Tuesday evening, I got to do something I haven’t done in a very long time. I got to wander. Not wonder. I do that every day. Wander. Although my wandering does often lead to wondering . . .
I didn’t start until right after 5:00 PM because, well, work. It tends to interfere with all kinds of things. And although it kept me from starting earlier, it did not keep me from going to some of my favorite places . . . cemeteries. On this lovely evening I visited three about 20 minutes from town . . . out in what is truly beautiful, rural Hardin County: Petty Branch, Gillis Mills, and Germany Branch. They’re all kinda right there together, and you often find families scattered ‘mongst them, parents buried in one, children or siblings in another. Many of the graves stretch back to the 1800s, marked by weathered stones with barely legible carving noting the occupant’s identity, usually their dates of birth and death—although not always—and occasionally words chosen by their loved ones, meant to express the depth of the loss they had suffered and to give voice to the accompanying grief. And sometimes they are marked with nothing more than carefully poured concrete posts, small in size, with no information other than the acknowledgement that someone rests beneath the sod.
To wander these sacred grounds is to step back in time . . . and to find oneself wondering about the lives that are represented there and sometimes, why Death came as he did.
At Gillis Mills I first visited the graves of Annie and John Franks. If you decide to call on them, they’re easily found, no matter where you’re standing in the cemetery. They’re the ones whose graves are covered with a wooden structure, once painted white, but now laid bare in patches, yet still standing. John died first, at the age of 77 or 78, followed a few years later by his beloved Annie. I wondered who built the structure that was clearly meant to protect their eternal resting places. Did Annie have it done when John died? Or was it one of their daughters or sons-in-law? If so, did they build it themselves, carefully placing each board, nailing them together in one last act of love and respect? And who chose the inscription carved beneath their names and years of birth and death? “By the grace of God we can meet again.”
There was the grave of John D. Sinclair, marked by an impressive stone raised above most of the others in the cemetery by a thick concrete pedestal. He had died at the young age of 17 on November 24, 1872, just twelve days after his birthday. Etched into the front of the base of his monument are words Time has almost erased and which my fingers could barely trace . . . except for the name of the monument company that was deeply carved into the side. “C. B. Eldred. So. Carrollton, KY.”
Close by were the resting places of Allis B. and John A. Gillis . . . and their infant daughter who died in 1890. Allis joined her in 1937 and John in 1938, although his year of death is rather oddly engraved and hard to read. That’s why I’m such good friends with Ancestry.com and FindAGrave.
At Germany Branch I found some of the most heart-breaking graves I’d come across that day. In a neat row were three small markers, each bearing a sad acknowledgement of the grave’s tiny occupant. Infant son of Taft and Bertha Perry . . . Infant Son of Taft and Bertha Perry . . . Infant Daughter of Taft and Bertha Perry. But no matter how much I looked, I never found Taft or Bertha, which is why I consulted Ancestry upon my return. Taft and Bertha Perry were buried at Memory Gardens of Hardin County, along with several of their other children—miles away from the ones they lost so long ago.
All in all, it was a good evening spent doing something I love, and I returned to work with a phone full of pictures and names and dates that would allow me to learn more about those whose acquaintance I had just made. And I’ll go back. Back with my tracing paper and my sidewalk chalk and a determination to have those barely legible stones reveal the last of their secrets. Secrets carved years ago at the request of those who were left behind.
About the author: Lisa Shackelford Thomas is a fourth generation member of a family that’s been in funeral service since 1926. She has been employed at Shackelford Funeral Directors in Savannah, Tennessee for over 40 years and currently serves as the manager there. Any opinions expressed here are hers and hers alone, and may or may not reflect the opinions of other Shackelford family members or staff.
