This Sunday was Decoration Day at Dilworth where Jilda's infant brother is buried. He died at a very young age, almost 20 years before Jilda was born. But each year we put a small arrangement on his grave.
It's an old cemetery with soldiers who fought in the Civil War, the War of 1812, and later conflicts. Many of the graves are no longer decorated because the families have either died off or moved away.
I took the flowers down there this morning for Jilda and after placing them on the grave, I wandered around the cemetery reading the stones.
Standing in cemeteries, I can't help but wonder about the stories of those lying in the graves. They lived during a time before the Internet, blogs, Facebook, and other social media. There were cameras in the early part of the last century, but they were expensive and, as a result, there were not many pictures.
The only stories that lived were the ones passed down through oral history. Stories were retold by mothers, fathers, family, or friends.
Some of the people in this small cemetery could have had remarkable stories. As I stood there this morning looking across a field of stones, a warm breeze out of the south fluttering the flags on the graves.
I was saddened to think their stories will never be told.
It's an old cemetery with soldiers who fought in the Civil War, the War of 1812, and later conflicts. Many of the graves are no longer decorated because the families have either died off or moved away.
I took the flowers down there this morning for Jilda and after placing them on the grave, I wandered around the cemetery reading the stones.
Standing in cemeteries, I can't help but wonder about the stories of those lying in the graves. They lived during a time before the Internet, blogs, Facebook, and other social media. There were cameras in the early part of the last century, but they were expensive and, as a result, there were not many pictures.
The only stories that lived were the ones passed down through oral history. Stories were retold by mothers, fathers, family, or friends.
Some of the people in this small cemetery could have had remarkable stories. As I stood there this morning looking across a field of stones, a warm breeze out of the south fluttering the flags on the graves.
I was saddened to think their stories will never be told.
Your post reminds of exactly the reason I feel so strongly about telling and re-telling family stories. It is important to know who you come from. It is the source of your pride.
ReplyDelete"Untold Stories" What a story that truly makes. This is a very good post and a very striking picture!
ReplyDeleteI never thought of a cemetery like that before...untold stories. Good way to look at it though and makes one think. Blogging is a good way to tell those stories and I for one am thankful that can.
ReplyDeleteI love walking through cemeteries and always have. My dad and I both enjoyed it. I guess I was a weird kid because I thought that when I was little. What lives they led and how they died. I loved it when I saw pictures of them on the gravestone. You wrote a beautiful piece here and the picture of that grave between 2 trees is so telling.
ReplyDeleteAgain you make us think!!
ReplyDeleteYes it is so sad indeed, I like cemeteries love to wander around them looking at the graves
ReplyDeleteThose old graves hold a lot of secrets. Many untold secrets were buried in the graves never to be shared. Very sad.
ReplyDeleteJB
My favorite cemetery is the one in Springfield, Illinois, with Lincoln's tomb, but I love Arlington. Arlington is more than a cemetery.
ReplyDeleteLove,
Janie