View from Concord Baptist Cemetery

My father is buried in a church cemetery nestled in the mountains of North Georgia, near Wilscot Gap in the Chattahoochee National Forest. His ancestors have lived in the region since before the Civil War. It’s a beautiful area, and I have spent many hours contemplating the vista of the mountains from his gravesite. There is something about the mountains that brings a sense of peace; something in a chaotic and constantly changing world that is relatively permanent.

Every year, on the second Sunday in June, the church has “decoration” and homecoming. People with a connection to the church come from far and wide to reunite with family and friends. The decoration aspect comes from the tradition of bringing flowers or other ornaments to decorate the graves of departed loved ones. There is the normal church service, but there are usually as many people milling about in the graveyard, myself included, as there are inside the sanctuary. The sound of gospel singing and preaching spills out into the churchyard in the summer morning. After the service, they have “dinner on the ground”. All the ladies of the church bring their best southern dishes, and everyone gathers around a long, concrete table where the culinary masterpieces are shared.

I’ve been interested in genealogy most of my adult life, and have built a sizable family tree from my research. Some of the branches go back to the 1600’s. It’s fascinating to find ancestors, and chart their paths across the country, uncovering their stories. Early in my efforts, I was attending decoration, and standing by our family plot, I shared some of my discoveries with my cousins. One of them spoke up and said something to the effect of: “I don’t care about any of that. Those people are dead and long gone.” I was a bit crest fallen, and a little confused, since we were standing in a cemetery for the purpose of remembering the dead.

I’ve thought about her comment many times over the years. Knowing your family history won’t pay the bills or put food on the table. Our ancestors are, indeed, dead and long gone. But they were alive, once upon a time. I think sometimes about the vast set of circumstances that had to occur for us to be here. If your parents hadn’t met, you wouldn’t have come to be. Extrapolate that over several generations. Your great-grandfather turns left instead of right, and he doesn’t bump into your great-grandmother at the state fair. No you.

I don’t think my cousin considered the fact that one day she will occupy the same position as our ancestors. Not that she will be pushing up daisies; we all face that reality. But will she be remembered? I think we all want to believe our time here mattered; want to believe we made a difference; want to believe we left a legacy. One thing genealogy has taught me is that leaving any sort of marker you were here is difficult. You have sixteen great-great grandparents. They were probably alive around a hundred years ago. Do you know any of their names? They lived, had adventures, fell in love, knew joy and heartbreak, saw their world change, perhaps hoped they would be remembered. When was the last time someone said their name? I don’t share my cousin’s sentiments. I choose to believe that those who came before us deserve to be remembered, and hope that maybe those to come will remember us. Otherwise, Macbeth spoke true:

Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,

Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,

To the last syllable of recorded time;

And all our yesterdays have lighted fools

The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!

Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player,

That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,

And then is heard no more. It is a tale

Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,

Signifying nothing.

Macbeth, by William Shakespeare