Phillip Tutor: Walking among the graves
I often wonder about little Ida Mayes. She was born in 1871, midway through the year's second month. She died in the early days of the winter of 1880. She was 9. Her headstone, still anchored deep in the Alabama soil, carries an inscription appropriate for any child who dies, regardless of the century in which they lived. "Suffer little children to come unto me" Little Ida Mayes, a child of Alabama, has been dead for nearly 128 What happened to Ida? Why did she die? What was she like? Did she have any brothers and sisters? Her family likely lived in Calhoun County, but where? Did her father fight in the war? If prodded, professional geneologists surely could answer some of those questions. Trust me; I'm no pro at family trees and death records. I can trace my ancestors back all of about two generations, which shows how much I know about seeking out one's roots. That hobby can wait for another decade. Nevertheless, I enjoy old cemeteries and the stories they hold, and this obscure patch of land shaded by large pines is one of my favorite places to go stumping for tales of yesteryear in Calhoun County. It's a nerdy game of I wonder: Who was that person? Why did they live near this pinprick on the county's map? If they could return for a chat, what stories could they tell? What surprises would they hold? On most, we'll never know. The last time I drove out to Ida's cemetery — as usual, I ran across it while trying to find something else at Anniston's former military base — I looked around to see what other stories were there. It was quiet, a bit windy, pine needles tumbling from the trees and down to my feet. All around, the cemetery's markers sat haphazardly, no order, no organization, shaped in various sizes and designs. Uniformity doesn't exist. Some are single graves. Others are bound by family relations: Husbands and wives, parents and children. A handful of the aged, decaying markers are unreadable to the untrained. One or two are broken, covered partly by the earth around. Everything seems deserted, almost forgotten. The gravestone of Robert Lee Lumpkin, born just a few months before Ida, says "Father" on top. Inches away rest the graves of Robert's children, Ernest C. and Rosie L., both of whom died in the late 1890s. Ernest lived a few months. Rosie lived only 15 days. Nearby, more graves, more children taken early in life. N.S. Kilgore, who died before his second birthday in 1880. Earnest Reidinger, who passed away less than three months after he was born. Other graves of children still petite enough to tug at their mother's apron are unmarked and anonymous, with rocks outlining where they were laid to rest. I wonder what happened to them. Across the way, closer to the McClellan street, are at least four Confederate veterans, their foot stones carrying the noticeable "CSA" initials. Richard Bonds was a private in the 51st Alabama infantry. David Reaves was a private in the 30th Alabama infantry. Emory G. Reaves was a private in the 3rd Alabama cavalry, as was William McGuire Reaves. None died in the war, but were they brothers? Surely so. It would be enlightening to know. Keep going along the pines and what you see are the graves of a small segment of Calhoun County's past, before the Army made this home. Some are Alabamians born before Anniston's inception, when Oxford was a rail stop to the south, Jacksonville was the county's established seat and settled communities such as White Plains existed in different corners of the county. There are aged cemeteries here in our midst, some with graves much older than the one where little Ida Mayes rests. But within each are hidden stories and glimpses of our county's past, valuable all. Sometimes we need to tiptoe through the pine cones to find them. It's a path worth taking. |
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