Old Graveyards
Every October my childhood comes calling, not just because it’s Halloween and the time of ghosts and goblins knocking on the door. It also comes right before the unofficial Mexican holiday of Dia de los Muertos, when the long-dead rise from their graves to celebrate with their living relatives. I love the idea of being reunited with my loved ones, long passed, for a few hours.
I have always been fascinated by old graveyards. It probably began as a kid. My grade school was in a part of town that overlooked San Diego’s Old Town, the oldest settlement in California. It was built right smack dab next to a graveyard that primarily held the remains of people who lived in the 19th century. The graveyard sat butted up against a dirt playground where we played softball. Only a small adobe wall separated us from the graves. For the most part, we ignored the old graveyard until the inevitable, which usually fell on my shoulders. A hitter on the opposing team would slam a ball high left, over the crumbling adobe wall, and into the graveyard. I was usually the one to run after the ball, as left field always seemed to be where I was assigned to play. I would run through the graveyard gate to hunt for the ball and I’d often get distracted by the gravestones. They were old, ancient in my child’s mind. Imagination often ran wild as I envisioned the people buried under my feet. The first few times I was terrified, afraid that something would rise up out of a grave and whisk me off to the netherworld. Meanwhile, my teammates would be yelling at me to just get the darn ball and throw it over the wall. Their screaming usually knocked me back to my senses to just pick up the ball and get out of there as quickly as possible.
As kids often do, they dare each other to do something really scary or really stupid or both. The big dare in my neighborhood was to meet up in the graveyard at midnight and if you wouldn’t do it, your reluctance proved you were a scaredy cat, a moniker no kid wanted attached to their name. I don’t know of anyone who ever took the dare, because honestly, what eight or ten-year-old kid is going to be able to sneak out of the house near midnight without their parents knowing? Or would want to?
I’m pretty sure that’s when the allure of old graveyards began. Whenever I see an old graveyard, if time allows, I am compelled to stop and walk through the last remnants of lives long past. My fear dissipated years ago; I now find them a source of history. Several years ago, when visiting Boston, I walked through Granary Burying Ground, an old cemetery that’s the final resting place of many of America’s earliest patriots, such as Samuel Adams, John Hancock, Robert Treat Paine, and Paul Revere. My favorite grave belongs to Elizabeth Foster Goose, a woman known to tell stories, rhymes, and songs to local children. You would know her better as Mother Goose.
Mostly though, it’s the graveyards of the Old West that capture my imagination. In San Diego’s Old Town is one of the oldest, if not the oldest graveyard in the state, El Campo Santo Cemetery. It’s not just old, it’s well-documented to be haunted and is a regular stop on the ghost tour. Though El Campo Santo is a historical landmark, its status doesn’t deter the spirits. Hauntings and sightings regularly occur in and around the cemetery.
The one next to my school where the wind would sigh through the old pepper trees was known as Calvary Cemetery. The first grave dates to the 1870s. These days my childhood graveyard is called Pioneer Park. The graveyard is now gone and has been replaced by a small row of intact headstones in a back corner, that serves as a memorial to those buried at the park. Throughout the now pretty grassy grounds children play, people walk and toss frisbees to their dogs, and in the summer, neighborhood residents lay out blankets to listen to music on a stage and picnic with family and friends. It’s a rather surreal experience. Because, you see, the bodies are still buried there. Folks are eating and reveling on top of old graves. Unless the people are familiar with the history, they don’t know that. The young new residents of the neighborhood think it’s just a pretty park, which it is. The curious, however, can read a plaque with the names of the 1,800+ bodies interred below, although it’s been rumored that there may be up to 4,000 bodies buried there. Though an occasional ghost is seen walking through the park at night, the visitors are benign. Hmm. I’m thinking that maybe they like the music and the presence of children frolicking above. Kind of like celebrating Dia de los Muertos all summer long.
As kids often do, they dare each other to do something really scary or really stupid or both. The big dare in my neighborhood was to meet up in the graveyard at midnight and if you wouldn’t do it, your reluctance proved you were a scaredy cat, a moniker no kid wanted attached to their name. I don’t know of anyone who ever took the dare, because honestly, what eight or ten-year-old kid is going to be able to sneak out of the house near midnight without their parents knowing? Or would want to?
I’m pretty sure that’s when the allure of old graveyards began. Whenever I see an old graveyard, if time allows, I am compelled to stop and walk through the last remnants of lives long past. My fear dissipated years ago; I now find them a source of history. Several years ago, when visiting Boston, I walked through Granary Burying Ground, an old cemetery that’s the final resting place of many of America’s earliest patriots, such as Samuel Adams, John Hancock, Robert Treat Paine, and Paul Revere. My favorite grave belongs to Elizabeth Foster Goose, a woman known to tell stories, rhymes, and songs to local children. You would know her better as Mother Goose.
Mostly though, it’s the graveyards of the Old West that capture my imagination. In San Diego’s Old Town is one of the oldest, if not the oldest graveyard in the state, El Campo Santo Cemetery. It’s not just old, it’s well-documented to be haunted and is a regular stop on the ghost tour. Though El Campo Santo is a historical landmark, its status doesn’t deter the spirits. Hauntings and sightings regularly occur in and around the cemetery.
The one next to my school where the wind would sigh through the old pepper trees was known as Calvary Cemetery. The first grave dates to the 1870s. These days my childhood graveyard is called Pioneer Park. The graveyard is now gone and has been replaced by a small row of intact headstones in a back corner, that serves as a memorial to those buried at the park. Throughout the now pretty grassy grounds children play, people walk and toss frisbees to their dogs, and in the summer, neighborhood residents lay out blankets to listen to music on a stage and picnic with family and friends. It’s a rather surreal experience. Because, you see, the bodies are still buried there. Folks are eating and reveling on top of old graves. Unless the people are familiar with the history, they don’t know that. The young new residents of the neighborhood think it’s just a pretty park, which it is. The curious, however, can read a plaque with the names of the 1,800+ bodies interred below, although it’s been rumored that there may be up to 4,000 bodies buried there. Though an occasional ghost is seen walking through the park at night, the visitors are benign. Hmm. I’m thinking that maybe they like the music and the presence of children frolicking above. Kind of like celebrating Dia de los Muertos all summer long.
I’ve always been fascinated by graveyards—since I was small. I walked through many in Scotland and England on our recent trip and took lots of photos of tombstones. I believe cemeteries are called “kirkyards” there.
ReplyDeleteI think the earliest date I could read was 1736. It might have been at the Elgin Abbey ruins. We also visited the Clava Cairns, standing stones and stone circles, which may have included tombs, but there is no engraving on the stones. If you have not visited Marathon, Texas, there is an interesting cemetery split in two sections. It reminded me of the culture issues in the movie “Giant” which was filmed in the area. (The actors stayed in the Hotel Paisano in Marfa.)
Nancy, had no idea you also liked old graveyards. I'll definitely have to visit Marathon. It's a lot easier to get to than England & Scotland.
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