You, my friend, create incredible images with your vivid use of words. No camera needed.
>>You, my friend, create incredible images with your vivid use of words. No camera needed.
Thank you. Sincerely. I love word pictures. Thinking of cemeteries reminds me of something in the intro to my book on Henry Livingston.
“The Poughkeepsie Holiday Inn Express is located directly across Route 9 from the Poughkeepsie Rural Cemetery. Normally, this wouldn’t be one of the qualities I’d look for in a hotel, except that this particular cemetery used to be the farm of Henry’s father, another Henry, and it’s where the Livingston clan is buried. Their section is located far from the entrance and shielded from the rest of the cemetery by a stand of tall trees. There, in a small, secluded plot of land, march the gravestones of over sixty of my ancestors, aunts, uncles and cousins.
“When you stand in any church where your ancestors once worshiped, you can almost feel those long dead men and women there beside you. Marriages, baptisms and funerals - the highs and lows of their lives - all witnessed and preserved by the walls and stained glass windows of that place. Sit quietly, and you can hear the murmur of their laughter and the sobs of their pain.
“A graveyard is different. There are no walls to hold in the voices of the mourners and their voices would be, anyway, blown away by the wind. And so you’re left to listen, instead, to each single voice beneath each separate stone. It was there at his grave, introducing myself, that my relationship with Henry Livingston really began.”