Ghosts of Graveyards Past Read Free

wildflowers.
    Instead, an older gentleman strolled, a trash sack in one hand as he collected withered bouquets and pieces of ribbon shredded by the wind. “Good morning,” he said, one hand doffing his cap in a gentlemanly manner.
    Jenna smiled, hoisting her camera as she said, “These headstone engravings are beautiful. I couldn’t resist a few pictures.”
    “Yes, they are impressive,” the man agreed, his voice pleasant as he studied the ones she had just photographed. “Taking care of them is an honor, though my knees are getting a bit weak for the job.” This was said with a chuckle as he patted the worn patch in his corduroy trousers.
    “You work here, then?” Jenna asked. She wondered if he had an inkling of the wooded burial ground or if those rumors were mostly for the tourists.
    “Robert Kendrick,” he said, extending a hand. “I look after the place during the week. My retirement job, I call it.”
    Shaking his hand, she said, “Jenna Cade. I’m here researching a book—a history narrative about cemeteries in the Deep South.”
    “A young lass interested in history.” Humor sparked in the gentle gaze that studied her beneath the cap. “That is a rare thing these days.” With some difficulty, he bent to yank the stray weeds from the base of the stone with the lamb engraving.
    Stowing her camera back in the knapsack, Jenna crouched beside him. “Do you know how far back the stones date? I noticed some from the 1880s and wondered if there were any older than that.”
    “The oldest I know of are about ten years before that,” he said. “Some of them my own family. My great-great-uncle, Lucas Kendrick, traveled here from Georgia to make a homestead in the 1850s.”
    “Did he fight in the Civil War?” she asked, realizing she hadn’t seen any military emblems among the rows, although some men from the town must have enlisted.
    “Ah, not Lucas, A farming accident mangled one of his legs as a boy. Others served, though, and were killed in battle. Their resting place became a mass grave, with those who shared their fate that day.”
    Her fingers stopped plucking the weeds with the somber thought. The image was not a new one; she had learned of the battle conditions from text books and the history documentaries she viewed obsessively as a college student. It never failed to impress her with its sense of loneliness, the wounded and dying, stranded so far from a home they would never return to, even in burial.
    Her companion rose to his feet, extending a hand. “Don’t trouble yourself on my account, dear. The youngsters from the high school volunteer on the weekends and catch the odd weeds these blurry old eyes miss.”
    She dusted her hands, remembering the question she should have asked before. “I wonder if you could tell me…if you’ve ever heard stories of another cemetery in this place. An old one that hasn’t been taken care of by anybody in the town. Somewhere in the woods, I think, near the spring. “
    His look of confusion told her that he hadn’t, even before he answered. Though he did have some advice to offer as they moved slowly back through the stones. “I do believe there’s a local fellow around who does some gravestone carving by hand. If anyone could tell you about local gravesites, it might be him.”
    “I thought carving stones by hand was a lost art,” Jenna said. She had developed a special fondness for the craft in her recent travels, learning to distinguish the skill of the expert from the amateur. The beauty of the former could still amaze even beneath the thickest layers of grime.
    “It is a dying trade,” Robert agreed with a sad smile. “But I’ve seen this fellow’s work advertised in the paper sometimes. What’s his name again? I haven’t spoken to him in some time, but then, I don’t get around much.” He patted his stiff limb and gave a faint chuckle. “You might ask the funeral home—I’m sure they could give you his business