I read an article recently in the local newspaper about an elderly couple coming across a veteran's grave in an old forgotten cemetary. They learned the soldier's story by the minimal information on the grave and a bit of local research. I was immediately brought back to my childhood while reading this. I grew up directly across the street from a large, old cemetary on a small back road. I spent many hours studying the names on those graves and making up stories about all the lives.
While there are many, many memories from this odd playground, none stick out more than this one. There were 2 graves marked Unknown Man and another labeled Unknown Infant right next to it. The story went that this man kidnapped the baby and they were in a rowboat that went over the Sheepscott Falls, killing them both. (You will notice that whenever I write about Sheepscott, I use 2 ts - yet legally the village name is spelled with one. This is because all local Sheepscott-ites have spelled it this way for generations and scoffed at the state when they claimed it to have only one). Another grave was for a local couple that lost their newborn. I was young at the time but old enough to know how tragic it was. I used to bring flowers to his grave. There were large family graves with numerous family members listed and buried below. Graves of young siblings that left us wondering if they died of a disease or an accident. There were many veterans from all parts of the military; special plaques accompanied some as well as flags for the holidays. Many of the graves were from the 17 and 1800s, some sinking into the ground so far we could no longer read the names. Looking out over the sea of graves was to see hundreds of lives, each with their own story. Some sunny afternoons I would lie by a grave in the grass on my back, staring at the sky and wondering about their life.
We did everything in this cemetary as kids. In the winter we would sled on the hills. In the summer we played Little House on the Prarie (using a gravestone with an open book carved on top as the school teacher's desk, the bench by a grave as the school desk/chair). Flashlight tag, hide seek and spying on funerals were some of the favorite activities. I can remember waiting for the gravediggers to leave at the end of the day. We would run over to the giant hole and stand on the edge peering down in, letting our imaginations run wild. After the funeral I would return to stand on the fresh dirt wondering about the person that lay below. For years Dad would hide in the dark by a gravestone on Halloween and birthday parties. He would flash his "zany-zappers" causing glowing red eyes to stare out and send us screaming. One particular family stone was so big we used to climb up and sit on top with a picnic lunch or our barbies. When I was around 7 or 8 I raided the trash barrels by the big locked door where the lawn mowers were held on the side of the cemetary. All the discarded baskets from Easter were there along with many plastic flowers. I brought my mother the biggest, most gawdy flower arrangment for Mother's Day. I was SO proud. Another time our babysitter brought us into one of the old tombs built into the side of the hill. I remember going down in but I don't remember what we saw inside. My photo albums are filled with shots from the cemetary. My sister and cousins snapping photos of ourselves as teens, family photos and many black & white pics of graves and plaques from my highschool days experimenting in the darkroom. Memories of kisses with boys, smoking cigarettes in hiding, learning how to photograph the full moon with my Dad and my new 35mm camera. I can remember sitting on the top of the hill with binoculars in the cold, clear winter night air with my Dad showing me constellations.
When I wanted to be alone for whatever reason, there was a path from the back of the cemetary to the river. The roots from gigantic pine trees formed natural benches above the rocks to the river below. The gorgeous view included the Sheepscott Falls where my imagination could still picture a man and infant in a rowboat everytime I looked over.
Today the kids and I visited the cemetary. We parked out back and explored all my favorite spots. The tree I used to climb is gone, only a stump remains marking the spot. The small tomb of the newborn I used to leave flowers for was barely visible as it has sunk into the earth and grass has grown over it. Some of the hills, rocks and stairs are all overgrown with trees and many layers of leaves and branches that noone has taken care of. The tombs on the side of the hill are gone, grass covers where the metal doors used to be. It was sad to see and my son could tell this as I showed them the areas and explained what we used to play there. "It has changed a lot hasn't it?' he asked me. I nodded and murmured "it certainly has." He looked at me and said "I'm glad you still have your memories." "Me too." I smiled and looked out over the many stones covering the beautiful hill. Even though it has changed it still brings a smile to my face and encompasses me with so many wonderful memories. I drove out of the cemetary feeling peaceful. Almost like finishing a favorite old book.
