by Missy Parks

Created on: January 22, 2010

Graveyards

Many people are afraid or at least uncomfortable in graveyards. I never was bothered by them. I grew up going with my parents or grandparents to visit the graves of great-grandparents, great-aunts, uncles and cousins, most of them had died before I was born. Some of the graveyards were modern and well tended, others were very old. When I went “up home” to Georgia with my grandparents we always made the rounds to leave flowers at all the family graves.

As a child the old stones fascinated me. Reading what I thought were odd names like Minerva and Archibald and the dates all seemed so long ago. There were headstones so old the writing had been worn down by the weather, leaving them mostly unreadable, but Granny always knew just who they were and the dates that had been on them. There were family plots out behind the homes of some of Granny or Pop’s brothers and sisters, in these graveyards everyone buried there had been related to me in one way or another. Some of these graves dated back to the American Revolution, others were older. This is how I learned my family had been here before we were a country.

Across the road behind the house I grew up in was a large graveyard with headstones that went back to before the Civil War. I spent time wandering between the stones reading names and dates. A few of them mentioned the Seminole Wars causing me to go to the library and learn something about our Florida history.

I wasn’t they only neighborhood kid hanging out in that graveyard. During those long summer afternoons you could find several of us over there playing hide and seek, there were a lot of large stand-up headstones that made great hiding places. We all had to go in for supper about the same time but soon would be back in the graveyard playing flashlight tag. I know some people thought this was odd or even morbid but as kids it was normal to us. None of the parents minded, we were out of the house and not causing any trouble, we could be as loud as we wanted without bothering anyone.

My dad, grandparents and friends are now in that graveyard I played in as a child. As an adult I’ve taken my kids there to visit the graves and as they got older they visited on their own. We’ve walked through the headstones reading the names and dates as we went from one family member’s grave to another. My kids are no more spooked by being there than I am; I guess it’s just part of life for us.

At this point in my life I don’t know where my grave will be, I’ve moved away from Florida and I doubt that I want to be sent back just for a burial. Where ever I end up, hopefully kids will wander the rows of stones and read mine wondering who I was, just as I’ve done for so many years in so many graveyards.

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