I love strolling in old cemeteries. I suppose this shouldn’t be a surprise to anyone – I am, after all, a mystery writer, and I write a character who used to be a tour guide in Savannah graveyards – but my appreciation is occasionally met with a shudder from others.
Well, yes . . . and no. Places of the dead
certainly, but for the living without a doubt. Graveyards are the collective
scrapbook of a community – a family, a church, a town – and Savannah’s
Bonaventure Cemetery is an especially gorgeous and intricate one.
First a plantation, Bonaventure began
welcoming the dead into its marshy arms in the early 1800s. Situated at the
bend of the Wilmington River, Bonaventure blends the manmade and the natural in
a shifting intermingle, as tidal as the waters that run along its Eastern
borders. The landscape is mostly silent – bird calls, rustling leaves, a high
soft breeze winding through the Spanish moss and live oak branches – but
occasionally the whine of an outboard motor will piece the quiet. Or a tour bus
will rumble through. Or even – because this is still a working cemetery – a
line of cars with their headlights on, laying a loved one to rest, adding
another soul and another story to the Bonaventure fold.
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There’s the resting place of Gracie Watson,
marked with tenderly carved sculpture of the little girl who died at age seven.
Her grave is protected by a wrought iron fence, saving the stone from the
further erosion of human hands. Rain and the salt air have had their way, and
so I imagine the features are not as sharply defined as they once were. I think
it’s beautiful this way, worked upon by the slow hand of time, which is as
tender and delicate as an artist’s touch.
There’s also the gravesite of Conrad Aiken,
a one of the finest American poets and a lover of Savannah. His grave is a
bench—the legend goes, he wanted to provide a place for visitors to stop, rest
and have a martini with him – engraved with two telling phrases: “GIVE MY LOVE
TO THE WORLD” and “COSMOS MARINER DESTINATION UNKNOWN.”
Bonaventure is – and perhaps this is why I
love all cemeteries so – a place of stories. Some are long and raveling. Some read
“The End” all too soon. Some are mysteries, marked only by a stone that says
“Mother” or “Baby Boy.” But all invite us to participate in the telling. All
ask us, the living, to continue the tale.
*If you’d like to see more of my photos from
Bonaventure Cemetery, you can visit my Pinterest board: https://www.pinterest.com/tinawh/bonaventure-cemetery/
* This post originally appeared on Booklover's Bench.
* This post originally appeared on Booklover's Bench.