Today, on the way back from a journey that was work related, I turned left on a road that had an alluring curve.
"Come, my friend," it seemed to say. "I have a story to tell." I followed the road as it climbed a hill, and led to an old park. An playground that was new years ago sat unoccupied on this cold winter day. A baseball field from decades ago covered the knob of the hill, the backstop partially vine covered, and the vines punished by an early winter blast. As I drove to the top of the hill, hints of a story unfolded. Down the left field line was an old graveyard, it's gate tall and menacing--staking it's claim.
I took a picture as it seemed to sneer at me. I drove on, circling the baseball field, and to my wonder another cemetery was in foul territory on the right field side.
Why were there two burial grounds within 150 yards? Was one for people of color during the days of segregation? Was one for veterans of foreign wars? The grave markers no doubt could have given some clues, but a sharp biting wind kept me in my car as I took a few pictures.
I imagined a noble man buried below the sturdy oak, it's boughs waving, proudly holding memories from lives past.
A parting picture caught the sun bestowing honor to the remains of those resting below.
Another trip here on a warmer day is in store.
"Come, my friend," it seemed to say. "I have a story to tell." I followed the road as it climbed a hill, and led to an old park. An playground that was new years ago sat unoccupied on this cold winter day. A baseball field from decades ago covered the knob of the hill, the backstop partially vine covered, and the vines punished by an early winter blast. As I drove to the top of the hill, hints of a story unfolded. Down the left field line was an old graveyard, it's gate tall and menacing--staking it's claim.
I took a picture as it seemed to sneer at me. I drove on, circling the baseball field, and to my wonder another cemetery was in foul territory on the right field side.
Why were there two burial grounds within 150 yards? Was one for people of color during the days of segregation? Was one for veterans of foreign wars? The grave markers no doubt could have given some clues, but a sharp biting wind kept me in my car as I took a few pictures.
I imagined a noble man buried below the sturdy oak, it's boughs waving, proudly holding memories from lives past.
A parting picture caught the sun bestowing honor to the remains of those resting below.Another trip here on a warmer day is in store.
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