Dyin' to go there.........

Since yesterday was the 1st anniversary of my father’s passing and I visited “him“ at the cemetery, this topic just seems appropriate.

 

Life and Death

My family has spent a lot of time visiting cemeteries. With Papa’s interest in our family’s genealogy and history in general, it was inevitable that we’d spend a significant part of our annual vacations visiting graveyards of long dead relatives and various famous and some pretty infamous historical characters.

Every summer we’d head to Eastern Oklahoma and Arkansas to make the obligatory cemetery rounds and pay our respects to our ancestors and in some cases, descendants whose lives were cut tragically short. Papa had at least one son buried in the Indian “Camp Creek” cemetery and a marker for the other son who was “buried at sea.” There were generations of Newman and Riley family members buried in sunken graves shaded by ancient oak trees. Markers and headstones worn by weather and time. Decoration Day flower arrangements soiled by the red Oklahoma dirt. Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust. Uncles, Aunts and cousins.

At the Salisaw cemetery was Papa’s young half-sister who died as a child in a horrific car accident with her father at the wheel. Muldrow cemetery held “Mama” Spencer, my great-grandmother. Many a time my Grandma Jessie stood at her grave and shed tears of sorrow, as if her death had just happened, instead of years before. “I miss my mama so much!” she’d cry. You never get over the loss of your mama she said. “Jessie, Do you see the angels?“ said Mama Spencer before taking her last breath. Grandma Jessie had sisters and brothers buried there as well. They all had their stories. Some died in infancy. Some too soon as adults, and all before her; the eldest.

It was during those times that I came to know my family’s colorful history. The successful suicide of my paternal grandfather after many unsuccessful attempts. His never ending grief at the loss of Brenda in the accident while he was driving. The Chitwoods, buried in Arkansas, who never acknowledged their illegitimate granddaughter. Their son, buried in Texas, who fathered the girl, and loved her mother to his dying day, even though they never married. Her picture found in his wallet after he died, would prove it.

The war heroes. Family members fighting on both sides of the Civil War. “Change of life babies.” Surprise! The Aunt who tried to extort money from a kidnap victim’s family, even though she had nothing to do with the crime. Tales of the boys hiding up in the trees to watch as she snuck off to be alone with her boyfriend. The great grandmother who fell to her death from a runaway horse and buggy. “Didn’t everyone think Grandpa pushed her off ?” Papa would ask his mother.

The children understood the routine. We visited all the “live” relatives and all the “dead ones.” All of ’em. We remembered. We learned. Heading into Grandma’s house one afternoon after an all day cemetery marathon, she said to us….Did you go to all the cemeteries?” My little brother who was about 9 years old promptly groaned…”No we passed one!” We needed a bumper sticker that read…This car stops at all graveyards!” ”Hey“ I‘d joke with the kids when they‘d had enough, “Don't you know people are just dyin’ to go there?”

Then to the folks that weren't kin. Once we stood at Charles “Pretty Boy” Floyd’s grave, while my grandmother recalled her younger days as a neighbor to Pretty Boy and his family. “Public Enemy Number 1” was a folk hero to the Oklahoma people who dubbed him their Robin Hood, for his actions of stealing from the rich to help the poor. His shiny new headstone replaced the one that was stolen years before and “‘fans“ continued to chip away souvenirs.

In Arkansas, along the river at Wilson Rock, we visited the original resting place of Tiana Rogers, a Cherokee woman who married Sam Houston. Papa shared his knowledge of Tiana’s life, and followed it up with a visit to her final resting place at Fort Gibson. Later we’d visit the museum in Houston, Texas to learn more about Sam’s fascinating life in public service. Judge Isaac “Hanging Judge” Parker’s court, gallows and museum were nearby in Fort Smith, and by visiting we learned the fate of many of the lawless in Indian Territory who faced the judge and ended up in the local cemeteries.

I’m not so sure that my oldest children and younger brother’s will remember those times with Papa, but I hope they do. Maybe this entry will spark a few hidden memories and they‘ll be thankful for the special times in their youth.  It is now the time in their lives when they are begining to bury their ancestors.  I hope one day they will visit those resting places with their kids and share the stories of their lives. Every life has a story and it’s meant to be told and cherished for generations.

This story is part of mine, in honor of Papa.