Those who know me well know how much I dearly love the fall and Halloween. Last weekend, I went to a roadside cemetery near my home. I see these small cemeteries frequently on my travels through Upstate New York--on the way to work, apple picking, and Sam's Club.
It isn't kept up well. (The latest resident died in the 1980s.) All the same, the noble dilapidation of the thick grass and overgrown vines ads a sense of peace, as if the cemetery is being reclaimed by nature.
Some people do care for those buried here, even if they died over 100 years ago. I saw a few small flags adorning the graves of Civil War veterans and a few silk flowers near some of the newer graves. While walking through the stones, I didn't really considered death as much as the lives of the residents laying underneath. Who did they love? What were their passions? Who morned their passing?
I returned to our abode and looked up the cemetery online. I searched for about an hour, but came back with no mention. I'm sure there is information out there, but I wasn't searching in the right place.
Perhaps it's for the best. The place itself seems to enjoy its anonymity--remaining undisturbed for squirrels to secret their winter storage, vines to twine and leaves to fall to the ground.