Thoughts on Visiting an Old Cemetery in Apalachicola, Florida

Cemeteries, places of memory and history, offer connections between the quick and the dead. Most of the time, they connect people across the generations, within generations much of the time, and sometimes, when children go to rest in these places before their parents, across the generations in what we see as a wrenching disturbance of the natural order.

In older cemeteries, I sense time differently. I'm aware of the past, reminded (memento mori) of the way of all flesh, and the yearning for lasting memory laid down there along with the remains of people who were loved. All in all, things get into a longer perspective that reflects more of the human experience. I feel connected to these earlier generations, and understand myself as a part of something larger by way of that connection. At the same time, I understand my own life as a small contributor to the enormous variety in the human condition. That understanding, I think, nurtures a healthy sort of humility.

In the photo above, the stone on the right, erected in 1891 for Gustave Peterson, born in 1858 in Kalmar, Sweden, a seaport like Apalachicola, but on the much colder Baltic sea, bears on one side this poignant verse:

Parted friends again may meet,

From the toils of nature free

Crowned with mercy, oh how sweet

Will eternal friendship be.

Mr. Peterson's inscription differs from others, in that eternity is assumed, but no mention is made of heaven, God, Jesus, or angels. Just friends. Contrast it with something more conventional for the time:

God in his wisdom has recalled
The boon that love had given
And though the body molders here
The soul is safe in heaven.
(This is from the stone for the child Louisa Bruni, seen below.)

The joys of human fellowship must have been close to Gustave Peterson's heart, as they are with most of us. The comfort and appeal of "eternal friendship" could soothe a believing heart. Perhaps his religious views differed in emphasis from some of his contemporaries, and we see a bit of his distinctiveness in the words carved in his memory.

Few recent graves occupy space in this cemetery. But one speaks of the desire of a 20th century warrior, a veteran of the Korean war who died in 2008, to rest next to a 19th century ancestor who was a Confederate soldier.

The earlier stone identifies one Eugene Matthews, Co. B, 1st Fla. Inf., C.S.A. Some of the Confederate veterans interred here fought in the infamous PIckett's charge at Gettysbug. Was Eugene one of them? We don't know. His stone doesn't even give his dates--apparently the military affiliation defined him sufficiently for those who chose the stone, possibly with instructions from the deceased. Both of these combat vets have American flags by their monuments--no stars and bars for the Confederate soldier. I wonder when John S. Matthews made his decision to be buried next to his 19th century kinsman.

In another affecting story, two children, their stone tablets joined, lie side by side, having drowned together.

Louisa Bruni, nine years old, and Frank Messina, eight years old. Were they cousins? Playmates? The parents' names appear below the children's--they weren't siblings. Yet the joint monument points to a close relationship. Were they swimming? Victims of a capsized boat?

Other old monuments, like the one above, give the cause of death, and other information by way of words or symbols.

Mr. Hoyle, born in England, died of cholera in 1852, at the age of 47. People, some of them children, in poorer parts of our world, still die of cholera. Frequently. The anchor, its line entwining it, speaks of a man who went to sea. But like other monuments, it raises questions. Was he a deep-water sailor, or, like so many in this town, a fisherman, or an oysterman?


The Spanish moss in the live oaks helps set a mood, something soft that tosses in the breeze gliding over the firmness of the stones. Stones, especially these here, are chosen for their durability. They're hard, and they resist weathering. But even stone monuments, along with the names, and the other words carved there that speak of death and eternity, fade slowly over the decades and over the centuries.  

Other stories here also move the heart. One stone speaks of a man in his early thirties, buried with his 15-month old daughter. Both of them died on the same day. Some local wave of influenza, maybe. More questions.

So, in a place of rest and peace, stones speak of what people did in their lives, who they valued, and how their lives ended. Cemeteries provide outlines of the universal human story. Some memories may be painful, but each of us knows our own life's continuity through the great gift of memory. And history is a form of memory, one that can be deeply engaging. Old stories, and even fragments of old stories, offer memory of events that took place before we were born. We need that kind of memory to know where we came from, because that knowledge helps us understand who we are.