Mission Burial Park, San Antonio

Posted on January 29, 2025 by admin

If a cemetery is going to have “park” in its name, “burial” is a refreshingly non-euphemistic adjective to go with it. Such as at Mission Burial Park, San Antonio, at least at the front entrance.

The place is also called Mission Burial Park South, because it is one of a number of cemeteries under the brand Mission Park, which is specific to San Antonio (where a lot of things are called “Mission”). The brand also includes local funeral homes and funeral chapels. I haven’t seen any of the other places, but South has to be the flagship and, in fact, it is very near both Mission San Jose and Mission San Juan Capistrano.

Replete with the kinds of names you’d expect in South Texas.

I knew a Zuehl in high school.

And maybe a name or two you wouldn’t expect. People get around.

A nice variety of sizes and angles when it comes to stones: one mark of an aesthetic cemetery. Even including flat stones. Just not too many.

That last one, Luby, has to be the restaurant family. Luby’s is owned by other investors these days. Once a sizeable chain, the company also owned other brands (for a while, Cheeseburger in Paradise). I had heard Luby’s was about to close all together a few years ago, but that didn’t happen, and there is still a fair residue of them in Texas. They’re probably not the cafeteria I remember from my youth, one of the mother’s go-to restaurants, but in the casual dining slot in our time.

Another notable South Texas family, the Steves.

They didn’t opt for a mausoleum, but others did.

What’s a mausoleum without stone Sphinx-like creatures guarding it?

An active cemetery still.

A particularly sad one, this.

We hadn’t planned to come to Mission Burial Park. After visiting Hot Wells, I fiddled with Google Maps and decided we needed to visit the nearby Espada Dam, an 18th-century relic of the Spanish presence in the area. Now part of the San Antonio Missions National Historical Park, “the dam diverted water from the San Antonio river and forced it into hand dug earthen ditches that carried the water to farms around the missions,” the NPS says. “Eventually emptying back into the San Antonio River [sic].”

The San Antonio River, which is the size of a largish creek in this part of Bexar County, flows near Hot Wells. Downstream maybe a half mile is the dam. But I made a wrong turn, and we found ourselves at the cemetery, which instantly looked intriguing.

The San Antonio River forms one boundary of the cemetery.

I think this is a back view of the dam from the cemetery.

Didn’t make it for a front view, which apparently can be seen from a small park across the river. Maybe next time. As for the excellent cemetery we got to see, that was another bit of serendipity on the road.

Scatterings

Posted on January 23, 2025 by admin

Texas – they say, or was it in a song? – is full of wide open spaces. “The Wide Open Spaces of Texas” must have been a lesser-known Western swing hit. Or not. The [Dixie] Chicks did one called “Wide Open Spaces,” which is clearly about coming of age and leaving home, and vaguely the West, but not as specific as Texas.

You don’t have to drive very far from urban and suburban Texas to find the spaces. Head south on US 281, which can be picked up in the urban-suburban conglomeration that is the northern half of Bexar County. The further south you go on that road, which becomes I-37, the more sparse the population and buildings become. Soon you pass into Atascosa County.

The increasingly arid land flattens out and the brush is pretty thick, browns and yellows and grays, maybe a less wild version of the thorny Nueces Strip further south. Or something like the Hill Country, but no hills, and few well-to-do city dwellers or retirees taking up residence there. Many Atascosa County residents are of the bovine sort, though I didn’t see that many cattle from the road, as one does sometimes. But they’re out there, the 2022 Census of Agriculture tells me: more than 65,000 head in the county that year, which sounds like a lot, but this is Texas. Plenty of counties have that many and many more.

A scattering of crops is also raised in the county, but for real economic action there’s the service industry, like in most places, and some oil. A scattering of pumpjacks is visible from the highway. That’s Atascosa County, a scattering of this and that. But with a family connection: my mother spent part of her formative years in Jourdanton, the county seat, and periodically even as late as the 1990s (I think), she would visit old friends there. I went with her sometimes in the ’70s.

From San Antonio, I-37 continues southeast through Atascosa, Live Oak and Jim Wells counties, to Nueces County, whose seat is Corpus. A few towns tick by, but not many: Campbellton, Whitsett, Swinney Switch (a fun name), Mathis, with slightly larger burgs just beyond the immediate highway: Three Rivers, George West, Sandia.

Choke Canyon State Park is some miles to the west of the road, and its reservoir is not visible, except in signage. But looking at an online review of the park, it’s clear that while the territory may be arid, not too much to support all kinds of fauna. Invisible from 80 mph, but the animals are out there, getting by.

“Stayed 2 days in a cabin,” houstonphotojourney says [all sic]. “Saw tons of javelinas and their babies, white tailed deer, gorgeous green jays were all over the park, wild turkeys, vermillion flycatchers, orange crowned warblers, ladder backed woodpeckers, downy woodpeckers, crested caracara, a wilson’s snipe, common ground doves, golden fronted woodpeckers, western meadowlarks, american coots, long billed thrashers, killdeer, verdin, had regular evening bunny visitors.”

We found some wide open spaces at a cemetery in Corpus Christi last week – at least in an urban context. Or barely urban, since the neighborhood around the cemeteries features a scattering of houses (that word again), a lot of vacant lots, darkened landscape and a large part of the city’s petrochemical industry in the near distance, toward Nueces Bay.

A graveyard that humanity is forgetting. Guess that is the fate of the majority of all graveyards so far. A scattering of stones are upright and legible, despite that.

Most are not.

Entire family plots are now anonymous, at least to casual visitors like my brothers and I.

There isn’t any signage to identify the cemetery that I could see. It was just some city blocks, if you can call them that, cobbled together as a burial ground, but it’s been a long time since any of the graves were new.

I knew from reading that a place called Bayview Cemetery was the historic cemetery to visit in Corpus. Early settlers are there, along with participants of the war with Mexico, marked by a fair number of standing stones, at least to judge by the photos. The kind of place at which the local historical society conducts periodic tours.

The cemetery we’d gone to was called Bayview on the electronic map. Turns out the historic one is called Old Bayview on the same map, but simply Baywiew in some of the other materials on line. Anyway, to get to the historic Bayview from the less picturesque Bayview, we had to deal with this knot of highways a bit to the east. If you’re going to be a big city in Texas, or at least aspire to be one, you need flyover expressways, and lots of ’em.

We didn’t make it. Instead of going to the cemetery, I managed to get in the lane to crosses the Harbor Bridge to North Beach, where we planned to eat anyway. Later, as we started on the way home, visiting the historic cemetery was again flummoxed by a wrong lane in the tangled overpasses. In cases like that, I take it as a sign, or at least a suggestion, to visit that place some other time.

At one point, I did stop across the street to check Google Maps and we were treated to a view of Corpus Christi Electric Co.

If that doesn’t say built during the 1960s, I don’t know what does. And so it was: 1965. Originally the Lew Williams Chevrolet Dealership, designed by Donnelly and Spear, with Wallace R. Wilkerson as structural engineer – something worth noting for a structure like this.

“Prominently sited at the intersection of two main thoroughfares, the circular former auto showroom links a set of eight hyperbolic paraboloids that dynamically thrust upward at each of their pointed ends,” says the Society of Architectural Historians. “At the time, the showroom’s 185-foot clear interior span was considered as the largest to be erected in concrete in the United States.”

Thursday Leftovers

Posted on November 21, 2024 by admin

Sure enough, a dusting of snow stuck overnight. It won’t last, but what does?

Regards for Thanksgiving. Back to posting around December 1, which can claim to be the start of winter, in as much as a single day can.

The figgy pudding Yuriko made on Sunday. Much of it is gone now, but Ann will be able to sample it when she’s back for the holiday. Bet she’ll be glad for the opportunity.

A stone at Graceland Cemetery last Sunday.

No name on it, except “Asano,” which I take to mean this is a work of Hiroyuki Asano, not a stone memorializing him, since he still seems to be alive. Maybe he’s planning ahead for his presence in Graceland, which I believe in the undertaker biz would count as “preneed.” (Pre-need?)

Or it could be a memorial for someone who didn’t want their name on it. That’s unusual, but not unknown: Erma Bombeck’s boulder in Dayton comes to mind. Or, the person who commissioned Asano’s piece at Graceland is also still alive, details to be added later.

John Welborn Root, Chicago architect (d. 1891). Forgot to post him.

In my efforts to see stones for well-known people, I also almost forgot to take a look at more ordinary folk. Almost, but not quite.

FamilySearch tells me (footnote numbers removed; but there were eight of them for a single paragraph) about the 161 Depot Brigade. It also features the unit patch, which is to the right.

Secretary of War Newton Baker authorized Major General Samuel Sturgis to organize the 161 Depot Brigade, an element of the 87th Division (National Army). It was later detached and placed directly under Camp Pike, Arkansas, as an independent unit.

The brigade filled two purposes: one was to train replacements for the American Expeditionary Forces (AEF); the other was to act as a receiving unit for men sent to camps by local draft boards. During most of 1918, the brigade was commanded by Brigadier General Frederick B. Shaw.

A different sort of memorial, in a different place – a nearby park that we visit often. We’d noticed Jake “The Snake” Popp’s bench before. Looks like people who remember The Snake fondly decorated his bench for the fall.

In the same park, a lamppost, ready to do its job.

On the post, a sign says it is a product of Traditional Concrete Inc., of Menomonee Falls, Wisconsin. Guess that name stresses the long-lasting — and traditional — material that goes into the company’s product, which is fine. But if I started a lamppost company, it would be Fiat Lux Inc.

Graceland Cemetery: The Stones

Posted on November 19, 2024 by admin

No point in burying the lead (haw, haw): among all the memorials at Graceland Cemetery in Chicago, Dexter Graves’ stone surely gets the most attention. For one thing, it stands out at a distance.

Safe to say that the memorial, especially a haunting bronze figure called “Eternal Silence,” is better known than Dexter Graves himself. Graves was a Chicago pioneer, settling in the area in 1833, when the place was little more than a marshy spot near the Chicago River. He died in 1845, with reinternment and the memorial coming much later at the behest of an elderly son of his, who is buried there too – in 1909, by which time Chicago was a vast metropolis that probably would have astonished Graves.

Lorado Taft created the sculpture, and while I made images of it standing alone, soon a small group of French tourists came by for a look, including posing with it for pictures. Since the work is near the cemetery’s only entrance, I came back again before I left for another look, and that time an American couple, about my age, were there. The woman asked me whether I’d also seen “Fountain of Time” down in the Hyde Park neighborhood. Happily, I was able to tell her I had, including the quote that goes with it, “Time stays, we go.”

I also recommended “The Eternal Indian,” out in Ogle County, which she said she hadn’t seen. I forgot to mention – it would have been showing off anyway – seeing his “Alma Mater” in Champaign, the memorial he worked on in Mount Carroll, Illinois, his sculptures in the Fern Room of the Garfield Park Conservatory or the Fountain of the Great Lakes at the Art Institute. That’s just a scattering. To see more of Taft’s work, you have to pay attention elsewhere in Illinois, Indiana, Kentucky (in Paducah, I wasn’t paying attention), Washington, DC, Colorado, Michigan, Louisiana, Pennsylvania, Kansas and probably other places.

Also, you can see “The Crusader,” which is Graceland, marking the grave of Victor Lawson (d. 1925), one-time publisher of the Chicago Daily News. Lorado Taft did that too, though later in his career, 1931.

When was the last time a newspaper crusaded about anything? Not recently, private equity owners don’t like it.

Assorted business tycoons, moguls and robber barons repose in Graceland, without a cent to their names these days. But in their day, they or their immediate heirs had big bucks to spend on big memorials. None is bigger than retailer and hotelier Potter Palmer (d. 1902).

That kind of dough will also buy you a picturesque waterfront location.

I have to say the Palmer tomb is quite a presence, standing out even among many other large tombs, of which there are many. Such as that for George Pullman.

The pyramid of 19th-century beermaker Peter Schoenhofen.

Others.

The cemetery’s stone- and metalwork curls and is otherwise shaped in ways remarkable to see. How can these hard materials be persuaded to take those shapes? By the rare skill of the artisans, as long gone as the captains of industry inside the tombs.

A small building stands near the entrance of Graceland, including a patio with iron tables and chairs, a few of which were occupied when I visited, since the day was just warm enough for that. Inside the building, heated this time of year, visitors can rest on a bench, go to the bathroom, watch a video about the cemetery and, just as important, pick up a free paper map that guides you to the graves of some (but hardly all) of the well-known permanent residents.

Not every grand cemetery has that amenity, but when you find one, that ups the visit into a kind of treasure hunt, if you want. A look for the famed stones, like at Hollywood Forever in Los Angeles with its movie stars or Forest Home in Milwaukee with its brewers. My idea of a good time, but I’m eccentric that way. Besides some of the stones mentioned above, the map takes you to lumber baron and Goodman Theatre patron William Goodman.

And Mr. Whipple.

He’s not actually on the map, probably because the memorial isn’t for the person obsessed with toilet paper, since he was fictional. Even so, I understand he received treatment for his OCD, retired from the grocery business and lived with his daughter in Florida until his death in 2007.

MLB star Ernie Banks, “Mr. Cub,” and the first black player for the Cubs. Nearby is dancer Ruth Page.

Minnie Miñoso, a fairly recent stone. In fact, I read that it was erected only this summer. Graceland is still an active cemetery, with more open land than I would have thought.

I had to look him up; among other things, he was the first black player for the White Sox. The Cuban Comet, he was called, which sounds like something invented by a sports reporter pounding print on his old typewriter.

Heavyweight prizefighter Jack Johnson, the Galveston Giant, famed for upsetting racists in the early 20th century.

The small pyramid of architectural photographer and preservationist Richard Nickel, a favorite of mine in Chicago history.

Gov. John Peter Altgeld, another favorite but from Illinois history, who knew that pardoning the surviving men convicted in the Haymarket bombing would probably cost him the governorship, as indeed it likely did. It was that or preside over a miscarriage of justice, he believed.

Chicago is a city of architects; Graceland is a necropolis of architects. I didn’t see them all – missed Burnham on his island, for example – but I got a good sample.

Including Mies van der Rohe. For him, a flat black spare Miesian sort of memorial.

But he has a splendid view.

William LeBaron Jenny.

Bruce Goff.

Louis Sullivan.

Talk about teasing a rarefied shape out of base metal. In this case, the work’s designer at least is known: Thomas Tallmadge (d. 1940), who is also at Graceland.

Graceland Cemetery: The Color

Posted on November 18, 2024 by admin

On Sunday Yuriko was at her occasional cake class creating some figgy pudding. That’s what I’m calling it, since fig is the star ingredient, along with cinnamon and nutmeg and other spices. I’m also calling it oishi, Japanese for delicious, a word we use a fair amount.

There is no Spam in the recipe, however. Just as well.

Class is in the city, and I am chauffeur on such days, driving to the Humboldt Park neighborhood. The benefit for me: I get to spend a few hours in Chicago. This time I used the time to visit Graceland Cemetery on the North Side, accessed by bus and then the CTA Red Line.

More color than I expected. The leaves are a little late in falling this year.

What can it signify? Natural variation in timing? A hint of climate woes? I can’t claim to be smart enough to know, but I do know that my hour-plus stroll benefited from the unexpected late colors. Graceland is a queen among cemeteries for its beauty, so any season will offer a display worthy of that status. Still, fall is special.

As an arboretum, Graceland has over 2,000 trees and scores of species.

“In Chicago, as well as other major cities in America and Europe, cemeteries predated city parks as sites for pastoral strolls and quiet contemplation,” notes Chicago Garden: The Early History. “Thomas B. Bryan, a wealthy Chicago businessman and avid horticulturist, was the major force behind the creation of Graceland in 1860. Along with other investors [he] formed the Graceland Cemetery Company.

“Graceland’s location was ideal: readily accessible from Green Bay Road (now Clark Street) and later the Chicago and Evanston Railroad, yet far enough removed from the city to avoid health and sanitation issues. The company chose the high ridge area along what is now Clark Street, which was once an old Indian trail… In the sandy soil here, plants thrive better than in Chicago’s typical clay soil.”

Water views. The map calls it Lake Willowmere.

An ivy-covered stone.

That can’t be an accident of nature, since the standard of lawn care is clearly pretty high at Graceland. Could be the Simons wanted it that way. Or still do. Anyway, the leaves are changing.

Coyote, looks like.

I didn’t get very close, but close enough, and he seemed nonchalant about being around humans. He just wandered on by. Urban Coyote: there’s an animation project in that for someone.

Color is good, of course. So is monochrome.

In our time and place, cemetery tourism isn’t much practiced. At many cemeteries, I’m the only living person around, except maybe for grounds keepers. Graceland stood out from most in that way. I saw maybe two dozen or so other visitors, including bike riders, dog walkers and a handful doing what I was doing: wandering the 121-acre grounds, taking it in.

Lords Park in Fall

Posted on November 4, 2024 by admin

As usual in early November, we’re alternating between chilly and not chilly. Daytime today was surprisingly not chilly, which inspired me to drink tea on our deck in early afternoon and ponder the late autumn-ness of the view. Many, but not all, of the leaves are down, thinning from peak coloration – about a week ago.

That bit of timing, and warmish days, inspired us to take some walks last weekend. Before we saw the Community Ofrenda at the Gail Borden Library on the last Sunday of October, we were in Lords Park in Elgin. Last time we were there, the park was flush with the greens of high summer.

Not this time.

The park has a small zoo. Last time we didn’t enter because no dogs allowed, and Payton was with us. This time it was closed for the season.

No animals to be seen, except for a buffalo at the other end of the enclosure.

Still waiting for his transport to Mobile, Alabama, where he winters. Big snowbird bison community there.

Aside:

Me: Tell me about the snowbird bison community in Mobile, Alabama.

Free version of ChatGPT: It seems there might be some confusion or a mix-up regarding the “Snowbird Bison Community” in Mobile, Alabama. As of my last update, there is no widely known or documented community by that specific name in Mobile or elsewhere. However, I can provide some possible explanations or nearby references that could be of interest.

Bison and Conservation Efforts in Alabama: While there isn’t a specific “Snowbird Bison Community,” Alabama does have conservation programs and initiatives that aim to reintroduce or protect native wildlife, including bison. Historically, bison roamed the area, but due to overhunting and habitat destruction, they were driven out of much of their former range. Some conservation projects in Alabama or nearby regions might involve bison as part of larger ecosystem restoration efforts.
Snowbirds: In a different context, the term “snowbird” often refers to people who migrate from northern states to warmer climates (like Alabama) during the colder months. It’s possible that “Snowbird Bison Community” is a colloquial or niche term for a group of people who gather in Alabama, potentially around activities like wildlife conservation or bison-related tourism.
Mobile, Alabama: Mobile is a port city on the Gulf Coast, known for its rich history and diverse culture, but it isn’t particularly known for any bison-specific community. However, Mobile could host various wildlife sanctuaries, events, or activities related to animal conservation, and a local “bison community” might be a reference to any such initiatives.

Getting better, it seems. Honestly, I was hoping for a crazy hallucination, but that’s probably harder to elicit that it used to be.

Since we couldn’t go into the zoo, we walked the path around it, which is probably more picturesque than inside the grounds, at least at that moment in October.

Then to the park’s large pond. We walked around that.

A plaque on a boulder.

Closeup because I don’t feel like transcribing. Been affixed for more than 100 years now. Note that the apostrophe has disappeared. It isn’t used on official web sites, nor Google Maps: Lords Park. Must have been the long-term impact of apostrophe rationing again.

Another aside:

Me: Tell me about the plaque in Lords Park, Elgin Illinois.

ChatGPT: The plaque in Lords Park in Elgin, Illinois, commemorates the First Presbyterian Church’s Cemetery (also known as the Lords Park Cemetery), which is located within the park. The plaque honors the historical significance of the site, which has been a key part of the Elgin community since its early settlement.

Lords Park itself is one of the oldest parks in Elgin, and its cemetery was originally established in the mid-19th century, likely around 1845. The plaque likely marks the location or provides historical context about the cemetery and the people buried there, many of whom were early settlers and important figures in the founding of the city. The cemetery and park are connected through their shared history, with the area having served as a site for both religious and community gatherings.

As of my knowledge cutoff, there isn’t a specific detailed plaque inscription that I can point to, but the general historical context ties the park, the cemetery, and the early days of Elgin’s development together. The cemetery’s location within Lords Park places it in the middle of a public space that has been used for recreation and community events over the years, which adds to the significance of the plaque as part of the area’s history.

Ah, that’s the kind of hallucinatory answer I was looking for, though I didn’t give it much to work with in the way of prompts. Or at least it’s a mangled answer, according to the half hour or so I spent looking into the question. I could be missing something, since I’m not going to dive too deep.

But as far as I can tell, Lords Park wasn’t the site of a cemetery. A early public cemetery in Elgin – opened in 1845, as it happens – was the Channing Street Cemetery. It is gone, its location occupied by a small city park and elementary school. More importantly, it wasn’t the same site as the future Lords Park. Also, while there is a First Presbyterian Church of Elgin, it is not near Lords Park, either, and doesn’t ever seem to have been.

“Channing Street Cemetery was officially closed in 1945 and removal of the remains was thought complete in 1947,” notes the Elgin Genealogical Society. “In 1949 four acres in the southeast section were leveled in anticipation of park construction. It has been said that the many bodies left were to be moved by bulldozers. Some Elgin residents who lived in the neighborhood as children can remember the bulldozers breaking up old coffins and scattering the remains.”

Unless that was kids making up lurid stories, it looks like one of those cases where bodies were supposed to be moved elsewhere, but oops. We missed a few. An interesting tale, but nothing to do with Lords Park.

Willie Keil’s Journey

Posted on September 27, 2024 by admin

On the last day of August 2024, we found a set of unusually informative point-of-interest display signs on the side of highway Washington 6, near the town of Raymond. Tucked in the southwest corner of Washington state, that is, out in sparsely populated Pacific County, which encompasses Willapa Bay. Reportedly about a quarter of the oysters eaten by Americans in any given year are from Willapa Bay. And how did I miss this?

The mound is inland some miles, and up top is the grave of Wille Keil.

Officially it’s Willie Keil’s Grave State Park Heritage Site. Willie Keil was an Oregon pioneer settler in the 1850s, but a most unusual one, considering that he arrived in Oregon after he died. The three signs, installed only in 2020, tell the tale, if a little sappily on the third sign.

The Story of Willie Keil

On November 26, 1855, Willie Keil, aged 19, was buried atop the hill in front of you after crossing the Oregon Trail inside a barrel of whiskey. Willie had fallen ill and died 6 months earlier and more than 2,000 miles away in Bethel, Missouri, just days before his family was set to depart. Willie’s father, Dr. Wilhelm Keil, ordered a metal coffin for Willie. It was placed inside a tightly banded wooden vat filled with Golden Rule Whiskey, produced by members of the Bethel Colony. Willie’s casket was placed at the head of the leading wagon and the colonists followed him across the entire trail.

Willie Keil’s Journey

Worth looking at in detail. Nice work. A map to evoke time and place, and detail a curious set of circumstances.

Willie Keil Lives Among Us

In this untimely death, Willie Keil gained eternal life. Over time, he has grown up into a folk hero. As Willie’s story has been told and retold, distilling truth from fiction has become ever more difficult. The strange tale has come to symbolize the sanctity of a promise. Willie’s dying wish, the story goes, was to lead the wagon trail and his father assured him that he would – no matter what. Today, Willie lives among legends. And here, at the heart of the Willapa Hills, the spirit of the Pickled Pioneer” endures.

Bloomington Ramble ’24

Posted on July 29, 2024 by admin

Want good soft serve ice cream in an unpretentious setting? Look no further than Carl’s Ice Cream, a plain-looking shop deep in the heart of Bloomington, Illinois. Also, look for its anthropomorphic soft serve cone rising over the parking lot.

Yuriko and Ann had strawberry, I had chocolate. Carl’s in Bloomington – there’s also one in Normal, with an ice cream muffler man outside – was an early afternoon stop on Saturday. We spent part, but not all of the weekend, in Bloomington.

Something we (I) also had time to do was take a better look at the impressive three-legged communications tower in downtown Bloomington. It’s visible for quite a distance, and makes me wonder, why aren’t more communication towers this interesting?

Much of the day was hot, or at least very warm, and sunny, a prelude to heavy rains early Sunday morning. So Yuriko was content to stay in the car – with the AC running – when I took in a few closer views of tower.

Pantagraph articles about the tower are paywalled, but snippets poke through from search engine results:

In the last 30 years of telephone, radio and other network service, the Tower Center became a sort of landmark for downtown Bloomington, lovingly nicknamed the city’s “Eiffel Tower.”

Bloomington’s ‘Eiffel Tower’ changes hands after 30 years

The McLean County Center for Human Services Recovery Program is gaining a new home beneath the iconic 420-foot communications tower in Bloomington…

Another source tells me that the tower dates from 1989. The Tower Center is the two-story building under the tower, now belonging to McLean County.

After the rain cleared away, late Sunday morning was as toasty as Saturday had been, but more humid. I decided against a walkabout at the Park Hill Cemetery in Bloomington. It’s good to ration your time under those hot and copper skies.

Still, we drove around a bit through the cemetery. Not a lot of memorial variety, but not bad.

Now I can say I’ve seen Mike Ehrmantraut’s grave. But not that Mike Ehrmantraut, of course. The fellow offed by Walter White, being fictional, must have an equally fictional grave.

Adjacent the cemetery is the sizable Miller Park, which includes the Miller Park Zoo. We didn’t want to use our ration of intense sunlight at a zoo either, but in the park itself.

When you see a steam locomotive in park (and its tender), you really ought to get out and look.

Three million miles. So the train could have, with the right track, gone to the Moon and back a number of times, provided it took its own oxygen to keep that engine going.

And what would the display be without a caboose? Partly because that’s just a fun word to say.

Ignorant fellow that I am, I didn’t know the Nickel Plate Road, so I looked it up later. Once upon a time, it was a major regional RR, spanning northern Ohio, Indiana and Illinois.

Miller Park features a sizable war memorial.

In its vicinity are some retired weapons of war, such as a captured German 210 mm Krupp Howitzer (in better shape than this one).

As well as a WWI tank. Created for that conflict, at least. An M1917 light tank. Apparently none made it to the front during the war, but were put in service for a few years after the war by the U.S. Army.

I’m not sure I’ve ever seen one of those on display. I’m reminded of my great-uncle Ralph. I understand — from my mother, and maybe even grandma told me this — that he was in a tank corps in France, with the American Expeditionary Forces. Such a posting is said to be fairly dangerous, and I believe it. Supposedly, Ralph was poised to go to the front at the time of the Armistice, which might well have saved him.

Hollywood Cemetery, Hot Springs

Posted on May 1, 2024 by admin

This morning, about 30 minutes into May, I was in bed but not asleep yet, with the bedroom window open a bit, since it was warm enough to make that comfortable. I remembered that I hadn’t checked any weather forecast for May 1, and wondered whether it was going to rain overnight or during the day.

Almost immediately – really, within seconds – I heard rain falling. Light, but definitely rain. It lasted a few minutes. The only reasonable conclusion from such an event is that I’ve learned how to make it rain with my mind. I hope I use my power wisely.

Fairly early on the morning of April 15, I made a doughnut run in Hot Springs, Arkansas, seeking out a Shipley Do-Nuts store. I associate that chain and its wonderful doughnuts (cream filled, especially) with Texas, but Shipley is in other, mostly Southern states. There happen to be two locations in Hot Springs.

It couldn’t just be a doughnut run, though. On the way I stopped at Hollywood Cemetery, said to the Hot Spring’s oldest cemetery, though a precise founding date seems to be lost to time. The oldest stone is reportedly from 1856.

The cemetery is on a large, wooded hill.

Many – most – of its stones are aged and unkempt. It’s that kind of cemetery. Aesthetic decay. Not only do the dead return to the earth, but so do their memorials.

Hollywood is quite large for a small town cemetery, and since important doughnut matters called, I didn’t explore that much of it, such as the Confederate section that’s on the National Register of Historic Places. Still, one large memorial stood out, at least in the part of the cemetery I visited. Davies, it said. Cornelia A. Davies, who died at 28 in 1884.

Looks like that statue has a bit of a lean. Was it that way originally, or does it have a tumble to take in the near future? Otherwise the memorial is in good shape.

A young mother, I assume. Jesus comforts her children, perhaps.

If this isn’t a Victorian sentiment, I don’t what would be.

The entirety of such a cemetery is a momento mori. You’d think any cemetery would be that, but not always.

It isn’t written anywhere, as famously it is in Rome, but feeling is in the air at such a place as Hot Springs’ Hollywood: “What you are now, we once were; what we are now, you shall be.”

Potosi, Missouri

Posted on April 19, 2024 by admin

Sometime in late 18th century, Frenchmen came to a spot in the wilds of North America, which in later years would be southeastern Missouri, and began digging for lead in a place they called Mine Au Breton – Mine of the Breton, for Brittany native Francis Azor, who pioneered the effort in the area to extract the element. The name didn’t last, however. Since early U.S. sovereignty, it’s been Potosi, Missouri.

Still, the earlier name lingers in a small park in Potosi, which we visited on the morning of April 6 after leaving where we’d spent the night, Farmington.

A nice little park, a block from the town’s main thoroughfare, High Street. Mine a Breton Creek runs through it.

A small bridge crosses the creek at one point. You wouldn’t think such a bridge would merit a name, but the people of Potosi (pop. 2,500) clearly disagree.

Red Bridge. It even has a former name: Steel Wagon Bridge. Maybe more minor bridges should have names. Adds a little character to localities. Of course, if that caught on, most of them would be named after minor local politicos.

After the Louisiana Purchase was a done deal, Americans came to the area, but Moses Austin was already there, having cut a deal with the Spanish to mine there. Texas schoolchildren learn who he was, or at least they did 50+ years ago, when I was such a schoolchild. He’s the father of Stephen F. Austin, who was the Father of Texas. So maybe Moses is the Grandpa of Texas. My brother Jay suggested that we visit Potosi to see his grave, and since it was only a few miles out of the way, we did.

The grave itself isn’t one of the better-looking ones I’ve ever seen: a white, virtually unadorned slab under an uninspired protective shelter.

His wife Mary Brown Austin, daughter of an iron mine owner and mother of Stephen F., is there as well. We didn’t hear that much about her in school.

Moses Austin came to the area to mine lead – and escape debt back in Virginia — and apparently had a good go of it in the 1810s, though I suspect life wasn’t as good for the slaves that did the actual digging. Austin is credited with renaming the town Potosi, after the place in Bolivia, a silver mining center known as the location Spanish colonial mint, producer of countless Spanish dollars. Educated miners like Austin would have known it, anyway, and maybe he was thinking big. As in, dreams of silver. But lead would have to do.

Quite the go-getter, Moses Austin. “He & his 40 to 50 slaves & employees built bridges, roads, a store, a blacksmith shop, a flour mill, a saw mill, a shot tower, and turned out the first sheet lead & cannonballs made in Missouri,” the informative Carroll’s Corner posted.

Austin suffered reversals and ultimately lost his fortune in the Panic of 1819, and so schemed to take settlers to the underpopulated wilds of Texas, then part of New Spain — to escape his debts, among other things. He received a land grant from the Spanish Crown (that’s quite a story), and was set to go when death came calling, leaving the task to his son – who had to deal with newly independent Mexico for his grant. That’s another story, one far from modern Potosi.

Google Maps calls the cemetery along High Street, with the Austins’ grave, City Cemetery. A sign at the site says: Potosi Presbyterian Cemetery, Est. 1833.

It’s a mid-sized, old-style cemetery with some charm.

With memorials broken and worn.

And others still waiting for that wear to happen. It will.

High Street is the location of a handsome county courthouse (Washington County), the third on the site and a 1908 design by one Henry Hohenschild, a Missouri architect who did a number of public buildings. Remarkably, the same document tells us that Moses Austin (probably) designed the county’s first courthouse. Moses was one busy guy.

There are a number of antique stores on High Street, and while Yuriko was off exploring them, I was buttonholed by two Jehovah’s Witnesses sitting with their material across the road from the courthouse. Or rather, I allowed myself to be buttonholed, so I could talk a little religion. Just like I did in Salt Lake City. Or religion-adjacent. I think the ladies, Mary and Kay I believe it was, were surprised that I knew about the sale of the JW HQ property in Brooklyn some years ago.

Been There, Seen That

By Dees Stribling

Category Archives: Cemeteries