First Posted: 10/24/2014
In my childhood and a great part of adult life, I have had a fear of the subject of death. It sent shivers down my spine. The thought of visiting a cemetery was not on my list of things to do. Perhaps it was the early impressions of the customs affiliated with the waking of the dead that created those feelings.
The viewing of a deceased loved one was held in the home and lasted three days. There was much crying, sobbing and emotional outbursts. The women and close friends of the family held a vigil during the night so the deceased was not alone. The women sat beside the casket while the men stayed in the kitchen talking, eating and dozing.
I recall Mama leaving the house at nightfall dressed in black with a large woolen shawl draped over her head and shoulders to attend a vigil. It was the custom but, more importantly, it was their way of supporting and showing respect to the family. I, too, kept a vigil waiting for Mama to come home. It was usual at daybreak that she and her friend Bessie Marcino returned.
With maturity came understanding and acceptance of death. Acceptance came with deep pain, anguish, confrontation, denial and then peace. It was only when I realized that our bodies are human and subject to failing that healing began.
It was during my visits to the Cathedral Cemetery in Scranton that I became aware of the beauty of the grave stones and statues placed throughout the cemetery. There are at least 20 angels in various poses honoring the dead. Their beauty became a fascination, creating awareness that each stone was selected with great care and love and had a story to tell.
Each day while en route to work, I passed the Hollenback Cemetery on River Road in Wilkes-Barre and began to notice the unusual stones and crypts. When an evening tour of the cemetery was advertised, I called my good friend Ann Marie Conroy and asked if she would be interested in attending.
The night of the tour was damp with a cold uninvited breeze adding to the mystique. With flashlights in hand, we huddled closely together, walked, climbed hills, observed and listened as the tour guide related the history of the stones.
The night tour did not do it. Once again, I called Ann Marie and off we went in the daylight to view the magnificent Hollenback Cemetery. There is a veil of reverence and quietness that descends when walking through the hallowed grounds of a cemetery. It did not take my friends long to observe and state, “It’s dead in here.”
Our first stop was the burial site of “Orphan Train” children who are in graves topped with an iron marker with the letter H and a number. Many of the children were homeless and others were given up by their parents who were unable to provide for their care. It seems we have stepped back in time as we learn of the many Mexican children being transported illegally into our country. It makes one wonder what will become of them.
There is a monument clearly seen from River Road. It is a large ornate Celtic cross that stands over 10 feet high and is marked with the name Sharpe who, owner of the Glen Alden Coal Mine. The cross is surrounded by many stones bearing the same name. We took special notice of the marker reading “Mary Freeland” Born at Saratoga Lake, New York. Died In Pittston, PA 1855.
Driving through the cemetery can be a little scary for the roads are narrow, curvy and steep. Coming back down, there is a spot where one feels suspended in air. It is on the descent that a most remarkable stone is seen. A gentleman dressed in evening clothes, complete with cape and hat at his feet, sits weeping in front of a beautiful monument adorned with a vase draped with a graceful cloth. The name is worn away. There is no information regarding the gentleman so one assumes he is grief stricken and weeping for his lost love.
Upon leaving the Hollenback Cemetery, I asked Ann Marie if she would mind visiting the cemetery where I had seen Sara Taylor several years ago. My friend is a good sport and was up to the adventure.
A soft cold mist was falling as we began searching for the grave stone inscribed “Sara and Joshua Taylor.” She walked in one direction, I in the other, keeping within voice range. The mist had turned into a cold soft rain, wetting the grass and making it difficult to walk. There were many Taylors but not the one we came in quest of.
The sky had turned to almost charcoal with the rain falling harder and the wind blowing the damp leaves about. The coldness overtook my body as a figure approached. Thinking it was Ann Marie, I called out to her as she neared. I could not move as she drew closer. Then I recognized her and called, “Sara, Sara.” With outstretched hand, she walked toward me, still young and beautiful. I wanted to reach out to her but was unable to. I was immobilized frozen to the spot. She smiled and stood looking at me for a few moments and then she was gone.
Fully aware of the belting rain, I heard Ann Marie calling my name. I made my way to the car where she stood looking soggy and cold. The car doors were locked. Looking at me in disbelief she asked, “Don’t you know when to come in out of the rain?”
What could I say?
