Tombstone: Not Pizza

Do  ya'll have any  idea how heavy a tombstone is?

Whew!

Good thing all I was doing was supervising. 

The interesting thing is the really old ones don't look all that heavy.
Maybe three feet high and maybe two inches thick. It looks like you could pick it up, tuck it under your arm and walk away.

Nope. Nah. No way.

Husband, who I have seen pick up a 110 pound Daughter who was about to faint, could barely lift this. I suggested he roll it, head over foot down the cemetery hill and then maybe pull it into the car.

This took several minutes, as we were parked at the foot of the hill,
and the tombstone was leaned up against an oak tree at the top of the hill.

Now, it may have occurred to you to wonder what the heck we are doing stealing  borrowing a tombstone.

I mean, it's not an everyday occurrence, and it ain't anywhere near Halloween.

It just so happens the tombstone belonged to Lizzie McGuire. No, no, not that  Lizzie McGuire - the one that Daughter used to watch every afternoon after school- but my Lizzie McGuire.

No, this Lizzie McGuire, (given name Elizabeth Hulsey), was my great-great-grandmother. I didn't know she was buried in this cemetery until a few months ago. Her daughter is the only great-grandparent I knew little about, because, unlike all my other greats, she was born in Dawson County. Through a lot of weird stuff, one of my very distant relatives contacted me. She told me that Lizzie was buried there, and that a newer tombstone had replaced an old one. 

Well, we couldn't find the newer one where her grave is, though it did give me the opportunity to visit my great-great and my great-great-great grandparents graves, who are also buried there. (Yes, we left their tombstones.)

We began to imagine what Lizzie would think for all our effort. She may have laughed or she may have shed a tender tear.

But for me - somehow I couldn't just let that old tombstone finish out in the weather. It's in bad enough shape as it is.

Rest in Peace, Lizzie. I'll take care of the tombstone.

Lizzie, wife of William McGuire, Born Dec 4, 1851 Died Mch 29, 1905. A tender mother and faithful friend.

Would it be that could be said of us all.

Homecoming

I don't know where you spent your Saturday, but some of mine was spent at the graveyard.

I knew I wasn't ready for it yet, because my back is out again, and every step I took let me know I was very much alive.

Tomorrow is homecoming where my mother's husband (yes, my daddy), her parents, her daddy's parents and her mother's parents are buried. Also various siblings, cousins and whatnot. Translated, I have a set of grandparents, great-grandparents and great-great grandparents buried there.

Mother purchased flowers for Daddy's grave, her parents' and grandparents' graves.

Here's the thing: my daddy is buried with all my mother's people. His folks are buried at another church in the county, where all his father's people are. His mother's people are buried at two different churches, all in this county.

Anyway, I asked why Daddy was buried there, and Mother said that's where he wanted to be.

I was looking at tombstones while we were waiting on Husband to come back from the "cage" where you throw all the old flowers. My great-grandmother has all her children, save one, buried there. She outlived all of them but two. There is a three year old, a sixteen year old, a twenty-seven year old, and my grandfather who was sixty-six when he died. She had another son, who is buried in Etowah, Tenn. He was sixty-two when he died. I know what killed all of them but one; the three year old. Mother can't remember and if I ever knew, well, I can't remember either.

Taking flowers to graves doesn't interest me much. But looking at old tombstones does. I've heard stories about these people all my life, and I guess this makes them more "real" to me.

All I know is I was glad to leave, glad it wasn't a hot or rainy day, and glad I could return to my bed, tiresome as it gets.

Hope your Saturday was filled with fun, too.

Flu Shots and Graveyards

So, that was my day, how was  yours?

Mother, Daughter and I went together to get our flu shots.

Mother got a super duper honkin' special flu shot because of her age (over sixty-five). Her frail little nothing arms show nary a scratch from the injection.

Daughter got a regular flu shot in her skinny, iddy biddy arms. Nary a scratch on her, either.

I got a regular flu shot in my big old ham hocker arm and I have a bloody, bruised spot with a large pump knot under the skin.

Go figure.

After that, we visited Mount Vernon Church's cemetery.

What a fun day!

No, really.

We were looking for any grave with the name Sawyer attached to it, and by golly we found two. Mother knew they would be buried among the Shepard's, because her granddaddy's sister had married a Shepard.

The two we found, as best Mother could figure, were her great-grandparents.

She really enjoyed walking around looking at different tombstones, reminiscing about people she knew.

It was a pretty brisk day, but other than that, the ground was flat and the trip pleasant.

Made us hungry.

Graveyards will do that to you, I supposed. I guess that's why everybody gets fed so much after a funeral.

We all ate together, which was fun. We are going out together less and less, because Mother doesn't feel like going out.

So today was a red letter day.

Flu shots, graveyards and all.

Graveyard Shift

I spent the better part of Saturday morning and early afternoon at a graveyard.

What fun! You exclaim.

Why didn't you invite me? You pout.

Party on! You exclaim.

You people need to get a life.

As do I.

See, I had discovered this tombstone when I was at the graveyard the other day with my mother. (No, I wasn't trying to talk her into anything)

There is an old tombstone that is so pitted and blackened it is almost impossible to see not only what, but if something was engraved on it.

I got very close to it and could make out some letters, and was convinced it was an older tombstone of my great-grandmother's. My father, my mother's parents, her father's parents and my grandfather's mother's parents, as well as all his siblings (but one) are buried there. My grandfather's parents, as well as two of his siblings have newer tombstones, replaced by a relative many years ago.

It stood to reason that perhaps the older one of my great-grandmother's had remained standing too.

So Husband went with me Saturday with equipment in hand to rub the tombstone and find out exactly what it said.

It's a really super neato thing to watch as letters appear on paper as he used a dark charcoal pencil to rub across the white paper.  I remember doing the same thing as a kid to coins. Sorta like magic, you know?

A disappointment that it wasn't my great-grandmother's, but then an interesting find. She was born in 1838 and died in 1907. She was a gentleman's 'consort'. 

I looked up the word, and it can mean marriage, or an 'intimate relationship', a partnership or even harmony among musical instruments.

I was told later than on very old tombstones, such as this one, they often said they were a consort, and it does mean they were married to one another.

Learn something new every day.

Then, across the way in the church yard underneath a big old tree, two damsels were in distress and Husband and I went over to help. I stood there, helpfully. He, being THE MAN, was able to get the three lug nuts off the flat tire they had been unable to loosen.

Finally, able to journey back to town, I thought we deserved a reward and purchased ourselves egg biscuits before going on home.

Graveyards, tombstone rubbing, consorts, damsels, biscuits.

Just another day in the South.

Ya'll come see us.

We'll larn ye thangs.