Maybe I like visiting historic cemeteries because I also like reading obituaries. As long as I’m able to read about dead people, it means I’m still breathing and able to sit upright to read the newspaper, right?
I’ve been visiting old cemeteries for a long time, but it’s only the historic ones which interest me. When I was a child, I used to ride my bike to an old cemetery on the frontage road overlooking Highway 99. As soon as I got my license to drive, I visited the old cemetery in Franklin, which features the grave from a former member of the Lewis and Clark Expedition.
I like the architecture and the symbolism found in these places. I appreciate the meticulous work gone into the design of the headstones because no two are alike. And I like the sight and feeling of permanence found in ornate, wrought iron. I look for the lambs, weeping willows, hands, flowers, and birds. They are symbols of death seldom found in modern cemeteries. The sight of lambs as part of the headstones is what gets my attention because many children in those days tragically died from illnesses and diseases long before they could reach the age of 5. Adults would be lucky to see the age of 40.
When we first met, my husband gave me a tour of the old cemeteries in Foresthill. The highlights of our trip included the grave of a woman who was buried in her beloved bathtub and a young man’s grave in an old family plot, the freshly dug soil scattered with local crystals.
On a road trip to Nashville last fall, we toured the one-acre English garden of Andrew Jackson’s Hermitage, where Andrew and Rachel Jackson are buried. About a mile away, an old Civil War church and its cemetery was on the grounds of the Hermitage, and we had to stop and walk around the cemetery and look through the windows of the locked church.
In nearby historic Franklin, we visited the Carnton Plantation and the two-acre McGavock Confederate Cemetery with headstones of nearly 1,500 Civil War soldiers. With the wind blowing slightly through the cemetery’s towering trees, I almost expected to see Carrie McGavock, The Widow of the South, to be there. Always dressed in black, she lovingly tended to the graves for most of her life.
Since volunteering for the award winning, Historic Rose Garden in Sacramento, I’ve come to appreciate its beauty. In my travels, I’ve seen nothing like it.
Last weekend in Sutter Creek, the sudden hailstorm brought a moody feel to the skies. Down the street from the Grey Gables Inn, I discovered the Church of the Immaculate Conception while my husband and I walked to town for some highly recommended pizza. Built in 1860, this Gold Country church and cemetery in Sutter Creek was charming enough, but it lacked the abundance of roses and perennials you’ll find at the Historic Rose Garden.
Rain or shine, I had to take a walk through the Church of the Immaculate Conception and explore its cemetery before leaving town. The church is still being used by the community, so I grabbed my camera and waited for the Sunday worshippers, the altar boy, and the priest to leave.
The Church of the Immaculate Conception sits on a hill, and I did find paths cut into piles of rocks for the purpose of drainage. A local told us that Sutter Creek was built from the mine tailings, remnants of a time when miners searched for gold. It was quite a contrast to see jagged rocks among smooth slabs of cement.
I like the idea of planting roses on gravesites, just as the Cornish and Welsh miners did during the California Gold Rush. To me, they had the right idea. A cemetery with a permanent landscaping of flowers, plants, shrubs, and trees reflects life as well as death.
I refuse to leave cut flowers in the flimsy holders provided by cemeteries. That’s a temporary fix. If I’m going to give flowers to anyone, it will be to someone who can look, touch and smell them.
I don’t see myself changing. Whenever I’m traveling, I’ll stop at a historic cemetery to admire the real estate. As far as flowers go, I make it a rule to only give flowers to the living.
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