6HYRF_v1o5auuDQTeRYIEDE87e8Cf9uTk-m3S7hC4lUH2BwF_n-A9jAJ64iJrw3Uqi4Jb_KUpz-_qc3u=s495" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="360" data-original-width="495" height="264" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjlIfYN0yjuzEIBnZwHV21BCeihEbR3byo74YkIUu9M6aZwh9wIIN6oBkJoT2vmYqYr1k8Bnkrlz4agigRf4ceXbopGg0wfb0q3QBky5_WQ6HYRF_v1o5auuDQTeRYIEDE87e8Cf9uTk-m3S7hC4lUH2BwF_n-A9jAJ64iJrw3Uqi4Jb_KUpz-_qc3u=w363-h264" width="363" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Vault being excavated from Monument Cemetery, Philadelphia, in 1956</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;">And as you might guess (or maybe you might not), when cemeteries are moved, they never seem to move all the bodies. Which may be one reason Temple never went ahead with its plan to build a massive football field on the site previpously occupied by Monument Cemetery. You may have heard of the 2017 discovery of hundreds of bodies in a construction dig at Third and Arch Streets in Philadelphia, the site of the First Baptist Church of Philadelphia's burial ground. The bodies were supposedly relocated to Philadelphia’ Mount Moriah Cemetery in 1860. Well guess what - hundreds of bodies in wooden coffins were excavated from that construction site in 2017. Even when written accounts say that all the bodies were moved, well, all the bodies are never moved. Which is one reason they seldom build anything other than a ball field, playground, or parking lot over an old cemetery.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjEHMT4tmK5q1g2kHv_wS0AyhWkH_Rs8Slqc5zW7oFMyOTFgvkPwz6fVUwFu_N573m53ALB_f62ipmcjTKjWeOJtm2SUsqSz6tFJxWVHsFFRJNs3FRYGjGkLszeHc4WapR2jNjiC06USEjHASVml8O3rLRVq1sc0bmRpjUk093FA-gUS-61zXgIFYsU=s627" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="418" data-original-width="627" height="253" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjEHMT4tmK5q1g2kHv_wS0AyhWkH_Rs8Slqc5zW7oFMyOTFgvkPwz6fVUwFu_N573m53ALB_f62ipmcjTKjWeOJtm2SUsqSz6tFJxWVHsFFRJNs3FRYGjGkLszeHc4WapR2jNjiC06USEjHASVml8O3rLRVq1sc0bmRpjUk093FA-gUS-61zXgIFYsU=w380-h253" width="380" /></a></div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>In conclusion, I try not to be critical. I just present the facts. We would all like to believe that we are, for the most part, good, honest, well-intentioned people. The actions described above were made by our ancestors, not us, right? </span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>Beware the Ideas of March! </b></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;">When I gave this presentation last year to an audience of about 175 attendees (hosted by the Athenaeum of Philadelphia), there was a comment in the Zoom chat – <i>“We should raise money to have a commemorative bronze plaque made and attached to the original cemetery wall on the Temple University campus.”</i> Yes, oddly, the cemetery’s stone border walls were kept in place! They are still there! What a fitting memory to this historic cemetery to have an historic marker or plaque placed on or near that wall.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEicG7ix7MCZNxOAlDskhUvpqE7NfVlxQUOA7tAO-flNHn69bSj_W7neBTG4UtZsDXH9x6AkGXztZFbAOhhfTSoSoWG_7xvrZaQMzWUY_TtbAWA_lhTiyPEGWYE9bitLUhZYfZbNRcYiP-tP0CMmIVjRt-38C04d1vS-aaIYlaiVRrMCpssa4wWmrQH3=s936" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="936" data-original-width="800" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEicG7ix7MCZNxOAlDskhUvpqE7NfVlxQUOA7tAO-flNHn69bSj_W7neBTG4UtZsDXH9x6AkGXztZFbAOhhfTSoSoWG_7xvrZaQMzWUY_TtbAWA_lhTiyPEGWYE9bitLUhZYfZbNRcYiP-tP0CMmIVjRt-38C04d1vS-aaIYlaiVRrMCpssa4wWmrQH3=s320" width="274" /></a></div><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><b>Please join me at 6 p.m. on March 12! Here is the registration page for the presentation:</b></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://www.eventbrite.com/e/secrets-revealed-from-philadelphias-underwater-monument-cemetery-online-tickets-268145439227">https://www.eventbrite.com/e/secrets-revealed-from-philadelphias-underwater-monument-cemetery-online-tickets-268145439227</a></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><u><br /></u></b></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><u><br /></u></b></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><u>Further Reading:</u></b></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;">My original three blog posts on the destruction of Monument Cemetery from my Cemetery Traveler blog:</span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="http://thecemeterytraveler.blogspot.com/2011/04/watery-remains-of-monument-cemetery.html">http://thecemeterytraveler.blogspot.com/2011/04/watery-remains-of-monument-cemetery.html</a></span></div><div><br /></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://thecemeterytraveler.blogspot.com/2011/05/how-monument-cemetery-was-destroyed.html">https://thecemeterytraveler.blogspot.com/2011/05/how-monument-cemetery-was-destroyed.html</a></span></div><div><br /></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://thecemeterytraveler.blogspot.com/2012/03/beachcombing-in-hell-gravestones-of.html">https://thecemeterytraveler.blogspot.com/2012/03/beachcombing-in-hell-gravestones-of.html</a></span></div><div><br /></div><div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;">If you want to read about the destruction of Lafayette Cemetery, please follow this link:</span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/blog/post/edit/9091026817968807873/goog_347525179"><br /></a></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://thecemeterytraveler.blogspot.com/2011/12/condemned-lafayette-cemetery.html">https://thecemeterytraveler.blogspot.com/2011/12/condemned-lafayette-cemetery.html</a></span></div></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg7d3rpxMiClExx0xWC3y-zs2a6AVCd_fDrxE3l_emr6Mj-QaD05X2RAklaQrhyaQ71s077Oe_JesFkqHLXVQktDpnXwndMsD_hgHJtLH4aUYDZuQX4s0xUqNLbXLyOJNRfqTusQhzxDOAq1yf7DCmBLwzBHxgTsDwRoO3U79UFiQNA_Zx_N_Mx4PQm=s1897" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1422" data-original-width="1897" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg7d3rpxMiClExx0xWC3y-zs2a6AVCd_fDrxE3l_emr6Mj-QaD05X2RAklaQrhyaQ71s077Oe_JesFkqHLXVQktDpnXwndMsD_hgHJtLH4aUYDZuQX4s0xUqNLbXLyOJNRfqTusQhzxDOAq1yf7DCmBLwzBHxgTsDwRoO3U79UFiQNA_Zx_N_Mx4PQm=s320" width="320" /></a></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;">Also, my book, <i>The Cemetery Traveler</i>, which includes excerpts from these blogs, is available from Amazon:</span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="goog_347525178"><br /></a></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Cemetery-Traveler-Selections-blog/dp/1717885950">https://www.amazon.com/Cemetery-Traveler-Selections-blog/dp/1717885950</a></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><br /></div><div><br style="background-color: white; color: #1d2228; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" /></div>StoneAngels: The Cemetery Travelerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02776945637111478231noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9091026817968807873.post-66199686000464677402022-02-05T09:00:00.000-08:002022-02-05T09:01:37.184-08:00 Moaning in the Gloaming<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg1d_wSJZ79qGRFqD5RVVInYOQo-B6weq4T5XWjrK1waCOoOGfBV8mr4pPE8aZ8l8Ne7HTVl5izEWnTWfOQy9xkIefUQ9pRuZt45rLTcdDygz3K_l0PvUYZ3E-Ce4MfbcytGYiS7DeuHR_WEnx-O0FAMsINfhHhmiROSCXNkdveW5XsaIXO6jHdpAfE=s1080" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="720" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg1d_wSJZ79qGRFqD5RVVInYOQo-B6weq4T5XWjrK1waCOoOGfBV8mr4pPE8aZ8l8Ne7HTVl5izEWnTWfOQy9xkIefUQ9pRuZt45rLTcdDygz3K_l0PvUYZ3E-Ce4MfbcytGYiS7DeuHR_WEnx-O0FAMsINfhHhmiROSCXNkdveW5XsaIXO6jHdpAfE=s320" width="213" /></a></div><span style="font-family: inherit;">Any time of year is good for a scary story, right? This involves a visit from maybe around 2017 to the old Leverington Cemetery in Roxborough, Pennsylvania. The cemetery has been in existence since 1744 and the Church next door, with its own graveyard in back, has been around since about 1789 (<a href="https://books.google.com/books?id=161AAAAAYAAJ&printsec=frontcover&source=gbs_ge_summary_r&cad=0#v=onepage&q&f=false">ref.</a>). The graveyard (the technical term for a churchyard burial ground) was closed to new burials in the 1980s, though the adjoining Leverington Cemetery remains active. The much larger Leverington Cemetery (about nine acres) has a gated entrance on Ridge Avenue.</span><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhglAWeR2KzvC9pasm1joZZnThcLPS4Dl_q8lEWSiD-A9dr02GknINldhFoeS1AoeQqdehen3UZBsWg5hp2FehDGpH5owzX_fqGaboKp7cbH4PInjnnOZwelko6Rq_sG5ml58mDtxpNdUu2OHR2CjNVQbEbv9ciBNO6WL9D83RPaV0x1VzHyXojrsgI=s720" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhglAWeR2KzvC9pasm1joZZnThcLPS4Dl_q8lEWSiD-A9dr02GknINldhFoeS1AoeQqdehen3UZBsWg5hp2FehDGpH5owzX_fqGaboKp7cbH4PInjnnOZwelko6Rq_sG5ml58mDtxpNdUu2OHR2CjNVQbEbv9ciBNO6WL9D83RPaV0x1VzHyXojrsgI=s320" width="213" /></span></a></div><span style="font-family: inherit;">It was the waning end of a crisp fall day, as I recall. Leverington is one of the few Philadelphia area cemeteries that is safe to explore in the gloaming, safe from being locked in, anyway. The main gate is missing, so anyone can wander in (or out) at their leisure. Which has been a problem, from what I’ve heard. Some have related encounters with ne’er-do-wells who had been hanging about the property, but I personally never had a problem. On this visit I was by myself. I’d been here many times over the years. I checked out the Civil War monument in the back of the cemetery and the old graves back behind the church. Made some photographs as I explored the grounds.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">As I was walking behind the maintenance shed in the center of the cemetery, I heard the most god-awful moaning, and stopped short. Where could that be coming from? My blood froze. It was broad daylight, so it wasn’t TERRIBLY frightening, but still, this is a cemetery, right? Anything can happen.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgx_-J3OKDIjO19y0t0bWEW6KNaZ-JSGeqKzDhCrD8QpfCXcv_hhJfbitNCMRTbN8y8lMFRyzT3Yg2RsJd9KIjjceQtZsc9aI0ESzRwV-HICyh4T1oG46wt-CRq0lBF5MW_awYyc_vihE9YCg-hhm0GQxrrteGu4Su8JnT4vWRFJ6tnJR2P5kGpB1OX=s720" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgx_-J3OKDIjO19y0t0bWEW6KNaZ-JSGeqKzDhCrD8QpfCXcv_hhJfbitNCMRTbN8y8lMFRyzT3Yg2RsJd9KIjjceQtZsc9aI0ESzRwV-HICyh4T1oG46wt-CRq0lBF5MW_awYyc_vihE9YCg-hhm0GQxrrteGu4Su8JnT4vWRFJ6tnJR2P5kGpB1OX=s320" width="213" /></span></a></div><span style="font-family: inherit;">Then ANOTHER god-awful moan! Traffic on Ridge Avenue is a block away; Bob’s Diner, which borders the cemetery, the same distance. No creature anywhere nearby that could make such a sound - Whisky – Tango – Foxtrot (WTF) ...!? As I slowly walked around the front of the shed, I noticed that one of the red, barn-style doors was open. I gingerly approached the opening. Maybe the moaning was coming from inside the shed? As I neared the open door, I peered inside ….. was someone hurt or dying? Was someone already dead?</span><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjrC66pOzOcZGI8X81dWtMZXv_M27L01ahw9FH5-4EiPca9u2dymKuc7Ko-isLRTcWnazhb1atvffxHZNJ4E5UA6XL9iarNdgAjrcoT_yAIn4cznh3Wy-V1_regDbAvc9vi6XYM40zuXyN2Bl_qIBkGmrmOjwWBRboqtfwA5m5g5lQqYq1lH9m63VzA=s720" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="720" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjrC66pOzOcZGI8X81dWtMZXv_M27L01ahw9FH5-4EiPca9u2dymKuc7Ko-isLRTcWnazhb1atvffxHZNJ4E5UA6XL9iarNdgAjrcoT_yAIn4cznh3Wy-V1_regDbAvc9vi6XYM40zuXyN2Bl_qIBkGmrmOjwWBRboqtfwA5m5g5lQqYq1lH9m63VzA=w399-h266" width="399" /></span></a></div><p></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">What I saw came as rather a shock. A gentleman, who I took to be the groundskeeper, was sitting on a white plastic five-gallon bucket. His pants at his ankles, apparently taking a fierce dump! I assume the poor guy had nowhere else to go. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">I backed away, so as to give him his privacy, allowing him to continue to focus on this quotidian event. I made my way out of the area and out of the cemetery, vowing to always take care of business BEFORE going on any long explore. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><i>References and Further Reading:</i></b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://books.google.com/books?id=161AAAAAYAAJ&printsec=frontcover&source=gbs_ge_summary_r&cad=0#v=onepage&q&f=false">https://books.google.com/books?id=161AAAAAYAAJ&printsec=frontcover&source=gbs_ge_summary_r&cad=0#v=onepage&q&f=false</a></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://roxboroughpa.com/news/leverington-cemetery-preservation-a-family-mission-for-owner-with-deep-roxborough-roots7">https://roxboroughpa.com/news/leverington-cemetery-preservation-a-family-mission-for-owner-with-deep-roxborough-roots7</a></span></p>StoneAngels: The Cemetery Travelerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02776945637111478231noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9091026817968807873.post-19751151020967484402022-01-22T05:59:00.006-08:002022-01-22T06:02:47.304-08:00Sleepy Hollow Cemetery<p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiiQawSFK12xPumuqpijzP1E1zz5-7GkCciXhWLtmG9CMMaYqngpVwZwEVOrKr8kr8I6WFEoavXsxX4hubm4ciKIX89rn6tTidnq5YDK2-qUl5XGr4X-2xHD_d3ZxxrVGr9NwAa1f7v-ndZEjrKfe6ykuLUW2-TZHbAlyqXFsEZlNYxitAsvrV0yT-q=s1050" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="700" data-original-width="1050" height="243" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiiQawSFK12xPumuqpijzP1E1zz5-7GkCciXhWLtmG9CMMaYqngpVwZwEVOrKr8kr8I6WFEoavXsxX4hubm4ciKIX89rn6tTidnq5YDK2-qUl5XGr4X-2xHD_d3ZxxrVGr9NwAa1f7v-ndZEjrKfe6ykuLUW2-TZHbAlyqXFsEZlNYxitAsvrV0yT-q=w365-h243" width="365" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Author Ed Snyder by Frank Rausch</span></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />I am not the world’s biggest Washington Irving fan (even less so a John Irving fan), so his grave is not why I visited Sleepy Hollow Cemetery in Sleepy Hollow, New York back in 2018. Not being an Irving fan seems almost un-American to me. I guess this hit home when I was visiting his grave – every once in a while I just play tourist, and go for the celebs. I got my friend Frank to photograph me at Irving’s gravesite. </span><p></p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEggRA0kpBNhS6z4ZpjrfNoUYevWE3w5FVMU8MhyI0OvIJ8m1ZPhiIKHIL0izlCGqKXmthzMEb1_TpykUh3Eb1J9cOjqXw2T3HVvQJQSLOvnI_E4wNxQwRFTlCv3e3aEQu2h57SQcAo2A2g661jvbVelkDueExQhyTA5Ziqfi7T2lJoPLl_gRuDA5dRx=s1671" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1254" data-original-width="1671" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEggRA0kpBNhS6z4ZpjrfNoUYevWE3w5FVMU8MhyI0OvIJ8m1ZPhiIKHIL0izlCGqKXmthzMEb1_TpykUh3Eb1J9cOjqXw2T3HVvQJQSLOvnI_E4wNxQwRFTlCv3e3aEQu2h57SQcAo2A2g661jvbVelkDueExQhyTA5Ziqfi7T2lJoPLl_gRuDA5dRx=s320" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Bench at gatehouse, Sleepy Hollow Cemetery</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">Irving (1783-1859) lived near Sleepy Hollow and was bewitched by the spookiness of the area. It helped stoke his imagination for writing such tales as the Legend of Sleepy Hollow and Rip Van Winkle in the early 1800s. I read The Legend of Sleepy Hollow as an adult, and it was anticlimactic. Having grown up with this pervasive tale, there was no magic left in the words. I realize that at the time it was written, Irving created a Victorian gothic masterpiece. For me, Rip Van Winkle was a much more enjoyable tale – the game of ninepins in the dark Catskilll Mountains and falling asleep for twenty years to avoid the nuisances of everyday life. A goal as sought after, yet as unattainable, as a bottle of Pappy Van Winkle bourbon. </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjLIBjMEXFtjL6S6iL-umFe3nPycToRe6of2CdQsMG6WPFVd66ukIUa3Acwrsosjg_sJF61Tp7n4EAWgBSlzFAUIQOiVQGcal46PL0vNw4xuXv_4QEQoULojw2feTWEE8PvbAinUjRYYdcu3OOIynhXpOQr-fey7sufJeXljZpweAcRBaaX0x0amCeD=s667" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="667" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjLIBjMEXFtjL6S6iL-umFe3nPycToRe6of2CdQsMG6WPFVd66ukIUa3Acwrsosjg_sJF61Tp7n4EAWgBSlzFAUIQOiVQGcal46PL0vNw4xuXv_4QEQoULojw2feTWEE8PvbAinUjRYYdcu3OOIynhXpOQr-fey7sufJeXljZpweAcRBaaX0x0amCeD=s320" width="320" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">Anyway, I stray from my topic. Which is one of the reasons you read this blog, right? I seldom pander to people’s expectations. Sleepy Hollow Cemetery is certainly worth the visit. The trip was mainly a reason to hang out with my buddy Frank, who had left Philly for Connecticut after he retired. Sleepy Hollow was a good halfway point to meet, and since we both photograph cemeteries, what better place? Frank had been there before, I had not.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi-dnT58TmRv1SkWAU04Y26ci5MYsZAljdb8BdU6soOFoyN-MbVR2clXmGP0G-LupXrFCs6e7GiZHcjFVVbsuzeiGetDxoYSU_SZNxTq4f_pEvpgf7XHOugfy0I9jEQFhlpzTkTgoHmDctLlYVxLn2if6hPN6jmx-vYoccnoB5KihCa99T7KctnU8pa=s667" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="667" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi-dnT58TmRv1SkWAU04Y26ci5MYsZAljdb8BdU6soOFoyN-MbVR2clXmGP0G-LupXrFCs6e7GiZHcjFVVbsuzeiGetDxoYSU_SZNxTq4f_pEvpgf7XHOugfy0I9jEQFhlpzTkTgoHmDctLlYVxLn2if6hPN6jmx-vYoccnoB5KihCa99T7KctnU8pa=s320" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">Sleepy Hollow is bit north of New York City, near tiny Tarrytown, New York. Which is near White Plains. As I crossed the Tappan Zee Bridge from Nyack, New Jersey, I couldn’t get the great power pop Fountains of Wayne song, “Little Red Light,” out of my head:</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>“Sitting in traffic on the Tappan Zee</i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>Fifty million people out in front of me</i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>Trying to cross the water but it just might be a while</i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>Rain's coming down I can't see a thing</i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>Radio's broken so I'm whistling</i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>New York to Nyack feels like a hundred miles ….”</i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjGK5KXnQn72830GrfKLohEmBBWq7NcL_vihUmsQ1KSjvA00Mg4ZoxO1F1RJpauDEInWyKkIGqIH62pr-NfWNuFsKWwokGpLWh0V0GIurGUxAPPcXFqSOoJmUyY3snUOoBunT4M9L9cEANBNfLXs7tn_thlmn5l5_gOaB3rPEWS_vm4lSwNWFgjTfOM=s667" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="667" height="291" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjGK5KXnQn72830GrfKLohEmBBWq7NcL_vihUmsQ1KSjvA00Mg4ZoxO1F1RJpauDEInWyKkIGqIH62pr-NfWNuFsKWwokGpLWh0V0GIurGUxAPPcXFqSOoJmUyY3snUOoBunT4M9L9cEANBNfLXs7tn_thlmn5l5_gOaB3rPEWS_vm4lSwNWFgjTfOM=w387-h291" width="387" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />It wasn’t raining when I made the trip from Philadelphia up New Jersey’s Garden State Parkway; rather, it was a crisp winter’s day (actually December 27, 2018 – thank you metadata). Being a Thursday, I did hit all the wonderful rush hour traffic – which was not without its charms. I got a slo-mo view of a car fire near the Bronx exit, serendipitously playing out as James Brown’s “Hot Pants” blasted from my car stereo. (By the way, I only recently found out that cars don’t explode when they catch fire -That only happens in the movies. I am so impressionable.)</span><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgWGxllitNOmik-iNHy6IsQFgOnPxn6mr_Rb-eDKhgyzy3V-6j-71kvumPtie-KutSg_qTlAcWGELgCgBKckS1rAnj18K9xOjqJz9eiLaprlwNmIRtCiplv3qxtB57jh5-R6XGt7kE-t_vM-ncuswubCyr6ZGGAVSiR0gjQ2pYD2VJTLdRBPjt87zL1=s1632" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1224" data-original-width="1632" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgWGxllitNOmik-iNHy6IsQFgOnPxn6mr_Rb-eDKhgyzy3V-6j-71kvumPtie-KutSg_qTlAcWGELgCgBKckS1rAnj18K9xOjqJz9eiLaprlwNmIRtCiplv3qxtB57jh5-R6XGt7kE-t_vM-ncuswubCyr6ZGGAVSiR0gjQ2pYD2VJTLdRBPjt87zL1=s320" width="320" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">Pulling into small-town Tarrytown is quite a culture shift from the hectic highway driving. The Palisades and the woods are breathtakingly beautiful – and quiet. You quickly realize how the creepiness of the area got to Irving, and sparked his imagination. I’ve only been in a few areas of the country where I got such a creepy vibe, one being the Brandywine River battle grounds in Pennsylvania, famed for George Washington’s lost Revolutionary War battles. You drive along that little river through the woods, and you can feel the ghosts of all the dead soldiers in the morning mist rising off the water. There were Revolutionary War battles fought in the White Plains area as well.</span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgKPsX4zwXTKCUn2sp9ruSYxvWmvRUwHgOSJI8RapvgrdWVzio1pnG0IvvHp726g10IachnYVkPAXe6VW8oV0QI--smVonCTg1lL_g2ufa67l1QQM8MBnmwJGEnQHbWc5fTKLj6ZxiVvHySeVn0ShqVOXWsyTgbUwqc0YMO5Wb0QyqXgWohctDT-6Fz=s1431" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1073" data-original-width="1431" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgKPsX4zwXTKCUn2sp9ruSYxvWmvRUwHgOSJI8RapvgrdWVzio1pnG0IvvHp726g10IachnYVkPAXe6VW8oV0QI--smVonCTg1lL_g2ufa67l1QQM8MBnmwJGEnQHbWc5fTKLj6ZxiVvHySeVn0ShqVOXWsyTgbUwqc0YMO5Wb0QyqXgWohctDT-6Fz=s320" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">The Old Dutch Church, Sleepy Hollow, New York</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">Sleepy Hollow Cemetery has the same vibe. It’s quiet, its Gothic, and I’m sure it is creepy any time of year. While the cemetery itself was established in the Victorian era (1849), it is situated near the small graveyard of the Old Dutch Church (established in 1660), the final scene of Irving’s Headless Horseman tale. I can’t picture local Victorian era residents picnicking in either of these places. They just seem too dark. The whole place reminded me somewhat of Georgetown’s Oak Hill Cemetery, wet, scary, not very welcoming. Which of course makes them great places to visit around Halloween.</span></p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhT8ygPEUpM1nHDSW_fcIin63yWuZQfaMMFlGc9zPa3xCpkPnlGWm-jYVmVFG_CBtvDJCz6PRkN3_0601LKw6M8BVyq-JV9gD56jPm6kkNz0dMgpOzONj2XmJbLJ0gWCTO3i4RlBIMtrysxDtpdz9umkvuQsFV2-ctPjoZPo3YBOOa-_sBJET8bQN41=s600" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhT8ygPEUpM1nHDSW_fcIin63yWuZQfaMMFlGc9zPa3xCpkPnlGWm-jYVmVFG_CBtvDJCz6PRkN3_0601LKw6M8BVyq-JV9gD56jPm6kkNz0dMgpOzONj2XmJbLJ0gWCTO3i4RlBIMtrysxDtpdz9umkvuQsFV2-ctPjoZPo3YBOOa-_sBJET8bQN41=s320" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Helmsley Mausoleum</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjWvSgvulKNFa9fUBY2SZfvqyjz3mx39KiEamHDU0dneY44m1iKKIoaC3a3yaBkr9nMRFZQlN_KMmRwlgsJZXWmbmyzP7Cc2s1LPkCe-G-39osCZsHwvLWLRfPNclJlffbKRjMc3-yse5DyyFRUehEDQtTqA-DS7yWrYZyiEL-Df0v4kqjp-yj9Bvjq=s1067" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="800" height="269" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjWvSgvulKNFa9fUBY2SZfvqyjz3mx39KiEamHDU0dneY44m1iKKIoaC3a3yaBkr9nMRFZQlN_KMmRwlgsJZXWmbmyzP7Cc2s1LPkCe-G-39osCZsHwvLWLRfPNclJlffbKRjMc3-yse5DyyFRUehEDQtTqA-DS7yWrYZyiEL-Df0v4kqjp-yj9Bvjq=w202-h269" width="202" /></a></div>Sleepy Hollow Cemetery has got it all – size (90 acres), angel statuary, and hidden gems like Leona Helmsley and Andrew Carnegie’s graves - Helmsley’s memorial is bigger, in case you’re wondering! (Did you know that Helmsley left $13 million to her dog when she died in 2007?!) Leona and husband Harry Helmsley owned the largest real estate holding company in the United States, and their huge mausoleum is quite extravagant. Large stained glass windows depicting the New York City skyline are astounding. This other stained glass window in another mausoleum was quite unique – probably a portrait of the deceased above his crypt.<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjKWGEzBC0SoDE2SVepYAAeV7UYFRmLKiiekKZ_KsJ1FNSV6DkiV5gLeaNki0vK_ld2sJSC_cSeahgN1b4H7jYAHKLNa-Mbj1cL_c3OdDgSq5349C4pLRsXDTTi1-s1hkaUJgGYK5eQ6sCRwrnDHjDSWTKXPec7c_Y0g-8V_oaeO_93cEgUsaLwJl87=s600" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjKWGEzBC0SoDE2SVepYAAeV7UYFRmLKiiekKZ_KsJ1FNSV6DkiV5gLeaNki0vK_ld2sJSC_cSeahgN1b4H7jYAHKLNa-Mbj1cL_c3OdDgSq5349C4pLRsXDTTi1-s1hkaUJgGYK5eQ6sCRwrnDHjDSWTKXPec7c_Y0g-8V_oaeO_93cEgUsaLwJl87=s320" width="320" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiwJudjILOJeJjS85xxlCVzB0tz-Tksu6OR3J340tQvAol-3nuTq0xdMsjNjElCnLI3bDBYVDOGKHxQYAMEx6YOOYluv68Sn4FVqwmhpSzXFLBkCMzV2tfUNiucqtD7fOqGrgsizPOBZFsW_ZSjbO-kCtcIhC8ahmj6tKoRwUI-Dnz_xd_mtR0TAMsz=s667" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="667" data-original-width="500" height="219" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiwJudjILOJeJjS85xxlCVzB0tz-Tksu6OR3J340tQvAol-3nuTq0xdMsjNjElCnLI3bDBYVDOGKHxQYAMEx6YOOYluv68Sn4FVqwmhpSzXFLBkCMzV2tfUNiucqtD7fOqGrgsizPOBZFsW_ZSjbO-kCtcIhC8ahmj6tKoRwUI-Dnz_xd_mtR0TAMsz=w164-h219" width="164" /></a></span>Sleepy Hollow’s landscaping disorients even the most experienced gravewalker. Rolling hills, bridges and streams, graves under a dark canopy of trees – you can just get lost in the place. I’m not sure what a “cheerful” mausoleum looks like, but most of the mausoleums here are, while stately, are rather grim and foreboding. I don’t think I’ve ever been as surprised by the varied and imaginative DOOR HANDLES as I was on the mausoleums at Sleepy Hollow. The hourglass door handle is near Washington Irving’s grave, which is marked with a simple headstone. The creepiness of this specific plot was not lost on me. It’s all very quiet – almost too quiet. Even with remnants of Christmas decorations, it is gothic and dark here. It is not joyous. </span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEga-GZL89ZVgfwVfyXtOR169PxVk7dGXN7tYs7yCrr_F2CyBvY8Pc8OeVxY6SYI3Ut0D1bSmkL4CfA_cuD6Le0fFihEwLIZUsjP1M7YTzrnBJi9OfjEFo6foREr9QWRbuAXaC2kcZftOLkCn0h9oP14pSfFkBdYM20jb6ygHTWnIUl361sXA_9hLUbm=s667" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="667" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEga-GZL89ZVgfwVfyXtOR169PxVk7dGXN7tYs7yCrr_F2CyBvY8Pc8OeVxY6SYI3Ut0D1bSmkL4CfA_cuD6Le0fFihEwLIZUsjP1M7YTzrnBJi9OfjEFo6foREr9QWRbuAXaC2kcZftOLkCn0h9oP14pSfFkBdYM20jb6ygHTWnIUl361sXA_9hLUbm=s320" width="320" /></a></span></div><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">If you are into celebrity graves, Sleepy Hollow is jam packed with them. Washington Irving gets all the press, but there is something for everyone here, people who are much more famous – American labor leader Samuel Gompers, automobile magnate Walter Chrysler, Standard Oil Company founder William Rockefeller, Elizabeth Arden of the famed cosmetics company, IBM pioneer Thomas J. Watson, and so on.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEirJiuDn6erdUJgqZCcaHeovEzeJz2ZY0mWNcnMVXe0XFoGzZ_M91gK5oPYRsAHQEnUNinw_AdBCu0HpyUF4QqifAJTwbvxpOi-c2QGGy7f6b4oXWUC0mLfkJIGWczuwLuOZVFnxE_E-DBunDOrpruPUpBgHS98tWRD_1RIOzJUi2fbwYu0FwKQCeId=s800" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEirJiuDn6erdUJgqZCcaHeovEzeJz2ZY0mWNcnMVXe0XFoGzZ_M91gK5oPYRsAHQEnUNinw_AdBCu0HpyUF4QqifAJTwbvxpOi-c2QGGy7f6b4oXWUC0mLfkJIGWczuwLuOZVFnxE_E-DBunDOrpruPUpBgHS98tWRD_1RIOzJUi2fbwYu0FwKQCeId=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br />See more famous interments on the Sleepy Hollow Cemetery website: <a href="http://sleepyhollowcemetery.org/about-us/famous-interments/">http://sleepyhollowcemetery.org/about-us/famous-interments/</a><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh_6PIMJp1mz0gPhc0ZwdpFnJDqLdHbl5S2TV1u7BTue_7yJFSDZ6To55E5gox8nYj2ZogxaZiu1FXOgZc46BNR3teLvtL6YaM25EOzP6ADz8vvVSTupxAPlg7O2uoXfSimm8fgbD4xlo_M-anUWWUgOl0mAdeK7lMkAbnb2AlmWIdxEtI9YNjIVUQW=s800" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="299" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh_6PIMJp1mz0gPhc0ZwdpFnJDqLdHbl5S2TV1u7BTue_7yJFSDZ6To55E5gox8nYj2ZogxaZiu1FXOgZc46BNR3teLvtL6YaM25EOzP6ADz8vvVSTupxAPlg7O2uoXfSimm8fgbD4xlo_M-anUWWUgOl0mAdeK7lMkAbnb2AlmWIdxEtI9YNjIVUQW=w399-h299" width="399" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Frank shooting an angel</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjYlMSSWVk7oNOG1_t6yel6BDp6Da1eLzSwrM9f5lInhF50eNso6a3RKqDpgBq9ApK0HWK9TnIYsHlCN-_f_y6E77N1dhbyedi1BWGWYtszQnJQbKJa_eZfxQOehWL6z7kHo56lx_b7gA0SF4p8aCCrbw-arPSPnjvnhNIfyCKVY_o-9DnO6CsLB4c5=s600" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="261" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjYlMSSWVk7oNOG1_t6yel6BDp6Da1eLzSwrM9f5lInhF50eNso6a3RKqDpgBq9ApK0HWK9TnIYsHlCN-_f_y6E77N1dhbyedi1BWGWYtszQnJQbKJa_eZfxQOehWL6z7kHo56lx_b7gA0SF4p8aCCrbw-arPSPnjvnhNIfyCKVY_o-9DnO6CsLB4c5=w261-h261" width="261" /></a><span style="font-family: inherit;">This marvel of a cemetery must be enjoyed while walking (or kneeling, as my friend Frank shows us here). It is one of the few places I’ve been that is so dense with amazing architecture, art, sculpture, and history, that you simply can’t appreciate it by driving along its sinuous roads. It is full of Victorian quirkiness, like iron fencing and gates with cast angels; there are assorted zinc monuments, bronze and marble sculptures, huge monuments, and unique mausoleum stained glass. The fencing is unusual both in style and quantity. Decades after the Victorian era, people felt that the iron plot fencing and decorative gates were rather gauche – so much ironwork around the U.S. was removed and destroyed. </span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhTuuGCyoI9KoZsiUcKZOo1nQq8OdVCNJu3KaID1VhY3yCH8GErGkhhUazN3quGW1eQsFy7EfERyr81BjUlTb4in029zO6lHvbcyEmXXyHZATUhBwO7fBx201NZq_TRQijJ-qDXZWExm7zgJMJLYPWSJAuDQW0oZh7r_4di5xEMaGXqhstRCOCcwSdM=s800" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="264" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhTuuGCyoI9KoZsiUcKZOo1nQq8OdVCNJu3KaID1VhY3yCH8GErGkhhUazN3quGW1eQsFy7EfERyr81BjUlTb4in029zO6lHvbcyEmXXyHZATUhBwO7fBx201NZq_TRQijJ-qDXZWExm7zgJMJLYPWSJAuDQW0oZh7r_4di5xEMaGXqhstRCOCcwSdM=w352-h264" width="352" /></a></div><p></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEibLrYLg6Qfu0kuaYEeK9hgNJQs1Bu7VIU6FgUcTAFHkfgPtFBIoDNPf1g470Um4_fWXJTjfZiBYPxuOGJiOPryTmN9s34U2iZIDr3N5TclbaIl9kYNHtGHJXQK3sm8DHDItKC_OHS9VlN_jzUt4JhMW66F6F8Ao-kqHZop4gjP_lwGsAGyxTrta6ZV=s667" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="667" data-original-width="500" height="280" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEibLrYLg6Qfu0kuaYEeK9hgNJQs1Bu7VIU6FgUcTAFHkfgPtFBIoDNPf1g470Um4_fWXJTjfZiBYPxuOGJiOPryTmN9s34U2iZIDr3N5TclbaIl9kYNHtGHJXQK3sm8DHDItKC_OHS9VlN_jzUt4JhMW66F6F8Ao-kqHZop4gjP_lwGsAGyxTrta6ZV=w209-h280" width="209" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: inherit;">Not so at Sleepy Hollow. Maybe people were too scared of this place to trash the decorative ironwork. Walking through this wonderful chunk of history, you almost expect to find a shadowy figure crumpled at the foot of a monument, as did the protagonist in Irving’s <i>Adventure of the German Student</i>. <i>“A beautiful young woman in black, slumped over with her tangled black hair falling over her face.”</i> After taking her home with him, he awakens the next morning to find her dead. Decapitated, in fact, having been guillotined the day before he met her.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>Additional Reading:</b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="http://sleepyhollowcemetery.org/">http://sleepyhollowcemetery.org/</a></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://olddutchchurch.org/history/our-history/">https://olddutchchurch.org/history/our-history/</a></span></p>StoneAngels: The Cemetery Travelerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02776945637111478231noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9091026817968807873.post-85570909973473537892022-01-08T16:44:00.000-08:002022-01-08T16:46:11.547-08:00Cemetery Meetups<p><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh08oBN2VtDbTP_utByhzIgYI8Q_IJpXhOJWRJiDu7mhk5_9_6tRuTDtapRKuyTijlrdWYV8AOl-cf1KmEwOqEsK4WOCsPyUg74RbgcR6SNr1WhfM8FvlRJ2j18OMyTXqK1u1anXSR20HcgwA0VBvajsH9a9XogMDf0oCQkXvCYtHVZ9hImlVo0HsQr=s1566" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1338" data-original-width="1566" height="307" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh08oBN2VtDbTP_utByhzIgYI8Q_IJpXhOJWRJiDu7mhk5_9_6tRuTDtapRKuyTijlrdWYV8AOl-cf1KmEwOqEsK4WOCsPyUg74RbgcR6SNr1WhfM8FvlRJ2j18OMyTXqK1u1anXSR20HcgwA0VBvajsH9a9XogMDf0oCQkXvCYtHVZ9hImlVo0HsQr=w360-h307" width="360" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Cemetery Meetup at The Woodlands Cemetery, Philadelphia</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br />Back in the fall of 2021 (when we were thinking that we were
all successfully pulling out of the COVID-19 pandemic, pre-Omicron variant), I got
this idea in my head that it would be a cool social exercise to get some
Instagram cemetery photographers together for an outing at Mount Moriah
Cemetery in Philadelphia. I invited mostly people I’ve never physically met. About
ten of us showed up – several whom I invited, and some people who THOSE people
invited. The only commonality was that these were seriously good photographers
who shared a common interest – posting cemetery photography on Instagram.<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjZ283oiOqI6FejSTyKa9lEoTANDkoGMDwLdB42F87qGpJarg--vxQnoR-vDKZOf3nnwa7jZNFsl_phHwBxZcSxs_zZYtuIHSRRIXfPRlTRMeFibeRfshRQrCQVUva3-s30W5Xa_AgH3aL6-kUXz9yAXjsQK7CQ09r2fhNIvqg3F2FHLaFM0fRc8dbm=s1672" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1254" data-original-width="1672" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjZ283oiOqI6FejSTyKa9lEoTANDkoGMDwLdB42F87qGpJarg--vxQnoR-vDKZOf3nnwa7jZNFsl_phHwBxZcSxs_zZYtuIHSRRIXfPRlTRMeFibeRfshRQrCQVUva3-s30W5Xa_AgH3aL6-kUXz9yAXjsQK7CQ09r2fhNIvqg3F2FHLaFM0fRc8dbm=w353-h265" width="353" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Mount Moriah Cemetery, Yeadon, PA side</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br />Our initial outing at Mount Moriah went so well that we
all decided to do it again. After some conversation, we all realized that we
each had explored many cemeteries that the others had not. Thanks to Jenn O’Donnell
(<a href="https://www.instagram.com/cems_and_things/" target="_blank">IG link</a>), our member who organized an IG Meetup link, we all stayed in close
contact with each other and took a vote on the next cemetery location at which to
meet. Three additional meetups have occurred since that initial one, in
cemeteries in southeastern PA and central and south Jersey. We number about
twenty “members,” if you want to call us that. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">A few things I’ve learned from my fellow necrogeeks (kudos to <a href="https://www.instagram.com/gravesituationsnj/" target="_blank">Timothy</a> for that term!):<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><ul style="text-align: left;"><li><span style="font-family: inherit;">Cemetery nerds have the BEST stories!</span></li><li><span style="font-family: inherit;">There are funeral strippers in China.</span></li><li><span style="font-family: inherit;">If you ask at the office for the key to the community
mausoleum, they might just give it to you.</span></li><li><span style="font-family: inherit;">Santeria-type offerings at a gravesite could easily involve
live animals.</span></li><li><span style="font-family: inherit;">There are FAR MORE deaths-head and angelhead gravemarkers outside
of New England than I thought.</span></li><li><span style="font-family: inherit;">Zinc monuments are still controversial.</span></li><li><span style="font-family: inherit;">Snapseed is a cool, in-phone photo-editing ap - and its free.</span></li></ul><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><blockquote><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjGdgFmy792D6bxPDqXXSDVpSAItBBuQeqZlYrKqcrZu5tHe-CRf9UCApTlrfj_EFaNr2-Rvig6LjWyNrXund8hkiB2XAx2ovNEruSNPWktqi_JCYVZoxJaMNpODX5E12ARPl8s20ijwMjapKRJJbeXh_2uxT4rLc86o1yJwp83Xh0U09D7v8wovLXN=s1672" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1254" data-original-width="1672" height="290" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjGdgFmy792D6bxPDqXXSDVpSAItBBuQeqZlYrKqcrZu5tHe-CRf9UCApTlrfj_EFaNr2-Rvig6LjWyNrXund8hkiB2XAx2ovNEruSNPWktqi_JCYVZoxJaMNpODX5E12ARPl8s20ijwMjapKRJJbeXh_2uxT4rLc86o1yJwp83Xh0U09D7v8wovLXN=w387-h290" width="387" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Mount Moriah Cemetery, Philadelphia and Yeadon, PA.</span></td></tr></tbody></table></blockquote></span></div><span style="font-family: inherit;">The photo you see directly above was the first group photo we made. Or
rather, I made, actually, to sort of document our initial meetup at Mount
Moriah. We only began staging the group shots at our second meetup, at
Philadelphia’s Laurel Hill Cemetery. We didn’t really know each other well
enough, I think, at Mount Moriah, for anyone to suggest a group photo. Plus
there was the issue of who was vaccinated and who wasn’t. Also, it might not
have occurred to us at the time that we would continue our adventure. I’m not
sure who suggested the group photo a month later at Laurel Hill, but it has
since become a staple of our gatherings. As more people got vaccinated and
boosted, spreading COVID became less of an issue.</span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhv5Hq9LuCRRs17Vr7r3hrcAcdwgFxWhTe5cL8LPAu94UnIqYKq6QUYGoCSbKENzJa6e6SPXNrzbetzUOhvu4qYIgA9lGORgr9aimjFlaI8y3mw2_yFRZo6s3UJkXQI4NAchi6-jocIG3Jo7-5agGmV67mM4CPeklOXHYEenjQXlyUXi8-xbEBG8rwt=s1672" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1254" data-original-width="1672" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhv5Hq9LuCRRs17Vr7r3hrcAcdwgFxWhTe5cL8LPAu94UnIqYKq6QUYGoCSbKENzJa6e6SPXNrzbetzUOhvu4qYIgA9lGORgr9aimjFlaI8y3mw2_yFRZo6s3UJkXQI4NAchi6-jocIG3Jo7-5agGmV67mM4CPeklOXHYEenjQXlyUXi8-xbEBG8rwt=s320" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />Cemeteries need not be places where dreams go to die. As we
re-envision what social gatherings should look like in this evolving pandemic, there
is one thing that everyone agrees on: outdoor gatherings are safer than indoor
ones. So these cemetery meetups appear to be a healthy way to maintain our interactivity
as social beings while staying physically safe.<o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">While many cemeteries host official events that draw throngs
of people (I realize there might be some of you who are surprised to learn that),
such events are carefully planned and quite focused. Our IG meetups are
anything but! We just stroll through the cemeteries and graveyards talking, photographing,
and perhaps being led to some points of interest by someone who had<i> </i></span><span style="font-family: inherit;">been there
before. We greatly appreciate the hospitality offered by the many open cemetery
gates throughout the region, that allow us this opportunity. We also do appreciate
the more focused events such as hearse shows, The Market of the Macabre, movie
nights, concerts, the Darksome Art and Craft Market, and so on. Such events are
all wonderful ways to bring people together, promote small business, and to
raise money for the upkeep of the cemeteries.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgygyIjXTrEWT_mJnjItS3oAAlqZfH-n-i6T5NfrXmAiWnEhDsXz8zUsvPRt6OWGhQv3SCjsO6sjhZXyJH3_n7QKpO4hqyObPivkIkfNADUf3WM7B4YFmZXqI0EjRC0cu_CwnxOwYO31dZ9ueCa66m0NeIS05SHhXDySWTIUiochhs1LHIMarz39FmR=s1757" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1193" data-original-width="1757" height="242" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgygyIjXTrEWT_mJnjItS3oAAlqZfH-n-i6T5NfrXmAiWnEhDsXz8zUsvPRt6OWGhQv3SCjsO6sjhZXyJH3_n7QKpO4hqyObPivkIkfNADUf3WM7B4YFmZXqI0EjRC0cu_CwnxOwYO31dZ9ueCa66m0NeIS05SHhXDySWTIUiochhs1LHIMarz39FmR=w357-h242" width="357" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Evergreen Cemetery, Camden, New Jersey</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br />Victorian-era garden cemeteries of course were </span><i>designed</i><span style="font-family: inherit;"> for
large groups of people to visit and enjoy. Before there were parks and museums
in the United States, cemeteries were the places you would go to get away from
the noise and grit of the cities. They were meant to be calm, contemplative locales,
beautifully landscaped in arboreal splendor - a place to revitalize, a place conducive to better physical and mental health. People recognized early in the current
pandemic (and especially during lockdown) that cemeteries were in fact the ONLY
safe place to congregate. I for one am grateful to all the cemeteries for
keeping their gates open and welcoming throughout this time. Hopefully the
trend will continue and more people will visit regularly - and I encourage
people to donate money to their favorite cemetery to help keep those gates open
in the future.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjjPoA9pySnkVomS7gccOgIQ4n5fkFp_AF2n5SZ5UB_EdwOmIwK262h2o96eASTxWTBFtezeGm6xj6ZnRDR6OGB8STuv-0nXPpoVxjECahlxK1pRjvMmoOYsIFx0mknmQk6blCorR1Ef8eHumbdumzNt2Lmm-jTOmEqZ6IDxM8oJ3knh5U-x_3pZnVA=s1672" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1672" data-original-width="1254" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjjPoA9pySnkVomS7gccOgIQ4n5fkFp_AF2n5SZ5UB_EdwOmIwK262h2o96eASTxWTBFtezeGm6xj6ZnRDR6OGB8STuv-0nXPpoVxjECahlxK1pRjvMmoOYsIFx0mknmQk6blCorR1Ef8eHumbdumzNt2Lmm-jTOmEqZ6IDxM8oJ3knh5U-x_3pZnVA=s320" width="240" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: inherit;">There is, of course, no socially redeeming purpose to
cemetery photography itself (or photography in general). As with any art form, it must be shared to offer its greatest value. Interacting with people who share this common interest is
exhilarating, at times. Meeting them personally is an added dimension and doing
so during the COVID crisis is one of the best things we can do for our mental
health. As I write this on the first day of the new year, 2022, the Omicron
variant is so widespread that unless we force ourselves into lockdown again, it
cannot be avoided. We’ll all get it sooner or later.<o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">COVID has made death more real for many of us (death toll as of January 2, 2022 in the U.S. is 828,732; worldwide it is nearly 5.5 million (<a href="https://www.nbcnews.com/health/health-news/coronavirus-deaths-united-states-each-day-2020-n1177936">ref.</a>)). <span style="font-family: inherit;">Probably not since the last pandemic a hundred
years ago has death been this concrete. Mentally, this is probably healthier for us –
we are now forced to be much more pragmatic about death. Its almost like the
present pandemic switched things up: pre-pandemic, death was abstract
and society was real (for the most part). During the pandemic, death became
more real and society became abstract.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">But now with our evolving understanding of COVID-19, we are
trying to work our way back to being a society that interacts physically – less
screentime and more facetime. Ironically, virtual tools like social media can
help us attain this goal. Though Instagram, Facebook, and other social media are
quite abstract, we can use these tools to form concrete relationships – to create
actual reality from the virtual. Granted, there are situations in which virtual
meetings are the only option due to geographic distance, transportation, or the
need to reach a larger audience. However, social media can successfully be used as an invitation, an entrée into more fulfilling in-person relationships. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj04BFPZJuAl_3wTnn-FpS2UiJNxaEZuJ_LF1OV2Sm-xPp6VYRM5NL3nYP5RnVoIBWJpi0of_Z-9i8fo8xo67kDF8pfIz4hkW1FollZ2kFewVAzidKmeTdqkcmhdxNBzhvaW49CJYKwJVuufCLfiP46VO2UaJBHvtgR7Abf6OltpMymH3Nxb9RN93Iv=s1672" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1254" data-original-width="1672" height="261" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj04BFPZJuAl_3wTnn-FpS2UiJNxaEZuJ_LF1OV2Sm-xPp6VYRM5NL3nYP5RnVoIBWJpi0of_Z-9i8fo8xo67kDF8pfIz4hkW1FollZ2kFewVAzidKmeTdqkcmhdxNBzhvaW49CJYKwJVuufCLfiP46VO2UaJBHvtgR7Abf6OltpMymH3Nxb9RN93Iv=w348-h261" width="348" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Laurel Hill Cemetery, Philadelphia</span></td></tr></tbody></table>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Sometimes timing keeps all the members of our IG group from getting
together. I’ve missed a couple meetups, but when I see the results others have
posted on IG, it makes me wish I had been able to attend. Creatively, for many
of us, these meetups will be a seminal influence on what is yet to come (little
inside reference to the hooking tree we discovered in Camden).<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">We share our knowledge of specific cemeteries we have
visited, and benefit greatly from the knowledge of others. These people bring a
wealth of research and experience to bear in their work and all have their own
reasons for doing what they do. It is evident by the joy and camaraderie at our
physical meetups that everyone shares a deep interest in those who have gone
before us. But why this interest? Perhaps it has something to do with a comment made by Dave
Grohl (of Nirvana and The Foo Fighters) in his autobiography, <i>The Storyteller</i> ...</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“<i>We all carry traits of people we have never
met somewhere deep within ou</i></span><i>r chemistry</i>.”<o:p></o:p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgh3pPGXgRGbY0QDe4nFXXmR3mh35RvdAFcnWkU2g-mfCVvFaXikt4HnXspa5GqtNj74G8eichs-6L54L0XiNxXl4yByOGW0ZronlL_xH63mFuaj4iKE_lHIRzKuZSF7TP1i_7rkPjdvIX3zkaIStN6egaSDfcH9-Vz6je-QSWmEzLun9nCyxAKl2hP=s1672" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1254" data-original-width="1672" height="286" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgh3pPGXgRGbY0QDe4nFXXmR3mh35RvdAFcnWkU2g-mfCVvFaXikt4HnXspa5GqtNj74G8eichs-6L54L0XiNxXl4yByOGW0ZronlL_xH63mFuaj4iKE_lHIRzKuZSF7TP1i_7rkPjdvIX3zkaIStN6egaSDfcH9-Vz6je-QSWmEzLun9nCyxAKl2hP=w382-h286" width="382" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Another view of the photo above in the shade of an immense zinc gravemarker</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>StoneAngels: The Cemetery Travelerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02776945637111478231noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9091026817968807873.post-89079292225880019662021-12-31T10:39:00.001-08:002021-12-31T10:43:22.076-08:00Yonder Stands the Sinner<p><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgbycxIjfWVviqd-2-Cjk1JXR5HwRC0i9WZs_aHmF77h1nay6YcCYfy_k6F9Kdl7DL_6yTUY4-PelS-uBmCuumeKfwKYPtVZrn9fyEmzuhuezDjswvnmtiRHCoFey0VSIdsngkZa_DKrb2r5UeF3VSgy8XHBo1Zrvc0aakHYF7L9UWjNYhMDBJITQa-=s780" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="520" data-original-width="780" height="258" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgbycxIjfWVviqd-2-Cjk1JXR5HwRC0i9WZs_aHmF77h1nay6YcCYfy_k6F9Kdl7DL_6yTUY4-PelS-uBmCuumeKfwKYPtVZrn9fyEmzuhuezDjswvnmtiRHCoFey0VSIdsngkZa_DKrb2r5UeF3VSgy8XHBo1Zrvc0aakHYF7L9UWjNYhMDBJITQa-=w387-h258" width="387" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />This is an end-of-year, new beginnings post. There is a restaurant/bar in Philadelphia called “Charlie was a Sinner.” I used to work a few blocks away, but never went in. Never understood the name, though I’d always been intrigued by it. As a recovering Catholic, sinning is a familiar concept to me. A way of life. </span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">So I was driving through center city Philadelphia last week with my twelve-year-old daughter, who is Jewish. She looked out the window, and said, “What does that mean?” I said, its probably an inside joke, maybe the owner called it that because of her friend Charlie? My daughter said, “No, I mean, what’s a ‘sinner?’”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">I was speechless. I thought she was kidding. As a product of twelve years of Catholic education (I’m talking 1960s hardcore burn-in-hell Catholic conditioning), I am well aware of sin. We were taught that we were born with “Original Sin,” which could only be cleansed by Baptism. I was Baptized, and spent the rest of my life “sinning.” From grade school through high school, I confessed the mild ones to a Catholic priest in the Sacrament of Confession. </span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg5PM2U07-MmuYrniJMdA_YceJXUfYqLRcyckxnwhSDFJjICOIX8xThotddMIhTzh9jGu3imuqVK6jwGt1cTbGa80H7al088-j5ZitcHDYkaKQwD1sl_ChvcvDbx41WhHqgjcsPKErLskr2XJvvcRkqclUWDrVvzd47v2IRfhCIiaq-AqabOffzuGrw=s2016" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2016" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg5PM2U07-MmuYrniJMdA_YceJXUfYqLRcyckxnwhSDFJjICOIX8xThotddMIhTzh9jGu3imuqVK6jwGt1cTbGa80H7al088-j5ZitcHDYkaKQwD1sl_ChvcvDbx41WhHqgjcsPKErLskr2XJvvcRkqclUWDrVvzd47v2IRfhCIiaq-AqabOffzuGrw=s320" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">My wife is Jewish – and as a result, our daughter is too. Jews don’t believe in sin, the way Christians do. In fact, “in Judaism, it is believed that all humans enter the world free of sin.” (The Jewish Concept of Sin (<a href="https://www.learnreligions.com/do-jews-believe-in-sin-2076758">learnreligions.com</a>). What a concept of purity, huh? I never knew this. Our daughter has been attending Hebrew School for most of her life, and has basically been taught to do good things, rather than to not do bad things. Kind of takes the wind out of Neil Young’s sails, when he sings:</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>“Well, I was about as scared</i></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>as I could be.</i></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>I went and hid</i></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>behind the nearest tree.</i></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>Peeked out</i></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>from behind the branches.</i></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>Sinner!</i></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>Yonder stands the sinner</i></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>He calls my name</i></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>without a sound …”</i></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">-<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Yonder Stands the Sinner, Neil Young</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">But don’t get the idea that Jews have it easier than Christians – you know those ten commandments? Well, Jews have 613 commandments! Jews focus on missing the mark of goodness when they go astray. And sure, they do wrong and seek forgiveness just as Christians do. Jews, in fact, are encouraged during Yom Kippur, to seek out anyone they might have offended and sincerely request the person’s forgiveness (<a href="https://www.learnreligions.com/do-jews-believe-in-sin-2076758" target="_blank">ref.</a>). A bit more difficult, more humbling and effective, I would say, than confessing your “sins” to an anonymous priest. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><u>“Greasy Stanley”</u></b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">I want this blog to be about purity, about goodness. That New Years’ Resolution stuff brings me to the subject of “Greasy Stanley.” My dad, who died in 2004, used to like to tell this story at the turning of each year. When he was a young man, probably in the 1940s and 50s, there was a garage, a gas station/auto repair shop in Luzerne, PA. When you drove your car alongside the pumps to get gas, the owner, who my dad referred to as “Greasy Stanley,” would emerge from the garage where he’d been working on cars, to pump your gas. He always wore the same blackest, greasiest overalls imaginable. Hence the nickname. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">The scene repeated itself all year, except on New </span>Year's<span style="font-family: inherit;"> Day. Greasy Stanley bought himself one new pair of white overalls every year, and donned them on New Years’ Day. I’m sure it was quite a shock for people to see him in stark white clothes! As the days went on, the clothing got dirtier and dirtier. Greasy Stanley began each year pure as the driven snow, but then ever so gradually, returned to his old ways. Kind of like how people fail to keep their New Year’s resolutions. The point is, though, that he gave himself a fresh start every year. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">I’m considering starting the new year like my daughter and Greasy Stanley. Don a new clean outlook focused less on sin avoidance and more on doing good. And if things get a bit dirty in the process, so be it. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">Like Greasy Stanley, we all know we’re going to mess things up eventually. He never donned those overalls thinking they’d stay white for more than a day. It’s not really a hope for the future as much as it is a new beginning. Sure I’ll mess things up this coming year, but maybe I’ll approach 2022 more focused on doing good things. The words I saw yesterday might be a great mantra for the new year. They were stenciled on the back of a tractor-trailer I saw as I was driving up the turnpike. A company, oddly, called “<a href="http://www.kaneisable.com">Kane is Able</a>” (it seems like so much of the world is focused on sin!) had these sage words to offer:</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“BE KIND</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> BE CAREFUL</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> BE YOURSELF.”</span></p><div><br /></div>StoneAngels: The Cemetery Travelerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02776945637111478231noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9091026817968807873.post-50592894564833349062021-11-28T07:41:00.001-08:002021-11-29T18:41:32.742-08:00Muddy Creek Headstones<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFWpu_0-RHksY38_UmGuDqTodDbgkz9OuspEhC2yk-bi593G6m2MtiQKvC8a7v1q0eLutcrLASO7KWItCLis0hmrBO5J0gp_FBrHXKe1Dua4_sP02wyAOH26GnQxZRRxDatDPPGVnE31U/s577/Sign+smallest.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="433" data-original-width="577" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFWpu_0-RHksY38_UmGuDqTodDbgkz9OuspEhC2yk-bi593G6m2MtiQKvC8a7v1q0eLutcrLASO7KWItCLis0hmrBO5J0gp_FBrHXKe1Dua4_sP02wyAOH26GnQxZRRxDatDPPGVnE31U/s320/Sign+smallest.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />Back in May of 2021, I participated in my first live-in-person-post-Covid art exhibition. It was the Oddities Bazaar in Denver, PA (near Adamstown which is near Reading). The show was great – at the famous Renninger’s Antiques Mall - but that’s not the point of this blog. The point is a graveyard. </span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">I’ve traveled quite a bit across the U.S. (and a bit in Italy) over the ten-plus years that I’ve been writing this blog, but COVID put a stop to travel for awhile, didn’t it? During that period I drove around the tri-state area near Philadelphia, where I live, but that was it. Adamstown was an unusual trip for me, only about an hour and a half due west, but still, farther than I’d gone in about 16 months. As I write this in November 2021, travel bans and lockdowns are pretty much a thing of the past. Its no longer unusual to see planes in the sky.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">On that day back in May, I got to Renninger’s about 8 a.m., half an hour before setup. So of course, I grabbed my smart phone, hit the Google Maps app, and typed in “cemetery nearby.” Finding hidden gems was never this easy! (By the way, if you try this, you <i>will</i> get different results if you type in “graveyard nearby.” Go figure.)</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYj46d6W8-DO_vFlgWqMLVTge2aR8CvmxkoExWPG8ekvgzxqv4aYsY7FlyUsZoi-CW9oJmxVhIaurqLmm5eChuYayArvKFIxhAEhFC3C8XRUgIfDJ0HWY9O_HNnzGuEtHTcwfCu7pdQZE/s1672/1776.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1672" data-original-width="1254" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYj46d6W8-DO_vFlgWqMLVTge2aR8CvmxkoExWPG8ekvgzxqv4aYsY7FlyUsZoi-CW9oJmxVhIaurqLmm5eChuYayArvKFIxhAEhFC3C8XRUgIfDJ0HWY9O_HNnzGuEtHTcwfCu7pdQZE/w150-h200/1776.jpg" width="150" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: inherit;">So, up pops “Muddy Creek Church Cemetery,” no more than half a mile away. Great name! (If you go, the address is 11 S Muddy Creek Rd, Denver, PA 17517.) Shot over there to find the superb sign you see above. Also, the Muddy Creek Church is across the street. It’s a fairly large cemetery, with rolling hills and a central driveway – a few acres. To the right of the entrance are Victorian-era and newer grave stones, to the left are older ones, dating back to around 1730, when the cemetery was established. It was these older stones that caught my attention. </span><p></p><p> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUmdFREdW96bDfENMFzDJWTs5y-h5Xfqn1-MmqCBBBMZ01bSTDjvSeKAhcQEPm_fC-81Ayss0m27hiJV2AmzN5ZjXJWbCiL8cLH-jPfyPvlXyXzqbP9M7AKNJvDL2Px_pLwZ5UhXRXFZA/s1526/Shadows+small.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1197" data-original-width="1526" height="251" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUmdFREdW96bDfENMFzDJWTs5y-h5Xfqn1-MmqCBBBMZ01bSTDjvSeKAhcQEPm_fC-81Ayss0m27hiJV2AmzN5ZjXJWbCiL8cLH-jPfyPvlXyXzqbP9M7AKNJvDL2Px_pLwZ5UhXRXFZA/w320-h251/Shadows+small.jpg" width="320" /></a></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">From the road, just beyond the cemetery sign, were dozens of large brownstone gravemarkers, the kind I’ve seen carved with angel heads in North Jersey. This early in the morning, I could only see their plain backs. They were in shadow, but the other side of the stones – and whatever might be inscribed on them – were brightly lit by the morning sun.</span></p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5z88qTQPuprbKZX5weQLeXLaniaT5VylxH6S5LvnY79-c3cCBbfRKLfWmZHXQWjTIBjCF387WO2zLoAIZaX2O-s8bs0ArsHWHtRXT_QsYIdvUMqhdMbPfqaaKW7bcXZhlKyaDUWXm4aY/s1632/Church+small.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1224" data-original-width="1632" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5z88qTQPuprbKZX5weQLeXLaniaT5VylxH6S5LvnY79-c3cCBbfRKLfWmZHXQWjTIBjCF387WO2zLoAIZaX2O-s8bs0ArsHWHtRXT_QsYIdvUMqhdMbPfqaaKW7bcXZhlKyaDUWXm4aY/w320-h240/Church+small.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Muddy Creek Lutheran Church in background</span></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">I drove into the cemetery from the newer entrance up the road, parked my vehicle as close to the old stones as possible, and got out to stretch my legs. Had about twenty minutes before I had to get over to Renninger’s to start setting up my photography, cards, books, and other items to exhibit and sell. As I walked up the hill, I noted a few really interesting marble-arched gravemarkers, the type of which I’ve only seen around the Pottstown, PA area. </span></p><p></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLqR-R1wk19PRnyL4J-1cYo3VZNpvtWNEPsAIFu9ERB8XGLN8R_GY8rwmtf9pCsoiDUrTM9ucxO3Hu3gjpDnvcUHw6XT5LP8pcUjk01NNXYWFFkl8X8EIRsDgb0xxyfmM_-raMJkYMSyQ/s1632/Look+left.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1632" data-original-width="1224" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLqR-R1wk19PRnyL4J-1cYo3VZNpvtWNEPsAIFu9ERB8XGLN8R_GY8rwmtf9pCsoiDUrTM9ucxO3Hu3gjpDnvcUHw6XT5LP8pcUjk01NNXYWFFkl8X8EIRsDgb0xxyfmM_-raMJkYMSyQ/s320/Look+left.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>When I got to the brownstone markers, I was stunned! Looking at me from several stones were life-sized <i>faces</i> carved in bas-relief into the stone! I would guess these are likenesses of the deceased. I’ve never seen this anywhere else. I’ve seen some wonderful brownstone carvings of angels and winged death’s heads here and there, but I’ve never seen anything like this in brownstone! Was it a Pennsylvania Dutch or Amish thing to do? Some neighboring stones had floral design carvings, which reminded me of Amish quilts. <p></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR6Wcqj12u73YpdyMhcgLWjp9XLsXo_zjYveCKhO_msoh6GofpkbEQI_cHQSulYCDU1HY6H4-xew7tU9s8lWCWYnbOuT8_jJlg92qrax6DkEpjX0D3R56lDIvCe5Jsl6uwPD_GzeNbiQ4/s1632/Wilted+tulips.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1632" data-original-width="1224" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR6Wcqj12u73YpdyMhcgLWjp9XLsXo_zjYveCKhO_msoh6GofpkbEQI_cHQSulYCDU1HY6H4-xew7tU9s8lWCWYnbOuT8_jJlg92qrax6DkEpjX0D3R56lDIvCe5Jsl6uwPD_GzeNbiQ4/s320/Wilted+tulips.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>But these plain folk are not into embellishment, right? Sort of like Quakers, with their simple flush-to-the-ground grass markers? Well, that may be the case with Amish gravemarkers, the Amish being a religious denomination (along with Mennonites, etc.) that falls under the “Pennsylvania Dutch” umbrella term. Some of these Pennsylvania Germans, however, who emigrated to Pennsylvania during the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries developed a highly artistic folk art called Fraktur, so named after the distinctive font style (see link <a href="http://frakturweb.org">http://frakturweb.org</a>/). Most Fraktur art was created between 1740 and 1860.<p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDIRvPgeCpLv7zS0s3ci7VIGzw2NKThi0aEw0EPy5Ek_kUOjjOT_FxtnX-SrwleY8K4tyKzF3I8a_gMEMpvIUjXxjIR7BQ4Uc1K_ouIBTR3SXSFn4ybna_HUbPM6T4U9Qt3edPdnoCkOI/s800/Small+Pshop+tulips.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDIRvPgeCpLv7zS0s3ci7VIGzw2NKThi0aEw0EPy5Ek_kUOjjOT_FxtnX-SrwleY8K4tyKzF3I8a_gMEMpvIUjXxjIR7BQ4Uc1K_ouIBTR3SXSFn4ybna_HUbPM6T4U9Qt3edPdnoCkOI/s320/Small+Pshop+tulips.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">The floral carvings on these stones at Muddy Creek seem to be examples of Fraktur folk art, though I am certainly no expert. All names and dates on these stones have been worn away, but the faces, the designs, the <i>feelings</i> remain. Certainly, the wilting flowers became a common, Victorian-era symbol of a life lost, a popular form of mourning art. Turns out I was wrong about these seemingly “simple people” – PA Dutch Fraktur folk art, popular in the early to late 1800s, was highly artistic, colorful, and used to adorn (and therefore closely associated with) rites of social life e.g. birth and marriage. Examples of the documents used to certify such events can be seen here <a href="http://frakturweb.org/what-is-fraktur/fraktur-gallery/">http://frakturweb.org/what-is-fraktur/fraktur-gallery/</a>. Death being a part of life, it makes sense that the Fraktur artistic style would be used to adorn their gravestones.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcboXLlSXDqmDRMsDDf8vWu2tishP75wHb_ShoL6QmQ0yjjy6mkAaUGTkbdpaQPJ3LI7wTu94vZ-DewomWo_NM-xXDXi7SSjnA2SLbENoTrVi-x7RTFXJjeT2x7hcWPu9bsljlDP5hqH4/s1632/Look+right.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1224" data-original-width="1632" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcboXLlSXDqmDRMsDDf8vWu2tishP75wHb_ShoL6QmQ0yjjy6mkAaUGTkbdpaQPJ3LI7wTu94vZ-DewomWo_NM-xXDXi7SSjnA2SLbENoTrVi-x7RTFXJjeT2x7hcWPu9bsljlDP5hqH4/s320/Look+right.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-family: inherit;">Mary Roach, in her book, SPOOK, says that readers assume that “authors are experts in the field about which they have chosen to write.” She offers that “Possibly I’m the only one who begins a project from a state of near absolute ignorance.” Well, no, she’s not the only one, LOL. Pretty much describes my approach as well, so I am asking for my readers to help me out! I’ve done a bit of research after the fact, but the faces still baffle me. I’m thinking they were prominent citizens of the area, since they would be the ones with the money to have such a memorial stone carved. It is fairly common to see faces, busts, and even entire bodies sculpted in granite in the Victorian era, but these brownstones seem to have been made prior to that time.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwC5sOriSuxX1J6EkZwUXjamrSkb-hIq1bxZMtPOV6PCrJD5kPbXeszVMx2qkqL0hHneezzgB_4p6-eTMvneonOiqBWwaOuu6JjQ9m9hjchrR1hDiL1XlqDKpGaQaShA0xoL3w31Dnin4/s1371/Coalico+small.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1371" data-original-width="1029" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwC5sOriSuxX1J6EkZwUXjamrSkb-hIq1bxZMtPOV6PCrJD5kPbXeszVMx2qkqL0hHneezzgB_4p6-eTMvneonOiqBWwaOuu6JjQ9m9hjchrR1hDiL1XlqDKpGaQaShA0xoL3w31Dnin4/s320/Coalico+small.jpg" width="240" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: inherit;">Offering a clue to the area’s history is this plaque on the cemetery fence, designating it as “Cocalico Area Historical Site.” According to the East Cocalico Township website, “The name Cocalico is believed to have originated from "koch hale kung", Delware Indian words meaning "den of serpents", apparently referring to the abundance of snakes near the creek at that time,” (the area being settled around 1723). Hmmmm….glad I didn’t wander off into the woods looking for the actual Muddy Creek. (<a href="https://www.eastcocalicotownship.com/about-your-township/pages/township-history">https://www.eastcocalicotownship.com/about-your-township/pages/township-history</a>)</span><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_tQLiJn9-40Y33g7UCj-FYpg1ABps2Fc72cGo5XteHOQC7Nzl1zIAtFmPx3Ql4CmNSNW8ZPK1Jtv7DAR94ux_RjYv5yLHyCXaHCSDkf7yheWmfo43VWo2LqYCW8Y7MDsJUhSBKqSgZSE/s1632/1834+small.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1224" data-original-width="1632" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_tQLiJn9-40Y33g7UCj-FYpg1ABps2Fc72cGo5XteHOQC7Nzl1zIAtFmPx3Ql4CmNSNW8ZPK1Jtv7DAR94ux_RjYv5yLHyCXaHCSDkf7yheWmfo43VWo2LqYCW8Y7MDsJUhSBKqSgZSE/s320/1834+small.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-family: inherit;">New England boasts many fine examples of slate stones carved with a likeness of the deceased, and I’m wondering if any of my readers have seen the brownstone versions anywhere else, like these in Muddy Creek? I put their creation age around 1830, as that seems to be the death dates on the marble stones nearby, on which some inscription is still visible. The faces on these stones are not soul effigies, i.e., angel-winged head carvings, but, I believe, the likenesses of the actual deceased person. </span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO-2wlm-bHrPW6b_Ca1CdcB024PVoiS0YTobkc1fZmKxRoH5ArYQKoZEk63fpfQO-dvpTzf74IfgoZECaeYZgFl7vPzHszFc3cF9pAxGQe__ZrCxQNB8MJ4adB9ZLo3nd39uk8H9tDwz8/s1567/Crown.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1567" data-original-width="1512" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO-2wlm-bHrPW6b_Ca1CdcB024PVoiS0YTobkc1fZmKxRoH5ArYQKoZEk63fpfQO-dvpTzf74IfgoZECaeYZgFl7vPzHszFc3cF9pAxGQe__ZrCxQNB8MJ4adB9ZLo3nd39uk8H9tDwz8/s320/Crown.jpg" width="309" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: inherit;">As I was wondering if anyone could shed light on this Muddy Creek Mystery, I happened on a couple recent Instagram posts by @deaths_heads_and_angels (the artist who also goes by the name of @phil_odendron and has become a personal friend over the past few months). He has published images of brownstone gravemarkers in this same geographic region of Pennsylvania, with folk art embellishments of the type I saw. His are mainly soul effigies, however – angelic death’s heads with wings, although he has found a few that do not appear to be skull-based, so they may be representations of the dearly departed (please visit his extraordinary collection of images at <a href="https://www.instagram.com/deaths_heads_and_angels/">https://www.instagram.com/deaths_heads_and_angels/</a>).</span><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRDvF8Q7hCpGeTSFg9NAZUqy6aUj2AHMgt8RRVDLxKsf93REEtrmXRF5st-PUPXvvy2VPxZOFmnU7x9PU-EoxypcE7izv3EE8ySjeMaAmUON8PR1Grb_1kgLvEomRlOY16MKMloVEdiIo/s1632/Wilted+buds.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1224" data-original-width="1632" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRDvF8Q7hCpGeTSFg9NAZUqy6aUj2AHMgt8RRVDLxKsf93REEtrmXRF5st-PUPXvvy2VPxZOFmnU7x9PU-EoxypcE7izv3EE8ySjeMaAmUON8PR1Grb_1kgLvEomRlOY16MKMloVEdiIo/s320/Wilted+buds.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaa5SRzf_5Y0la4gmruyOOsrodwTL6tuWZ9uBJEMm8mcXg4Bmq5ZWFetbVj8OPTslu-DDTEYzejsLc44HEaj3pT8jF0v4FgeZfJcYeVEPSGEO0IAabCD79gxILYxsCMaRGDNfjko99oL4/s1544/Ed+small.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1544" data-original-width="1158" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaa5SRzf_5Y0la4gmruyOOsrodwTL6tuWZ9uBJEMm8mcXg4Bmq5ZWFetbVj8OPTslu-DDTEYzejsLc44HEaj3pT8jF0v4FgeZfJcYeVEPSGEO0IAabCD79gxILYxsCMaRGDNfjko99oL4/s320/Ed+small.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Author with Muddy Creek headstone</span></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: inherit;">The progression of gravestone carvings went from the skull and crossbones era during the early 18th century to the softer, angelic representations as that century came to a close. Certainly, throughout this period, there were carvings that depicted the deceased, but now I’m wondering if there was a specific time, at least with those of German heritage in Pennsylvania, that this became a trend – somewhere between the death’s head and the soul effigy, or maybe during.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><b><u>References and additional reading:</u></b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="http://www.mclchurch.org/our-story.html">http://www.mclchurch.org/our-story.html</a></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">Fraktur Folk Art:</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fraktur_(folk_art)">https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fraktur_(folk_art)</a></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="http://frakturweb.org/">http://frakturweb.org/</a></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>If you would like to browse my ETSY shop to see the kind of work I had for sale at Renninger’s, please visit here:</b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://www.etsy.com/shop/StoneAngels"><b>https://www.etsy.com/shop/StoneAngels</b></a></span></p><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br />StoneAngels: The Cemetery Travelerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02776945637111478231noreply@blogger.com0