Katie Porter
Last night a storm rolled in and I watched the land turn cool. The lavender sky just above a row of hemlocks stiffened to a crisp, pure color of blue. With darkness came sheets of warm rain and cool winds. The horses in the pasture stood just below the hemlocks, butts facing the wind and rain, spines rounded, hips rolled back, and heads hung close to the ground. Lightening lit up the sky, and with each flash I could see the first autumn leaves shooting through the air.
I'm sitting in Beatty Cemetery. The air is cool from last night's rain. My skin feels chilled. The sun is warming my body from the inside out. The grass beats with energy, soaking up the sun and rainwater. The cemetery is small, a perfect square. A charcoal colored, cast iron fence separates the graves from a fallow field. The fence is a row of spears, spears on top and spears half way up. What is the true purpose of it? To separate the cemetery from the adjoining field, to disconnect the small piece of land from nature or to simply make the space more visually appealing? Maybe the fence separates a place associated with pain, misunderstanding, and confusion from the rest of the world that is still very much alive. Cemeteries like Beatty seem to be a lock box shoved under a bed, purposefully forgotten.
This is not my first time visiting Beatty, although I believe it will be the last. I grew up just down the road on a small dairy farm. My father used to farm the field adjacent to the cemetery and I remember him planting it to corn each spring. Today the field is simply orchard grass and timothy, packed full with goldenrod and milkweed. When the field was being plowed, disked, planted, and chopped, I was at Beatty Cemetery. I would either ride up with my father on the tractor or follow on my bike. We packed bologna sandwiches, chips, a juice box, and beer in the morning. When I was bored of riding on the tractor I would venture over to the cemetery. I'm not sure how I spent all afternoon playing here, but I did. I recall picking the flowers planted near headstones, shoving grass into the old wooden birdhouse, and cleaning out the garden urn- I thought it was a birdbath. What I can't remember, is ever considering the dead that are buried here. I was na•ve and fearless then. Beatty was my playground, my secret garden.
Within this small square there are cedars, cherry trees, lilac bushes, daisies, oaks, vines, and goldenrod. However, what I can see is merely the surface. The tall grass conceals the insects, snakes, mice, and others that traverse the graveyard. They are not aware of the horrors that lie below them. However, it's only humans that perceive cemeteries as containing such awfulness. In all reality most of the Beatty inhabitants would probably consider decaying human bodies a great find. Unfortunately for them, most humans are disgusted by the thought of scavengers feasting on their loved ones.
Once they are in the ground, coffins are basically impenetrable. Metal and fiberglass coffins have replaced the traditional wooden ones. Most manufacturers offer a protective casket that simply uses a gasket to seal the coffin shut. It is normally believed that a protective casket will prevent decomposition, but this is entirely untrue. Cemeteries usually require the casket to be placed in a burial vault, which is designed to protect the coffin inside and to prevent the ground from sinking in. Like the coffin, the burial vault will aid in keeping scavengers of all forms away from the deceased, but will not stop decomposition from occurring.
Interestingly, most people associate a coffin with a hexagonal or octagonal shaped box. Casket is considered the more appropriate word for a rectangular shaped box. Shape of the box is irrelevant though, a coffin is, by definition, "a box or chest for burying a corpse." In fact, the funeral industry has created this misconception to avoid any fear associated with the word coffin. A coffin can symbolize a number of different ideas, all of which normally evoke terror or discomfort. One dream interpretation related to this topic explained how a coffin symbolizes the womb. Another stated, "The coffin could symbolize a lack of energy or vitality in the dreamer. It could represent the death of one stage of life and movement into another. When dreaming about coffins, we may be contemplating the nature of the death experience and may access the state of consciousness that is attuned to the spiritual world. Most simply, and most likely, the coffin in your dreams may represent feelings of confinement and lack of freedom."
Even though I would like to focus on everything that is alive here at Beatty, I force myself to consider the thirty-some deceased resting below. I'm neither disgusted nor fearful to consider the natural state of the bodies. The most recent Beatty grave belongs to a person who died in 1989. The majority of the graves, however, are from the nineteenth century. A few headstones have eighteenth century birth dates engraved on them. A few more, so old the inscriptions are illegible. Formaldehyde, used in modern methods of embalming, was not discovered until 1867. Those who died prior to this date, were most likely not embalmed, placed in a pine coffin, and buried without any outer enclosure such as the burial vault. Arsenic was used as the primary embalming fluid before formaldehyde. More recently there has been concern about contaminated ground water caused from leaky bodies.
Embalming, defined as "a means of artificially preserving the dead human body," only delays decomposition. According to Robert Mayer there are four natural means of preservation; freezing, dry cold, dry heat, and nature of the soil (peat bog). Mayer also lists and describes in great detail eleven artificial means of preservation. I have found the ancient Egyptian method of embalming to be fascinating. Mayer explains the five steps, one of which is the removal of the brain. Egyptians removed the brain using normally a metal hook through the nostril and in some cases, the eye socket. Chemicals are injected during the embalming process; however, the blood is drained and internal fluid sucked out. The body is emptied.
Body compounds decompose in a particular order; carbohydrates, then proteins, next are fats, then hard proteins, and finally bone. Factors such as temperature, depth of burial, and rainfall affect "the rate and the manner of decomposition." The average human body, that has not been embalmed, buried six feet under in average soil without a coffin takes about ten to twelve years to fully decompose (only skeleton remains). In water, four times as fast, and exposed to air, eight times as fast. The bodies in Beatty have surely not been buried without a coffin, yet I imagine in most of the graves skeletons are all that remain. The body buried in 1989 is likely still decomposing. His casket is probably sealed shut, encased in a burial vault, and his body embalmed using formaldehyde. Fortunately, the fluids from his corpse are not leaking into the earth that I'm sitting on, nor contaminating the water of near by neighbors.
Nothing is well maintained here in Beatty. Sections of the fence are leaning, closer to the field, sections are completely gone. The grass is thick, overflowing, hiding the head stones. It flows, swells, and intertwines in the breeze; it engulfs the weak flowering plants that were placed here. Headstones have toppled over and the earth heaves around them. Thick, purple vines hide names and history from view. Faded and torn American flags sway with the grass. Bees zip from daisies to buttercups and butterflies flitter, their wings moving in rhythm with the grass. Do they breathe like us? Their brittle chests seem to heave, pull, and push like mine. The cedars look ancient, but not old. They're still growing; they fill in the space above same as the grass does below. Together the oaks and cedars are building a canopy leaf-by-leaf, limb-by-limb.
The wooden birdhouse still sits along the fence in the bottom left corner of Beatty. It looks the same as I last saw it. I bend down to peer into the small round hole and quickly remember how people have encountered snakes in birdhouses. This is something that never occurred to me as a child. Instead, I lift the rock holding down the top of the birdhouse then slide the roof or small plank of wood over to the side. Empty. The birdhouse only contains, what looks to be remnants of an old Tent Caterpillar nest. The wooden box is lined with thick, white layers of web. The caterpillars are long gone by now. I was expecting to find something hidden away in the birdhouse, although I'm not sure what.
When I was young I used to have this feeling of emptiness while traveling in the car, or at least I can only recall it happening in the car. I wondered if my body was real and if it was, what would happen to my self when my body was gone. Imagining the separation of body and soul, which I now better understand, hollowed out my stomach so that I literally felt sick. It was an awful feeling of fear and uncertainty. I would quickly find something different to think about. I have not had this feeling since I was a young child.
Beatty is truly a secret garden. People often believe our bodies are part of nature, no different from the bees patrolling the flowers. I feel like a stranger here. I won't be a part of nature until my body is drained of life and placed in the ground. Then, I will be embraced like the rest. I'm sitting next to some old mulch surrounding a family of graves. A thin, silvery snakeskin stretches across the mulch. I try to envision the snake moving across the rough, prickly wood chips peeling off a layer of smooth scales. He never stopped; he kept twisting across the ground. I look up ahead, trying to trace his path and maybe to even see him basking in the sun. But he's gone, squirming somewhere out of site. The skin he left behind reminds me of what I can't see. Reminds me of the human skeletons tucked away in pine coffins under the Beatty soil.
"O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory?" I Corinthians 15 verse 35
Britten Run Road lies in a valley between the village of Riceville and Spartensburg and links the Amish farms in this area to the rest of the world. An Amish cemetery sits back from the thin dirt road behind a row of maples, and in front of golden corn stocks. My arms are crossed tightly against my chest and my body wavers in the cold, October wind. The air smells of burnt wood and wet leaves, the dry corn rustles as I sip my coffee. My little red car, parked along the muddy dirt road, looks absurd in this navy blue landscape. Farms are visible from the cemetery and I watch each one carefully for a few minutes. The two story white farmhouses are identical across the valley. The curtains are gathered and tied on the right side of the windows, navy and white clothes hang from lines outside, and smoke billows from the brick chimneys. Yellow leaves circle in front of me while I focus on three sorrel drafts grazing a field away.
I didn't make this trip alone. My friend kneels in front of a dingy, gray headstone. She turns in my direction, and although her voice is muffled by the wind, I hear her say, "This is my grandfather." Karen, a small woman with a large presence, exudes confidence, strength, and determination. I have always admired her optimism, but today she appears to be stripped drown, broken, and lost. Both her parents grew up Old Order Amish, made the decision to leave the Amish community in their early twenties and lost all family and friends. Karen was raised Mennonite, but she left her church as a teenager.
On the drive here, we past her grandparents' home, a large white farm house. A buggy sat in front of the small, one story barn. The boards had been stained a deep dark chestnut that matched the split rail fence along the road. Children were running in the front yard, they stopped to watch us drive by. A little girl waved, but her face was emotionless. She wore a powder blue dress, black ankle boots, and a white bonnet with thin white strings. Clearly frustrated, Karen exclaimed, "I don't even know their names."
Karen told me once that her and her parents attended a funeral for a relative when she was younger. After the service there was dinner. By herself she walked to the long tables of food and filled not only her own plate, but also those of her parents. Karen was seven years old at the time. Her parents were forbidden to stand in line for food or to even rise from their seats until after the dinner was over. Old Order Amish will befriend the 'English', but they treat their own very differently. Karen's parents had been shunned, not uncommon when children decide to leave the Amish church. "From the time you can understand, they instill fear in you,Ó she told me once, "you truly believe you're going to hell if you don't accept their way of life." The Amish are not permitted to carry their Bibles to church, nor are they allowed to question how the Bishop interprets the Bible. Pennsylvania Dutch is considerably different from the German language, yet the Amish use a German Bible.
"Judge for yourselves: is it proper for a woman to pray to God with her head uncovered? Does not the very nature of things teach you that if a man has long hair, it is a disgrace to him, but that if a woman has long hair, it is her glory? For long hair is given to her as a covering. If anyone wants to be contentious about this, we have no other practice- nor do the churches of God." I Corinthians 11: 13-16
The Amish church believes a woman must wear a covering or she is a disgrace to God. Perhaps, the Amish women would object if they could understand their Bible. Perhaps it's backwards to live life according to tradition. I don't wish to denounce the Amish lifestyle, however it should not be idealized. They are people trapped in time and rooted in tradition. A community living behind closed doors because they prefer to. Our relationship with them is a very simple one, 'don't ask, don't tell'. Karen had an older brother who passed away shortly after his birth; her parents were still part of the Amish community at the time. One photograph was taken of him when he was born; according to family members it was the cause of his death. I have learned the Amish will stop at nothing to keep their group cohesive, even if it means inflicting pain on their own people. Sometimes death cannot be easily explained. A baby's heart can simply stop beating. "These people honor me with their lips, but their hearts are far from me. They worship me in vain; their teachings are but rules taught by men. You have let go of the commands of God and are holding on to the traditions of men." Mark 7:6-8
The cemetery is bordered by a white hitching rail along one side for the horse and buggies during a funeral. Another one is located close to the road against the row of maples, but it's buried under orchard grass and briers. The cemetery is considerably small, but large for an Amish community. I walk from one grave to another, pushing away thick, wet grass to read the inscriptions on the head stones. Each marker is rectangular in shape, rising about a foot and a half above the doughy ground, and appears to be cut sandstone.
Before 1840, sand stone was widely used for grave markers in western Pennsylvania. Thomas J. Hannon conducted a long-term research project on cemeteries in this area; his essay Western Pennsylvania Cemeteries in Transition: A Model for Subregional Analysis (1989) was the result. Hannon explains how sandstone will turn dark brown or black over time, similar to the head stones in this Amish cemetery. From the mid-nineteenth century on, marble or limestone were preferred over sandstone. According to Hannon, this transition "reflects a movement away from the stark realities of death which were strengthened by the religious fervor of the Great Awakening." The white limestone and marble represents "the hope and joy of resurrection," while the dark sandstone represents the "harsh realities of death." The Amish have continued to use sandstone for grave markers.
The older graves appear to be sinking. The traditional wooden caskets are not enclosed in burial vaults to prevent this from happening. Unfortunately, little research has been conducted on the Amish in northwestern Pennsylvania. Every community is different, largely due to the separate church districts. Karen mentioned to me once that one church may even specify how large the brim of a man's hat can be or the distance between pins on his coat. Therefore, the wake, sermon, and graveside practices will certainly vary depending on the community. The Lancaster Amish, for instance, clothe the body in white whether male or female, while other groups dress their dead in Sunday clothes, normally black. The groups in this area normally lay the deceased out on wooden planks anchored by two chairs for the wake. Although in other communities, the body is placed in the coffin to be viewed.
During most Amish funerals the preacher speaks very little about the deceased, because the common belief is that God, rather than man, should be praised. The sermon is usually spoken in German, even though Pennsylvania Dutch is considerably different. Singing may take place before, during or after the viewing, depending on the group. The preacher at the gravesite normally reads a hymn while the coffin is being covered and a silent prayer follows. Laws limit how much time can pass between a person's death and their burial if the body has not been embalmed. Therefore, the majority of Amish groups have accepted embalming to allow time for family members to arrive for the funeral.
I consider the layout of the cemetery, which has an obvious pattern. There are a total of twenty-three graves, seventeen in the back row, two in the middle row, and four in the front. The entire back row belongs to children who died under the age of two. The two boys in the middle were ages eight and fifteen when they died, and the four up front were adults. Normally the numbers are reversed in any other cemetery. I turn to Karen for an explanation. She states how five of the babies are cousins, children of one of her mother's sisters. Karen heard they all died of heart failure.
I ask, "how could the she continue to have children when she knew each one was likely to have the same problem?"
Karen watches me carefully, "I don't know, they just don't understand, they don't realize how wrong they are."
Together we stand in front of the back row of graves searching for answers. I read the inscriptions over and over again and I know Karen is doing the same. I repeat their names: William, Emma, Edna, Susan, Betty, Freeman, Susan, nameless stillborn, Dorothy, Emma, nameless stillborn, David, Miriam, Robert, Esther, and two more stillborns.
In his essay, Spiritual Aspects of Resolution of Grief, Dennis Klass notes how "when a child dies, the parent experiences an irreparable loss, because the child is an extension of the parent's self." Why name a child the same as one who passed away previously? I can't seem to picture the woman with five dead babies as a woman at all; instead, I picture her as a pale, hardened shell of a person. Many Amish groups disagree with vaccines and medical intervention. Karen turns to me with a look of frustration, "why don't they realize you have to meet God half way?" How people cope with death is largely based on their values and beliefs. Sudden death is only natural, prolonged death is artificial, a result of the twentieth century. The Amish lifestyle, however, is rooted in tradition.
We are buried the way we lived our lives. The sandstone grave markers are simple, only the names, date of birth, death, and age have been indicated. Most of the head stones appear to have been hand made. They have imperfect shapes and the letters are crooked, often falling right off one side. However, there are Amish cemeteries where only a short piece of board marks a grave and rather a book contains the names and dates of those buried in the cemetery. Out of the twenty-three graves, there are only six different last names and they are as follows: Byler, Gingerich, Hochstettler, Miller, Troyer, and Weaver. The Byler name is the most common. For the most part, the family members have been buried close to one another. In other Amish communities, it's not uncommon for each family to have a small cemetery on their own land.
The graveyard lies under a shadow now, but the setting sun has lit the cornfield on fire. The wind has receded. The nearby pasture glitters in the evening light, and the sorrel drafts are lumbering toward a barn. I am tired and uncomfortable. I have felt awkward since I arrived and the feeling will not leave. I am in an Amish valley, the earth below me is Amish, the cornfields, the horses, the golden maples are Amish and even the sky above me is Amish. These simple people have not complicated life or death. We drive home.
Yesterday, I walked down Frenchtown Road, and then up a logging trail to a small cemetery enclosed by a white board fence. I leaned against the top rail in attempt to read the inscription on the closest grave.
The young woman died of heart failure. By accident I witnessed the funeral procession eight years ago. The memory of it is still vivid. Past the cemetery, Frenchtown Road intersects East Oil Creek Road and an Amish farm sits along this road just up from the four corners. The land is flat in this area, so at the corner of the intersection I could see the farm. In my car, I watched from a distance. Buggies surrounded the house and barn. Between the farm and cemetery, the road was black. Black dresses, black shawls, black bonnets, black suits, and black, round rimmed hats. Their faces were shadowy, tilted down and hidden from the world. The men, followed by the women, inundated the small graveyard. I felt as though I was witnessing something secretive, something so large and menacing that I wanted to close my eyes, but I couldn't.
The sound of iron shoes on the packed dirt road, jerked me out of the past and back to where I was leaning against the white board fence. Before I even turned in their direction, I knew I was being watched. A closed buggy, pulled by a big lanky bay was nearing the cemetery. I wanted to turn away, but I watched them draw closer until I could peer through their door. It was an older couple, both turned their heads, I clenched my notebook against my chest and stared back. The man turned his head back towards the bay horse and she continued to watch. Two sorrel drafts with flaxen main and tail in the pasture near by lifted their heads and pricked their ears frontward. They watched the buggy go by and then glanced at me before pushing their square muzzles back into the grass.
And our hearts, though stout and brave,
Still, like muffled drums, are beating
Funeral marches to the grave
Longfellow, Psalm of Life
October 8th. A friend, who I hadn't seen since he left for the Marines, was found dead in the woods behind his grandparents' house. He leaned up against a tree and shot himself with a 22 on the 24th of September. I have been troubled by his last moments of life. I imagine him walking softly across blonde hay fields to the woods, his body glowing in the warm September sun. He wanders aimlessly before leaving the field, but his steps are careful. I can't remember the day and I can't remember the colors. Were the sky transparent, the sun white, and the trees deep green? Did he end his life on the cusp of autumn, on the crest before the fall?
Huber Cemetery, on Dutch Hill Road, belongs to the Huber farm. The massive barn and grim house sit back a long lane. Farmland covers most of Dutch Hill, trees are scattered and feel out of place. I am standing in Huber Cemetery, looking at barn leaning towards the west, its stone foundation slowly sliding underneath. The empty pastures are overgrown, but the fence lines remain. The cemetery sits on a grassy knoll, overlooking the Huber farm. It's rectangular in shape and etched out of switch grass. The red fields surround the cemetery, span for acres, give way to a hay field scattered with round bales. Switch grass in the fall is burnt orange, dry, and brittle. It crumbles in my hands. The sun, half hidden, sits in a field to the west. Death has rolled up and over the hill in the form of blood red switch grass.
Greek myths of Adonis, Attis, and Persephone reflect the idea of death and rebirth as a cycle of nature. Autumn and winter are death and spring and summer are rebirth in the cycle of the agricultural year. Greek mythology also refers to the setting sun as death and the rising sun as rebirth. The tree is considered the primary symbol of the natural cycle, with its annual shedding of leaves. Evergreens represent immortality. The Sumerian goddess Inanna, also known as Babylonian Ishtar, traveled to the underworld looking for her son-lover, Tammuz. Every year he came to life in the spring as the vegetation god and died in the fall. Tammuz was condemned to this cycle of death and rebirth for eternity.
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The marine stood and faced his God, Which must always come to pass. He hoped his shoes were shining Just as brightly as his brass. "Step forward now marine, How shall I deal with you? Have you always turned the other cheek? To my church have you been true?" The marine squared his shoulders and said "No Lord, I guess I ain't. 'Cause those who carry riffles Can't always be a saint. I've had to work most Sundays, And at times my talk's been rough... There was silence all around the throne Where the saints had often trod. As the marine waited quietly For the judgment of his God. And sometimes I've been violent 'Cause the wars are awful though. I never passed a cry for help, Though at times I shook with fear, |
And sometimes, God forgive me, I've wept unmanly tears. I know I don't deserve a place Among the people here. They never wanted me around Except to calm their fear. If you've a place for me here, Lord, It needn't be so good. I never expected or had too much. But if you don'tÉI'll understand." "Step forward now, marine you've born your burdens well. Come guard Heaven's scene, You've done your time in hell." |
This epitaph commemorates a Marine buried here at Huber. The dark headstone is large and consists of three stones that are connected. The epitaph takes up the entire space on the middle stone, which is also the tallest. To the right is the marine, and on the left is his wife. Reading it warms my body and soothes my mind. I haven't been afraid to imagine what my friend's body was like when they found him. I picture him spread out below a maple where he had fallen, his face blackened, his skin tough like leather, and his hair in thin patches. Watching him walk through that hayfield, still breathing, is what frightens me. Some believe he suffered; he used a mere 22-caliber riffle. The last thing he held in his hands was a gun, not a woman, not his child. We don't ask our hearts to beat, but we can ask them to stop.
Tout passe, tout casse, tout lasse. -French Proverb (Everything passes, everything perishes, everything palls.)
Across Conneaut Marsh, the landscape is scattered with family farms. I stop in front of a small red barn. The closest house sits on the opposite side, further down the road. To the right of the barn a small creek runs along a steep embankment, Holstein heifers stare up at me. One approaches the fence, sniffs the air and then tosses her head, stringing drool from her thick, bristly nose and mouth. "Hi girl," I say. Her black, bulging eyes fix on me. I walk around to the back of the barn and the stout, little cow follows along the fence line. I continue walking pass the pasture, up a hill towards the woods.
Seven people are buried at the edge of the field; behind the graves is a deep ravine. The family name is Wright. Two tall, thin sandstone markers, and four white, square markers are barely noticeable. The tall headstones are lean, and the square markers are sinking. Earth is forceful, constantly shifting, heaving and falling across time. Five billion years from now our planet will be engulfed by the Sun, then in its red giant stage. The oceans will boil and the land will burn to ashes. I sit in the thick grass, littered with dried leaves and watch the cow. The lifespan of a cow is 30 years. A human's lifespan is between 115 and 120. Although she and I will experience a biological death and Earth a non-biological death, it is the same.
"Second Law of Thermodynamics tells us that the total quantity of entropy in the world is forever and inevitable increasing and that this will necessarily result in the death of the universe." Change is a miraculous thing. Before the Earth's demise, she will have rearranged her oceans and land to form a new pattern. Its believed that in 50 million years the Mediterranean sea will be gone, South America will be an island, and North America, Asia, Europe, and Australia will have formed one massive continent.
The two tall headstones are practically illegible. One marks the graves of Aaron and Jane Wright and I can only read one date of death: Nov. 16th 1839. The other belongs to Elizabeth; I assume her last name is Wright as well since it's a family plot. Elizabeth's year of death was 1815. The four small markers have just a letter engraved on top of them. At the top of Elizabeth's headstone is a hand, with a finger pointing up. A phrase, arched above the hand, reads "Going Home." Her body is still here, only land separates her from I.
The plot is haunting, and suggests wrongdoing. The graves seem to have fallen in a crack or have been tucked away under farmland. Mumford Cemetery sits not even a mile down the road and there are a few graves there that are as old as these. I wonder why these seven people were sentenced to such isolation after their death. The close markers are to each other and strangely enough, the entire plot might be eight feet long and eight feet wide, but no larger than that. Even if the bodies are scattered further than I realize, it's still unusual to see grave markers placed so close together. A mass burial?
Father, Great Spirit,
To the east from whence cometh the rising of the sun
Thou hast added another day to my life,
For which I give thee thanks with all my heart
-Lakota Prayer
It snowed yesterday. I was relieved. A thin layer of white fluff draped over the valley. The crisp air cleared my mind and the white hills brought forth a sense of renewal. The snow arrived later this year. Before, the haze was thick and the piles of leaves from a green summer were massive. Snow seems to erase what's there creating vast white space, an emptiness that I value. The transition is almost painful, like evening light. I can't clearly see at dusk, I squint and rub my eyes, but the blur remains until nightfall.
Today, the snow is gone and the land has been left in its most natural form, gruesome browns. I drive to a strip of land consisting of mostly small farms, located between two towns. I don't know a lot about the Scott family other than there were a lot of them, ten or eleven children. The family was from Brooks Road a couple miles from here, the 'old man' bought the land along Watson Run about sixty years ago. Shortly after, he was coming back from Greenville with a load of chickens and was hit by a train. When my father told me the story, he seemed to think a few of Scott's children were with him, everyone in the truck died. Supposedly, the truck was frosted up and he wasn't able to see the train before crossing the tracks. Four brothers farmed the land along Watson Run. My father new all of them, and frequently talked with a couple of the brothers out of proper farm etiquette. John was born blind and lived at the dairy farm with the oldest brother, Uel. John never married, and my father always seemed to think he "wasn't quite right." The other two, Junior and Jack, lived on their father's property away from the main farm, both had small farms to raise beef on. John, the blind brother and Junior died recently. The old dairy barn is now home to brown and black Herefords.
Driving back the long lane to the main farm is an interesting experience. There are two bridges to cross, one in which is simply a narrow cement slab with no sides, hovering about fifteen feet above a creek. While I'm driving down the dirt path, I notice a truck starting up the lane. After seeing my car, he backs up and waits for me to pass. I pull up beside the truck, roll down my window and explain who I am. Immediately, I feel nervous. The man in the passenger seat, who I don't recognize, refuses to look at me and rather than rolling down his window, he opens the door just a crack. His eyes dart back and forth, but his head never moves in my direction. He doesn't respond after I tell him who I am, so I quickly ask permission to walk the cemetery. He mumbles "yeah, sure" and then closes the door.
With that awkward experience behind me, I'm almost looking forward to be in the company of the dead rather than the living. I park my car in front of the decrepit dairy barn and watch the beef cows. The cemetery, fenced off, is centered in the pasture. I will have to mingle with the beef before making it to the graves. With a herd of dairy cows, normally Holsteins, it's unlikely to encounter a bull. However, in a pasture of Herefords it's not as unlikely. I walk to the gate and scan the cows; they stare back. From what I can tell they all look to be heifers, so I walk in careful to watch their behavior. Most of them, especially the smaller ones move away from me. One large girl, about as wide as she is tall, stands her ground. She looks of curious and playful, which can be trouble given her size. I keep my distance, and she only follows me with her head.
Besides barbed wire fence, mammoth oak trees surround the cemetery. Within, the land is cone-shaped, obtruding sharply from the flat pasture. It's covered in a layer of dry, crumpled oak leaves. At the summit are three tall cedars, literally growing on top of graves. Headstones are spread across the steep slopes on all sides. I'm not sure how these people could have had a normal burial. In some places it seems as though a hole would have been dug into the side of the hill, the casket slid inside, rather than placed down in. The headstone sealed off the opening similar to a door. However, this couldn't have been the case since many of the headstones have toppled over, revealing nothing. The oldest graves are at the top, and the more recent ones are towards the bottom. The last person buried, died in 1930. The oldest grave, in which I can decipher the date, was dug in 1831 and belongs to a young man who died at the age of twenty-five. I'm sure many of the graves are older, but the sandstone headstones are illegible.
The wind pushes across the land and the cedars creak. The Herefords, migrating towards the barn, bellow at a truck moving across the fields. Many of the graves belong to War of 1812 veterans. James D. McIntire, PVT 133 PA REGT, rests in the back corner of the cemetery. Thomas Birch, John Birch, Samuel Clark, and John Quigley. All soldiers in the War of 1812. I assume these men were probably not born here, but came from a different state, or from the eastern part of Pennsylvania. The Scott family farmed land that was once bounty land, awarded to veterans by the United States government to compensate them for their services to the country. Besides Pennsylvania, bounty land was available in Connecticut, Georgia, Maryland, Massachusetts, New York, North Carolina, South Carolina, and Virginia. Normally, land was given to the veterans in the western domains of each state because these men could protect settlements along the fringe from Indian attacks.
There is a burial plot belonging to a husband and wife, the woman's maiden name is Clark and her husband's name is Scott. Although I can't be certain, I assume the Scotts through marital union obtained this land. One of the brothers told my father this cemetery was an Indian burial ground and the settlers decided to bury their dead on the same plot of land. The Eries and Shawnee occupied western Pennsylvania before the Iroquois eventually drove them out. I can't see any sign of an Indian grave, although the story is certainly believable. North Watson Run Creek runs east of the Scott farm, Indians once camped along the creek. In the spring when the fields are freshly plowed along the creek, people stop to search for arrowheads. I have one of my own that I found along the road, its made from smooth, white flint.
Psychologist Joseph Henderson stated "viewed from the only absolute standpoint we have, that is, of still alive, we can therefore regard fear of death as being fear of change, or fear of growing up, or fear of becoming independent of the claims of the material world, or a mixture of all three." This transition frightens me, and I'm somehow looking for answers among those who understand it, but are unable to speak of it. What frightens me even more is the thought of being fixed in this state of suffering, still breathing, but unable to feel. Spending eternity pulling, lifting, pushing, sliding, carrying weight that never moves. For some people, I believe life itself is a painful transition. I hope they find relief in another world.
These are strangers resting in a strange land. They have been buried similar to how they lived, elevated, fortified, and abandoned. They survived the war to only be scalped by a small group of Indians, at least that's what I imagine. Attacks were still common in the earlier part of the nineteenth century. I have half the notion to dig their bones up and move them off this land. This isn't their home; this land belongs to the Scott brothers. I remember Elizabeth Wright's headstone with the inscription "going home." Our bodies are forgotten with time and eventually so is the memory of who we were. Land is real, but permanence is a lie. The Greeks had it right: there is only the cycle of death and rebirth.
I haven't moved from James D. McIntire's grave. All that is left of his body, buried in 1843, is bones. I want to see his casket, his eternal home. I want to see the pine boards and his thin remains. I could cradle his body and his bones would clink in the wind or turn to dust. The Old Testament prophet Ezekiel had a vision, the valley of dry bones, he said "the hand of the Lord came upon me and brought me out by the Spirit and set me down in the middle of a valley; it was full of bones. The Spirit led me all around them, there was very many lying in the valley, and they were very dry."
I consider a valley of bones, a valley of fawn and ivory, a land of the dead. A dead land. The Lord said "I will lay sinews on you, and will cause flesh to come upon you, and cover you with skin, and put breath in you, and you shall live, and you shall know that I am the Lord." The message taught by pastors and teachers is that only God can give us real life. My body is a beating heart, warm skin and blood. This man below me is made of stone and ash. Christians believe death is the last shadow before heaven's dawn.
Beyond the headstones are tall oaks, black horses, and hay fields. The sun has drifted behind clouds; daylight fades away to a bleak grayness. I hear wind chimes singing, cows bellowing, and engines humming. I'm far from home, alone on a heap of bones. My heart beats and my mind wanders. I lie on my back, watch the bare limbs smack together in the wind and smile.
"Yes, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; for You are with me."Psalm. 23:4
Katie Porter is a senior at Allegheny College.