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The whistle of the wind through the old iron gate and
the setting of the sun lend to the serenity of the hillside. As I walk up the slithering tracks of the
winding old road toward the summit, I can see the town far below. Ancient ones reside here, for this is
their eternal resting place. The
tombstone‑lined sides of the narrow cobblestone path have begun to cast
shadows across my way. My mind is
aglow with thoughts of yesteryear and the many people who contributed to its
very existence. As I stop in front of
the largest statue, I remember reading of this great man. The mortal body of Dr. Cowles Mead Vaiden,
founder of our town, is entombed here forever but the spirit of his
remembrance still spills forth in the minds of every man and woman of our
fair city. Dr. Vaiden's memorial is
surrounded by an old iron fence coated with rust and creaking with each gust
of wind. It is located in the middle
of the large cemetery as if put there on purpose; to keep a peaceful watch
over his community. Older markers lie here. The engraving on some is discernible only to those with perfect
vision, for the sands of time have taken their toll on these old marble
tombstones. Some markers lie flat,
probably from vandalism or the childhood mischief of some of the youngsters
in our town. I take special care with
each step to avoid the desecration of the graves, for I dare not let even the
most innocent‑seeming tomfoolery send me to Hell. This is hallowed ground and should be
treated as such. I will not make any
exceptions, for the peacefulness of the hillside should not be disturbed. The memories of my childhood come back to me as I walk
along the shadows. There are so many
of this town's most prominent citizens here.
The memory of my younger days floods my brain. As I recollect, I try to reconstruct the
faces of these people that have been laid to rest here within the short span
of my existence on this earth. Some
of the ones here happen to have been my schoolmates that were taken from us
by a will far greater that our own.
Others were school teachers, factory workers, farmers, clergymen, and
numerous species of God‑fearing people; good people that spent their
life working their fingers to the bone to make life easier for the never‑ending
generations to come. These laborers
of the earth have found their long awaited rest. An owl's screech carries on the wind from the loft of
the old church nearby. I trudge
onward wearily. The climb has taken
its toll. As I stop to rest, the
chill of the night air alerts my senses as the sun drops behind the
trees. I sit down in the tall grass
beside an old Confederate marker of perhaps one of our patriarchs that
happened to be called to fight in a battle for our noble South. I can
imagine the sound of the rifle fire and the thunder of the cannons bombarding
our troops. In my mind's eye, I can
see the campfires lighting the hillsides, flickering as if thousands of
fireflies had invaded the wide open territory of what was to later become our
town. I can hear the wails of agony
as a soldier falls into the dust.
Knowing that each breath may be his last, the soldier glances proudly
at the Confederate Flag. With a sigh
of relief, his gasps turn to silence.
Blood had stained our territory and this soldier was paying the price
of war. After resting a bit, I continue my journey. It seems as though the trees are listening
to every step, every labored breath.
My old homeplace is not far from here. Looking through the trees, I can tell that the old house is
doomed to a slow death of decay and termites. The scent of cedar lingers on the wind as I near a clearing
across from the old house. Growing
up, I spent my first seven years there.
I had visited this old cemetery many times, although most of the
visits had been with my mother. I
remember hearing many stories about ghosts and demons that stalk this old
graveyard. Maybe, this one time, I
can cast these memories aside. As I travel further onward, my senses become alive with
eerie feelings as if I am being watched.
It is now that I realize that I am here alone. The hour of twilight has driven the
superstitious back into their homes.
The shadows are now playing tricks on my eyes and my mind is wanting
to believe in the ghosts of the past and the evils of the world. I look upward to notice the full moon
beginning to rise from the east. The
old stories of the "bogey‑men" are being recalled over and
over as thousands of goose bumps appear to engulf my body. My spine tingles as if an army of
Confederate ants is marching up and down, pausing to rest at each vertebra. Each hair on the nap of my neck stands at
attention. My heart is pumping
rapidly as I increase my pace, my footsteps echoing through the woods. Suddenly, a revelation appears! An angel guarding the pathway seems to
beckon to me saying, "It's all right, my son. No harm can befall you here.
This is the place of the Lord and you are safe." Looking into the hypnotic face of the angel, time‑scarred
and stained with sap from the crying trees throughout the decades, I feel a
sense of tranquility. I notice a Holy
Cross on the obelisk. I suddenly have
no reason to feel uneasy or morbid. I
remind myself that the evils of the world lie within our everyday lives. Why must I fear the dead, for the living
are the real perpetrators that seem to threaten my existence? The souls within the confines of this Holy
ground have found an escape from the fears that lie within the Earth. There is peace to be found here. The sounds now, although vague, seem to be
the sounds of crying. The crying is
not for the dead, but yet for the living.
I now realize that I am the ruler of my destiny and the controller of
my fate. My very existence hangs in
the balance with decisions of even the most trivial‑seeming
matters. My life‑essence grows
stronger now than at any time in my past visits. As I gather my composure and begin the long walk down
the hill toward my car, I feel a reluctance in leaving this place. The old graveyard lies silent once again
until another dark and lonely night passes by. Maybe tomorrow will bring another visitor to stop and ponder or
to put a bouquet of flowers on the grave of a loved one. This old cemetery is one of my favorite
places. As strange as it may seem,
sometimes it is the only place that I can go to relieve my mind of the trials
and tribulations of everyday life.
The people residing here have found the answers to all problems;
resting here -- in the arms of God. |
