I was just riding along a country road. It was a busy country road. I found out later that it was the only way to get from the Adirondacks into Vermont. I guess there aren’t that many people who want to go from the Adirondacks to Vermont because it wasn’t overly busy. But there was traffic. Honestly, I think there is more traffic on the country road in front of my house than was on this road. And those people are only going from Fancy Farm to Paducah, or back again.
I was marveling at the scenery. Yes, I had heard that the foliage this time of year was a spectacle. But the landscape that held that foliage had to be overly impressive even when there wasn’t the color that was evident in early October. This rolling farmland was absolutely stunning. I wondered about the people who lived here. It was warm for the time of year but I envisioned those people venturing out of their warm homes into the cold of the northeast. Of course, I have never experienced anything like that. Even now, I have no desire to be in this area when it is cold.
One of the things that caught my eye was the cemeteries. They were so close to the road. Of course, there were newer graves, newer markers. But some of the markers looked to be hundreds of years old. They weren’t falling apart like they do in the cemeteries back home. They weren’t sinking or ready to topple over. They stood erect as I am sure the people of New England would stand.
They weren’t church cemeteries. Or maybe they were. But there weren’t any churches around them. And there weren’t so many graves in these cemeteries. I wondered whether they were families, from generation to generation to generation. They could have been town cemeteries, albeit small towns.
I considered stopping but stopped myself. I could literally spend hours in a cemetery, even if I didn’t know anyone. There are feelings that you have in a cemetery that you don’t have anywhere else in the world. Absolutely, there is peace. But also you get a feeling of activity. I get the sensation that the people who are there are curious as to why you are there. And so, usually more to myself than out loud, I talk with them. I acknowledge their names and their dates. I ponder over babies who only lived days and I tarry at those who have lived to an old age. I know the amount of wisdom represented in these hollowed grounds and I ache for some of that wisdom to be dubbed onto me.
The first time I truly felt the wisdom was after my youngest daughter was born. I took her to our church cemetery, out for a walk. I felt it. I felt the curiosity and the love of those who have gone before us. In fact, I literally had to turn around and tell her grandmother that I knew that she was very proud of this baby girl and to feel free to show her off. I felt as though we were leading a parade of all of those who wanted to get a glimpse of this next generation. I walked very slow that day and I let them sink her in.
I love to go to graves in cemeteries that I know others are not visiting. I think that is because I cannot go to the graves of my parents or grandparents often enough. Usually when I go to my parent’s graves I holler over at my grandparents to let them know that I’m in town. I think that I could still find their graves however, the tree that once shaded my grandfather is there no more. I’m sure he is not happy about that, I heard that was the reason the spot was picked out. But the unadorned graves are where I find the most peace. It is though those that are buried there don’t have any expectations of me and my life and are just grateful for the visit. I like to talk to those people. They are very good listeners. And even if all I do is wave, they are appreciative of the acknowledgement.
No, I did not stop at these yards in New England. I was drawn to them. But the crisp, sunny autumn day drew me as well. Once I feel more comfortable there then I will stop. I am sure that there is a lot of wisdom that I can pull for this life I am trying to lead. Hopefully I can share that wisdom down another country road.