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May 29, 2005 Almost every week Nina (my dog) and I walk to the Ninth Street Cemetery not far from our home. Nina loves it. She gets the freedom of running that she doesn’t get in our little fenced in yard at home. I always take the scooper with me just in case Nina makes an unwanted deposit (she rarely does). This article isn’t about Nina, however, it’s about the cemetery. Located in the older part of town across from empty churches, an empty lumberyard, the cemetery is a an orphan. It’s too bad really. When I was a youngster, Pat, Bobby, Judy, and I would play hide-and-go-seek in the old graveyard. Back then, the gravestones were all upright, flags were waving for the fallen heroes, and the grass was kempt. Today, vandals have overturned almost every stone, beer bottles thrown in places, and the grass is mowed only on occasion. I think it’s a pity. Most of the interned were soldiers during the War of 1812, the Mexican-American War, and the Civil War. Vandals obviously don’t care what sacrifices these men and women made. Vandals, usually school-aged kids, care only for the moment. Sadly, the town doesn’t seem to care. There’s no fence surrounding the old historical site to keep vandals out and the police seldom patrol the area. What once was the cornerstone of our town’s history, has become just another collection point for social anomalies and deviants. There is a lack of respect in our town, respect for the living and respect for the dead. Interestingly, there are two churches near the cemetery still open with people filling the pews every Sunday morning. Some very influential people attend both of these churches. Yet, the cemetery sits in silence, injured though it is, waiting for someone to heal its wounds. No one ever does. The dead are dead. Their bullet holes, shrapnel wounds, amputated appendages have been forgotten by our most influential citizens, our middle class, and our poor. I see an occasional flower, an occasional flag, but nothing else. It’s sprawling chestnut trees, maples, walnuts, and sycamores weep because of the indifference of its keepers.
On Sunday morning, I cry as I sit on an old stump nearly rotted. Nina looks at me curiously and sniffs my face. She doesn’t want to think about the dead I am sure. After all, she’s a dog. But, those that drive by this old historical site are humans.
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