Thursday, April 19, 2012

Bonaventure Adventure with the Apple

I call my daughter "the apple who didn't fall too far" because she has many of the same drives and interests...if not more so... creative pursuit,  a love for art, photography and writing.

My little beauty is so very unique for a 6 year old. And she loves cemeteries. She calls them Gravestone Parks. I love that. She sees the park first... the beauty first... and I did not teach her this. So... I took her on her first road trip to shoot photos with me. She chose Bonaventure in Savannah, even though there were closer places. She said to me "I want to go to the most beautiful place." So we drove 3 1/2 hours. And she was amazing.

And she was amazed. She instantly fell in love with Bonaventure and could not stop swooning over everything she saw. My apple... she did not fall too far from this tree.

As I was shooting... A little hand popped up and started throwing flowers in... My sweet baby adorned Bonaventure for the rest of the day in many flowers. She found many other visiting photographers thanking her and shooting her flowers & feathers arranged on the angels and crosses... She charmed the world again.

Monday, November 14, 2011

Dear New Orleans,

This is a love letter to you.

I have been planning a trip for over 20 years to New Orleans. It was a place that I knew, deep inside me, was part of my soul, even having never been. It has been confirmed by a recent (finally!) visit. I am connected to this place somehow - I was before and am now so even more. I am sure of that.

I drove a straight shot down I-10 to the place that has been my siren's call, arriving to find all the stars were aligned just for me. Every little thing was perfect and seemed so just for my exact liking. It was like New Orleans opened it's big ol' arms to welcome me with the warmest of southern hugs. It wanted to show me how much I was welcome after so many years pining for it.

My room was a balcony room, overlooking a quaint French Quarter street - which I did not ask for nor pay for. I could see the horse drawn carriages clip-clopping by and hear the sound of the streets below. I could see the night lights of Louis Armstrong park by just turning my head to the right.

The weather was perfection - sunny and slightly chilly. The moon was bright and full. The French Quarter at night was nearly empty giving me a good view of it, plenty of walking room, a nearly empty Jackson Square, a seat right next to the flaming fountain at Pat O'Briens (hurricane!) and easy seating for food (red beans & rice!), and the famous Cafe du Monde (beignets!) It was surreal - like the city was mine.

On the photo excursions, I was lucky enough to see perfect skies, feel a softly kissing breeze as I drove through the Metairie cemetery. I stood in awe of the place - finding such beauty, strength and history there. And I talked to it like I always do - saying thanks to the place and its peoples. I believe - if you ask the world for something of a good heart - it replies. They gave me some lovely crows that played in my photos. I know it was a gift. The whole weekend was a gift to me. I believe this wholeheartedly.

Later I visited Cemetery One, making it an hour before it closed. Again, beautiful, crisp skies but now with hearty dramatic shadows. And Marie Laveau...in triplicate. It would not be complete without her.

The next day, I found myself walking the French Quarter in the early morning sun. It just glistens. Don't believe all those stories about how dirty it is. It is a sparkling jewel. As I walked looking at all the details, to the tip-tap of my boots, it was like someone was whispering to me - "Look at how that dormer leans" "Do you see that building - how askew it is? Original and like it was so long ago?" "Look at those lights - those doors." "Do you see that color and those markings?" A secret companion in my head telling me what to see. New Orleans. The French Quarter.

I tell this story of the place more than the cemeteries because it has touched a very deep place in me. Someone said to me "A friend told me last year that the city knows her children and calls some of us back again and again. It sounds like you're one of them." I have never heard anything so beautiful. I hope I am. I love this place so very much.

Monday, October 3, 2011

The Irony of Cemeteries


Where did I come from? How did I start doing this?

I have been asked often who the heck I am. It may seem to some like I have popped up out of nowhere. Those questions are both easy and difficult to answer.

We all have times in life that try us... that take us to our mortal limits. I had been experiencing those life altering & scarring times. I needed peace. There are a few things I know that have the power to bring me peace. But, one has a bit more powerful mojo.

Cemeteries. (and my camera!)

A habit that goes back to childhood. So, I went back to them for peace and meditation. When I am in a cemetery, I feel... sedate...quiet and soulful. I often feel like the place wants me there. (Now you think I am just crazy, right?) Wandering through them is both a history lesson and a walk with nature. I love reading the stones and consuming the details, because, when I do, it brings the people back to life. In these places of the dead, they are kept eternally alive. And these places of the dead regenerate me and my spirit, as well. I give back, respectfully, with my photos.

This has brought me to creating Historic Cemeteries, which I pour love into with all my being. I hope it shows. I don't know exactly why I love cemeteries or find them special.  I am just drawn to them. Everyone has their thing I suppose. I am glad I have mine.

Wednesday, August 3, 2011

A forgotten mystery in St. Nicholas Cemetery

When I stopped at St Nicholas Russian Cemetery in the town of Aurelius, New York while scouting for places to shoot, I never dreamed I'd find monuments with inlaid photos and so many of them. I had never seen photos on stones before and I had to do a double-take before I became giddy with excitement at this discovery.



Bendali Dacy, Matilda Dacy and Basil Attal.
A story has slowly developed from my photos. As I looked at the faces, the dates, I knew I wanted to know about them. Why did they die the same year? Why were they all buried together? How were they related? Then someone on my Facebook site said "Hmm... 1925... Short hair... long beads... How DID Matilda die, anyway?" and regarding Bendali - "They died the same year? Siblings, or spouses? I don't mean to keep thinking up racy endings for dead people, but here we have two handsome young people with the same surname who died the same year. My over-active writer's mind is all a-tingle." Mine too! I had a mystery to solve - a long forgotten one that sat quietly in this old cemetery with just these stones as clues, teasing...waiting... for someone to find it. That someone was me.

Timeline of a Tragedy
  • On November 4th, 1925 Matilda Dacy, 20 years old becomes ill.

  • November 5th - one day later, Basil Attal, aged 57, who lives on a floor below Miss Dacy, also becomes ill.
     
  • Matilda dies on Monday, November 9 - 4 days after becoming ill.

  • On Tuesday, November 10, two more become critically ill - Bendali (Benjamin) Dacy, 25, the brother of Matilda Dacy, and Bertha, 9, daughter of Basil Attal. They enter the hospital with the same symptoms as the others which resemble typhoid - pains in the stomach and high fevers. Late arising symptoms leave the doctor attending to them unable to diagnose their illness.

  • On Wednesday, November 11, 1925, Basil dies. An autopsy is ordered.

  • November 12. The autopsy is inconclusive, but they know it is not Typhoid. An exhumation of Matilda is considered.

  • On Sunday, November 15th, Bendali Dacy dies. Bertha Attal recovers slowly.
After a thorough investigation, it is found that the illness was caused from eating undercooked pork. All lived in the same building and had eaten the same sausage. Trichinosis.

Bendali and Matilda, brother and sister, children of Constantin Dacy (whose stone also had a photo) and Basil Attal,  dead from undercooked meat. All buried together as a family. I picture them - close-knit eastern European families from the building getting together as they had done a dozen times before - having a friendly, communal dinner...it turns out...their last.

*****************************************************************
Matilda DacyBendali Dacy

Basil Attal

**Special thanks to Old Fulton NY Postcards where I found all the newspapers. Without them there would be no story here.

Thursday, July 28, 2011

Finding Adelmor

A little family cemetery that I have passed thousands of times, it being one of those places you know so well you don't think about too much, finally got my notice after all. This plot sits next to a pretty green cornfield, on a typical central New York hill, and today, against a blue, blue sky. It is beautiful here.

I hate to say I took it for granted, but I stopped on a whim, without my good camera. I left my car running, expecting to be done quickly. Then, one stone that faced away, against the edge of the tree-line caught my eye. I peered around it and was surprised to see a very interesting marker. It had hands on it similar to the typical skyward pointing ones that were often used. But... there were three hands and they were not pointing. I read the inscription and knew something was different, but I didn't quite piece it together...yet.


The Ears of the Deaf Shall Be
Unstopped. Isaiah 35, Chap. 51
Selected by his Teacher
ADELMOR
Son of Wm. & L. Doty
Died at Washington Heights
N.Y. City October 15, 1864
In the 19th Year of His Age
We loved him.





Later, when posting it on my Facebook site. Jen, a distant cousin who works in deaf education, saw the photo and quickly posted "Hey, that's fingerspelling. It says God!" Revelation! This was a deaf person buried here. It made perfect sense and was the answer to the riddle I was trying to solve while studying it. The three hands were SIGNING!

And it gets better.. "Hey, there used to be a School for the deaf in washington Heights!" and "The New York Institution For The Instruction Of The Deaf And Dumb"

Within minutes Jen had answered all the riddles. Adelmor was a deaf student at the school where he died. His mother, Lucretia, it turns out was also a "deaf mute." Very unique to find this respect in a small rural area, from a time when they were called "deaf and dumb."

So, another day, another surprise. I find the best things when I am not looking.



Here are some links I found about them:

http://www.deafbiographies.com/showsnippet.php?id=6723
http://www.deafbiographies.com/pictures/doty_adelmor.php

http://books.google.com/books?id=PLoVAAAAIAAJ&pg=PA74&lpg=PA74&dq=Adelmar+doty&source=bl&ots=ZvXxsSeBqK&sig=NKcHs-c5FNaR1NoRmz4dfzyclQc&hl=en&ei=XbYxTq-9N5PqgQeNkqmcDQ&sa=X&oi=book_result&ct=result&resnum=6&ved=0CDcQ6AEwBQ#v=onepage&q=Adelmar%20doty&f=false

Wednesday, July 27, 2011

Crosman Cemetery: An accidental visit.


Well, actually there are quite a few of these on my roads traveled. I have, quite possibly, the worst sense of direction, but that lack of gift (or maybe it is the gift!) takes me to many unexpected and wonderful surprises.

While trying to get to one Meech Cemetery, I ended up on a beautiful, quiet rural road lined by huge maples and on this road sat one of those surprises I mentioned. Nestled next to a house and otherwise surrounded by miles of rolling farmland sat peaceful, quiet, little Crosman Cemetery - old and surprisingly well-kept. I was to find out why soon enough.


As my mini-me and I snapped photos, a man wandered from the house next door hollering "You gonna take all of them?" I laughed and replied "I'm going to try!" I explained to him what I do and he immediately relaxed and began talking.


 As my crafty mini-me surreptitiously took his photo, he told me stories. How when he moved here 40 years ago, he crawled hands and knees digging in the plot of weeds and high grasses next to his house, finding stones. How he and his sons repaired with cement, propped back up and cared for the them. (I saw cemented stones as the proof.)

He explained why, at the front of the yard, there, in a row of markers are a couple turned facing backwards from the road. A neighbor farmer had dumped the stones he had found somewhere on his own property at the cemetery, instead of preserving their original location. So, our guide, he uprighted them but turned them facing opposite the others because those people were not actually buried there.

He told me a story of a young man of 15 who died in 1933, how his classmates had raised money and had a huge procession for him to the cemetery ...yet there was no stone to be found. He was very interesting and I learned so much about the place from him... this self-appointed caretaker. He is moving in one month. And after 40 years, the place will once again have no one to care for it. He wondered aloud "Who will take care of this place after I go?" I dont know Mr. J. I don't know. But thank you for all the time you did it.

Monday, July 25, 2011

Art vs.History


I always want to shoot my photos with the artistic eye, but there are times when I go straight into preservation mode. I have to make a choice because of limited memory space and time. I feel that it is my job to make sure I get every single stone, clearly, head-on. Record it. Make sure it is not lost forever. Because, so many I see are falling to ruin. Who will do it if I don't?

If anyone ever wonders why I do this, my photos this week might help to explain..help them understand. If I don't do it...who will?


Photos taken at St. Patrick's Cemetery, Meech Cemetery, Cayuga County, NY

Friday, July 22, 2011

God's Acre, Charlotte & me.


When I was 7, there was a place at the end of the street and over a fence at the very back of a neighbor's yard. It was a place that the kids on my side of the fence went to meet the kids on the other side of the fence to play. That place was declared a park in 1974, and we used it as one. We played kick-the-can, red-light/green-light and basically ran all over this pretty little green space. This space was a cemetery.


God's Acre Cemetery with few stones left after many had been re-located to another local cemetery, was the place where my fascination began. And at this young age I was already trying to piece together the lives and deaths of the people who were in this place - that lived so long ago. I tried to comprehend what that long ago was like. Who were these people? What did they wear? How did they live? Imagination is a magical thing when you are a child and I had plenty. I was also confused and intrigued by the language used on the stones and read and re-read them, trying to understand why it was so different...eventually learning what it meant.

I remember reading inscriptions with friends. I remember us bringing big silver spoons to dig. I remember shining a flashlight into a crevice of one opening because we were sure we would see a body. I remember so many more stones.

Much of what was left has been taken back by nature. New, uniform, faceless, bland markers have been put in place in some effort to retain the people buried there. As I walked around I wanted to start digging with my silver spoon because I KNOW there are more there! Then came Charlotte...a little piece of slippery stone under my foot. I got down and dug with my hands, pulling grass away and moving sticky New York mud. And there she was...hiding under the grass. I painstakingly cleaned the fallen face with a hunk of grass and a stick. A worm squiggled across the stone and I could not help singing "The worms go in, the worms go out..." in my head and smiling. Charlotte would not be lost just yet.

Sunday, July 17, 2011

"Why do all you people like graves?

Well... I am sure we have heard similar questions. Some think it's creepy and weird. Others know it's about the history, the lives and for me, especially, the art. I have been drawn to all of this from a very young age...in an Anthropological sense, before I even knew that was what I was doing. (I will be doing a post about that tale soon.)

I find such stories. Lives lived that were all blips in time summed up on a stone by the form and art chosen or the words chosen...or the lack of words. Some are such mysteries. Some are so heart-rending. And some are a bit creepy.

They are all beautiful to me because they had a story. Empathy is my gift to them in exchange for my photos. I walk around and feel the happiness-es, the pains, the accomplishments and the injustices. I understand. These were people like us all with all the things we have felt. They were and did. They lost. It is very peaceful to me to walk among them. And it is odd...calm wraps me tightly in these places. It is like a thousand souls are holding my hand.

I hope I honor them.

Sunday, July 10, 2011

Tolomato Cemetery, St Augustine, FL.

Today, I hydroplaned my way to St. Augustine, FL through a series of bodacious little thunderstorms, all the while screaming at the sky, "CUT IT OUT! I HAVE SH*T TO DO!" I get a little worked up when something like weather threatens to mess up my photo shoots. But, I was doing it regardless, already eyeing the plastic grocery bag I use for trash in my car as a protector for my camera. Mother Nature generously took a time out just in time for my scheduled visit to...

Tolomato Cemetery
Tolomato, is the oldest planned cemetery in the State of Florida, with burials starting during the First Spanish Period (1565-1763). It was the site of a Franciscan mission built just outside of the old city walls as a home for Guale Indians from the Tolomato mission in Georgia. The mission chapel, circa 1726, was a simple wooden structure with a thatched roof and a remarkable four-story coquina bell-tower on the east façade. (ref http://www.tolomatocemetery.com/History.html)

It was closed in 1884 due to a misunderstanding of a Yellow Fever epidemic in St. Augustine at that time and the fear that the cemetery could somehow help to spread the illness. The cemetery is the property of the Cathedral-Basilica of St. Augustine.


Elizabeth
Much of this information was given to me by Elizabeth, a tiny, intelligent, gracious and amazing woman who met me at the gates and let me into her world of Tolomato. Her world, filled with this beautiful place she is helping to preserve, but also facts and knowledge of the cemetery, burials in general, and the city itself. If I knew a 10th of what she knew...

We sat in the tiny white chapel, while the heat of Florida summer blazed outside at 10:30 in the morning. She told me the preservation group had existed about one year only and that they had even done some geo-imaging around the chapel to see if they could find structural history. She told me the story of the St. Augustine Minorcans, a very important historical group who are buried primarily in Tolomato.

She told me that over 1000 burials had been recorded in the cemetery. But, that after it closed in 1884, some could not bear to be buried elsewhere, so fences were hopped, burials happened and city fines were paid.


She told me about a little door in an old visitors center in St. Augustine which was built atop a burial site. If you opened this little door you could see behind a glass window, skeletal remains. And that a popular bar was built on top of another subterranean burial place. That her sister, while with a prominent university, took photos years ago during an excavation of one of these burial places. She captured the remains being moved. She gave these slides to Elizabeth, who has these invaluable pieces of history in her own collection. I dared not ask to see them, though I was dying (graveyard junkie humor) of curiosity.

Elizabeth had so much to offer. Thank you to her for opening the doors to the interesting old Tolomato Cemetery, with its broken stones and crumbling encasements, that sits quietly on a side street very close to the mainstream Old St. Augustine tourist fervor, un-noticed unless at night when people are trying to see ghosts. This quiet old neighborhood cemetery sits in decay from years of going un-noticed. I am so glad to help it become noticed if I can to help the preservation effort and save this wonderful piece of history.

My photos will be posted soon. Visit Historic Cemeteries on Facebook to see more.

Sunday, July 3, 2011

Patrick Memorial Gardens, Gainesville, FL


These places are not just places of the dead.
Today, I visited another small cemetery. Located on SR 222 in Gainesville, FL, it is very easy to miss, leaving me driving past it then turning around and driving past it once again! It is decorated with the usual canopy of oaks and Spanish moss that still has the power to leave me standing in awe of it after living under it for 11 years. The grounds are somewhat young, having been established in 1920, and it is an active burial place. The light was just beautiful today.

As are many of the cemeteries here in the greater Gainesville vicinity, it is overgrown with little grounds-keeping, being primarily a typical, less-than-wealthy Southern graveyard. There are no intricate carvings, flowery scripts or extra words used here. There are rows and rows of flat cement burials. This is something I am still getting used to about Southern cemteries. In the Northeast, where I grew up, there are monuments and there is really long history. People spent money on those places! Many here have simply and sometimes roughly carved names and dates and nothing more. But, even though there is little care for the grounds and less than elaborate monuments, I cannot say there is little care for it's inhabitants. Almost everyone here had mementos. Flowers, teddy bears, angels and so much more. These people, even those that have been here a while, are in someone's thoughts.

I'm Sorry, Dead People.
There were many new burials, which I try to stay away from, out of respect. In getting to some of the older ones, I found myself saying secret apologies to the very recent that I had to maneuver around. It is just how I work in the cemeteries I visit - with respect and empathy. But, I have to admit that I was entranced by a few and did take photos.

Patrick Memorial Gardens provided me some great imagery, with its trees, fake flowers, cement slabs and mounds where burials have pushed upward, seemingly not made deep enough to stay under. One thing I have realized after visiting here, is that I am becoming increasingly interested in the mementos; the gifts of love and sorrow and memory that these places contain. They are touching. They are real. They come from real emotion that belongs to real people. These places are not just places of the dead.

Friday, July 1, 2011

Well. Here it goes.

This is my first attempt at blogging about my graveyard obsession. It started young. That story will come soon. For now, bear with me as I build this site. Web sites tend to be my playground, much like the cemeteries I visit.  You will see things change and develop. I hope I can make it interesting.

Thanks for coming.

- Just one Graveyard Chick.