A Fairly Grave Tale 4/19/2020

By: Jennifer Richardson Holt

I have a somewhat unique hobby.

My parents have this same hobby and when I was younger I was quite convinced that they were a tad on the lunatic side because of it.  But then again, when you’re younger I suppose most things your parents do are either weird, stupid or boring to you.  At the very least the things they do are generally something you would just never do as a painfully wise young person who knows far better than they do about pretty much everything, ever.

I certainly never thought I would share this interest of theirs.  But as I have grown older, I’ve started to see the story behind the interest. Now that I see why they loved doing this I realize it was probably inherited. It was probably in the genes and I was destined to love it too.

Our hobby, or possibly more aptly described, thing to do when you have a lovely day and some time, (especially when you aren’t allowed to really be around people…I’m looking at you social distancing), is going to look at old cemeteries.

We always called it “going cemetery-ing”, because we’re your classic southern folk and we think of terms for things that make them sound, well, I suppose more southern? If you are southern you know exactly what I mean. If you have heard us talk, you also know what I mean. If you are neither of the two and you are reading my blog, well you’re either going to learn this or just be really off put and/or confused. 

You’re welcome and/or I’m sorry.

Back to the topic at hand, I feel it necessary to say we are not some sort of modern day Addams family with a fascination for the macabre.  What we do love however, is a good story.  And, if you’ve never had the distinct pleasure of perusing an old cemetery, I must tell you they are filled with stories. Yes, they are often stories of heartbreak.  But there, among the headstones, are also stories of loving families, bravery in battle and even the occasional humorous anecdote that some character of a soul wanted to leave behind. If you’re southern you know all the connotations, both good, bad and sometimes both that come along with being known as a “character”.  You know there are even more connotations if someone is “QUITE a character.”  You should hold on to your hat in that case.  

But I digress as I am want to do. Old cemeteries are filled with stories and I love them for the same reason I love old houses.  The tales that those walls could tell if only you could hear their voices!  I love them for the same reason I love ghost stories.  I don’t really believe in ghosts but if a place is “haunted” then there are some interesting yarns to be spun.  Places don’t get haunted by never having had anything eyebrow-raising happen in them.  

Cemeteries, ghost tales, old houses; these are all filled with the stories of people.  Lives well lived, lives destroyed, tears shed, hearts broken, loves lost and found, prayers, celebrations, dreams; they all rest behind old wrought iron fences.  Tears, laughter and wisdom can be discovered in crumbling walls trailed by kudzu and poison ivy.  Why people are the way they are can be discerned in a tale full of shadows pregnant with intrigue. 

People have always loved stories.  Every place has it’s tales that are woven into its culture.  My goodness, would country and folk music even exist if we didn’t love hearing a good story? Even Jesus knew that often the best way to get a message across is by telling a story.  It is engrained into who we are.

I suppose I have said all this to explain why there is a chance that on a day with good weather you could possibly find me weaving between overgrown headstones in some forgotten rural setting.  I am simply being told stories.  I am letting my imagination see the shattered hopes and hearts found in tiny stone lambs. I am smiling at the thought of weathered fingers intertwining again just like they did for more than 70 years on this Earth. Those stone monuments don’t just tell tales of death.  These cracked urns and moss covered letters tell about lives.  Some of them were well lived. Some of them were too short.  All of them changed those around them.  These lives, now ended, made other lives what they are.  These are the stories that make us who we are. 

So, if you see me in high grass, possibly behind an old white clapboard church looking down, don’t worry about my sanity. I’m not in mourning either.  I’m just learning who people were, who they might have been and who they helped shape.  I suppose, if you get right down to it, I’m hearing the story of who we all are; pasts that mold us, presents that envelop us and futures of endless promise.