Where a Tree Grows

 

The Hardy Tree
London St. Pancras Tree

Literature of the Victorian era was strange. It was both romantic and humorous; it also dealt with serious social issues. I do not pretend to be an expert at all. What interests me, though, is the literature that I did not read until I was in college. This author is Thomas Hardy. 

Thomas Hardy strayed from the acceptable to eyebrow raising literature. During this era, women were chattel and sexuality was whispered about in closed rooms or closets. Hardy's work was exciting, just the ticket for a suppressed/oppressed/depressed
 society.  

His most known work is Tess d'Urbervilles, a book about a fallen woman. The real scandalous book Jude the Obscure was sold in brown paper bags.

One would think that this comprised the entirety of Thomas Hardy's talent. But, no. 

Thomas Hardy studied to be an architect, did so well that he won major prizes from the Royal Institute of British Architects. His success captured lots of attention and his work still is admired today. 

Here is the most amazing bit of his history: He was commissioned to excavate part of the graveyard of St. Pancras Old Church before its destruction to make room for the Midland Railway terminus. By golly, Hardy was creative to the point that he will be remembered by many just for this by many generations. 

Dating from 400 AD

Removing centuries of decayed bodies was deemed impossible, Hardy designed a way to honor them by collecting headstones and displaying them around an ash tree. The tree has since started growing into the headstones. The bodies were carefully and respectively removed.

Now, St. Pancras Old Church is a music venue in this 4th Century Church, which is just behind King's Cross station.

Lone Bellow playing on Jan. 22

Photo shoot on their "Mad Day Out"

Thomas Hardy was a man of many talents. Who knew?

Stones in a line

San Marcos, CA cemetery 

Surrounded by green

Beneath gnarled olive tree

Three stones.

Old stones—

1920s old.

“Baby” carved in the first stone
.

Below it, “Baby” in the second stone.

At the bottom of the line of three,

“Baby”

Old stones—

Lonely stones.

Forgotten stones.

"Baby."

Death Washes the Past

This was Janie C.--she traveled to Oregon in a covered wagon, hated it, came home. So I have been told.

It is said that death bestows gifts upon all.  I won’t try to name them, but the one I like is: Death washes the past and gives sanctity to the dead.

Julia, Nora, Bessie, and ?

At least, so I thought.  Recently I visited my favorite and remaining Aunt Vada in Macon, Missouri.  It was the first week of October, with all the beauty of fall giving glimpses of what colors were to come.  We visited non-stop, words filling the air.  Aunt Vada is a gifted writer, with a way of placing words exactly where they need to be. 

James W. Shive, died at age 3 years, 3 months, and 16 days.

One of our days involved traveling to my mother’s hometown, across the Mississippi River into Pike County, Illinois. 

We visited Crescent Heights Cemetery high on the bluffs in Pleasant Hill, IL, where Mom’s parents and relatives were buried.  Each time I have been there, I vowed that this place has the most incredible view of any cemetery.  

It is also the only place I can get cell phone coverage in the whole of Pike County.

We stood silently over Grandma and Grandpa’s graves, and then examined a family pillar on which Grandma’s side of the family were recorded.  I have seen that thing hundreds of times over my life there, but I never knew.  I never knew the stories that Aunt Vada shared with me.

My grandparents

Oh. Really?  No, not back then…  Those were my words and reactions as she touched each name and told the highlights of some very rowdy, randy, and raunchy ancestors. 

Martin Van Buren Shive, patriarch with the names of his children carved on all sides of the monument.  Lots of children.

Moonshiners, fornicators, adulterers, underhanded politicians, swindlers—they broke every sin listed in the Bible. 

I tell you, check out your ancestors while you still have relatives who know the whole story about them.  And, it might be a good idea to look at your own life, since someday you’ll be the ancestor about whom stories will be told. 

PhotoPrompt Monday: The Stone Angel

From Delores at "myfeatherednest"

Every Sunday without fail, Catherine Henner drove twenty-five miles to Hatfield Cemetery.  With a jam jar of garden flowers, Catherine found the headstone marked “Butchart” and the stone carved angel. 

Placing the flowers at the base, Catherine would pause to pray for this nameless baby buried beneath.  Then Catherine would walk over the grassy graves back to her car.

Catherine did this for years.

One day, another lady introduced herself as “Eleanor” and asked about her weekly trips, as she herself made Sunday pilgrimages to her mother’s grave and had seen Catherine.  “Is this little one from your family?”

Catherine pondered the question.  “Yes, I guess she is.”  Seeing Eleanor’s perplexed expression, Catherine explained.

“When my grandmother was dying, she told me about this tiny grave here in Hatfield, of her first-born baby girl who lived only an hour.  She made me promise to visit this grave every Sunday.” 

“So sad when a baby dies.  Your Grandmother Butchart must have loved this little girl very much.”  Eleanor called after Catherine as she walked away.

Catherine stopped and turned around.  “Butchart was her maiden name.  We never knew about this baby she had when she was fourteen, after she was raped by a cousin.” Catherine sighed.  “Yes, it is sad.”

Sorry to take such a dark turn here.  This was something I told about long ago, about something that happened before I was born.  A mother never forgets her baby, no matter what.

Please check out http://mybabyjohn.blogspot.com  from where the above photo came.