Ancestry Magazine

In my mind, there’s only one thing nicer than a cemetery—a cemetery decorated for Memorial Day.

In my mind, there’s only one thing nicer than a cemetery—a cemetery decorated for Memorial Day.

In high spirits, I drove into the entrance of an Iowa cemetery on Memorial Day, intent on adorning my ancestors’ graves. The grounds were colorfully decorated with all manner of flowers, flourishes, and flags. Carefully rounding the tiny lanes, I headed toward the far south section. I slowed the car, staring ahead, as an unfamiliar scene registered in my consciousness. An undulating expanse of fresh dirt covered the grass behind the oak tree, under which rests four of my family members. Rendered temporarily dumb, I finally uttered, “Where are my tombstones?”

In this particular family burial plot rests my great-great-aunt Marilla Richardson; her husband William, a Civil War Veteran; their spinster daughter May; and George Murray. I have yet to ascertain how George relates to my family. Mysteriously, he lies next to May with an identical headstone.

Surveying the scene on foot, it became apparent that heavy equipment had been driven along a large open expanse between the old and new sections of the cemetery, leaving in its wake a field of fresh soil. I rushed behind the tree, which for a century had protectively sheltered my relatives, and focused my eyes on a stack of objects. All four headstones lay shorn off their bases, one on top of another. Marilla and William’s were tolerably even at the base, albeit having visibly suffered from forcible removal. But May’s and George’s stones were jagged and inches of stone had been lost.

I arranged floral decorations at the sorry scene, then walked through the cemetery looking for a caretaker. A few fellow visitors glanced my way, taking note of my agitated state. Out of the corner of my eye, I glimpsed a squad car coming down the lane. Without hesitation, I ran toward the car, waving my arms wildly. At first the officer merely waved back politely. Then, realizing that he’d walked right into the line of duty, he stopped. I explained my dilemma as if it were a life or death situation, which, of course, it was.

Hesitating, he removed his sunglasses, while suppressing a smile, and answered, “Well, I be lieve they’re filling in the ditch back there.”

“But my tombstones have been removed!” I cried.

He replied that the caretaker didn’t work on weekends; I would need to call City Hall after the holiday. Acquiescently, I returned to the plot to digitally document the sacrilege.

On Tuesday morning, I phoned City Hall. The clerk explained that while she was aware work was taking place at the cemetery, it was not under city jurisdiction. She recommended I phone the cemetery board president. I called immediately.

The president listened to my story and sighed. “I had better see this for myself,” she said.

A few hours later, after inspecting the scene and speaking with the caretaker, she relayed the details to me.

The board had determined that a ditch required filling at the edge of the old section. They hired a contractor who advised that the ditch project alone would not suffice; the entire avenue required fresh landscaping as well. Unfortunately, my family’s stones were in the middle of the project. Temporary removal was necessary to level the ground and reseed. The cemetery board president promised me that the stones would be expertly replaced upon new bases.

I contacted the caretaker, who promised to let me know when the workers intended to reset the stones. I implored him to allow me to be present when the stones were reset, and he made arrangements to notify me the day prior. Weeks of delays followed. Too hot. Too wet. Mechanical problems. I waited, making the fifty-mile trip twice to check the progress myself. I worried that, even with all my efforts, I wouldn’t be apprised of the setting date.

One evening in late July, a voice mail message confirmed my fears: “Ms. Richardson, your stones were reset yesterday. Come see them when you can. We think you’ll be pleased.” Gritting my teeth, I drove to the cemetery the following morning.

Much to m y relief, the stones stood even and upright on new bases. All the stones had been scrubbed and new grass was growing, which seemed like nature’s way of restoring the intrusion of man.

A relative to whom I related my story rightly remarked: “You aren’t safe, even when you’re dead.”

Unless, of course, you have a genealogist for a grandniece, and she’s watching over you, I thought.

Rest in peace, Marilla.

Debra J. Richardson is a Woburn, Massachusetts Richardson descendant. A native Minnesotan, she refers to herself as “A Yankee in King Olaf’s Court.”