I’m not a big fan of cemeteries. I have to catch myself from calling them “graveyards,” monuments popping up through the grass. I never know where to step. And, as readers will know, Mr. D and I have an ongoing dialogue (more a study group, really, although my tutor has yet to learn PowerPoint), so I don’t really have a need to seek out examples. Yet, within that real estate’s bounds lies a history of a culture, interesting calligraphy and inklings of stories, all of which do interest me.

There were familiar names, families who have owned or still own many acres in the area and roads named in their honor. Names that in the here-and-now carry more connotations than “pioneer.” I shall refrain.

We are on Anderson Road. Not only is there more than one fir in the picture, I wonder if at one time there was only one on the entire length of the road, for across the way is what remains of an oak savannah, the predominant flora in this area some 200 years ago. The trees in this photo must be the progeny of that solitary Douglas, long gone, for a tree at least 160 years old would be much larger than these.

There are people who dedicate themselves to photographing headstones and documenting the cemeteries that contain them. I ran across websites of groups who have organized around this purpose. I would not have found these sites had it not been for a question I found myself asking: Is there a prescribed way in which a broken headstone be placed if it is not to be repaired? While I did take photos of intact markers, that part of me that is drawn to chaos and transience is what I present here as my own study.