Catharine

Today after breakfast, an impromptu road trip with a friend of mine led me to a peaceful old cemetery by the road.  It was beautiful there.  We walked through the rows of old tombstones, some of which were so weather worn they were no longer legible.  Many of the ones we could read dated back to the early 1800's.

There was, at the front of the cemetery,
a row of cedar trees.
A twig laden with the beautiful
evergreen leaves hung down low,
and I pinched it to breath in
the heavy cedar scent.
It was lovely.

Catharine's tombstone behind the cedar tree

Hiding behind one of the massive cedar trees was a tombstone that held some significance for me.
A passerby might not even see it because the tree trunk hid it almost completely, but I knew it was somewhere there, among the cedars.
Then I found it.
It was the tombstone of my great, great, great, great grandmother,  Catharine Richardson.  Apparently the large cedar, which grew in front of her grave, had protected her stone from the weathering others nearby had suffered.  The inscription was still easy to read, and there were even traces of a pretty fern like engraving that wrapped around the words.





Something about seeing the gravesite in person stirred my heart and caused my voice to quiver unexpectedly when I called out to my friend to say, "Here it is!"
The marker stood alone, and told only of her name, her husband, the date of her death, and that she was 47 years of age when she died.  My mind swirled with questions:  What was life like for her?  What hardships did she endure? What were her fears?  Did she ever laugh?  Did her eyes twinkle?  Had a family resemblance been passed down through the generations?   What horrible thing had taken her at only 47 years old?
Sitting by her grave, I sorted through a rush of thoughts.  
My life, my wonderful childhood, my present day family,
all the joys brought to me by my own children, would not have happened if not for Catharine!

Close-up of the fern-like engraving on the tombstone.

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I wished I could thank her and tell her how much I appreciated her part in my family history.  Instead, more than 170 years after her death, overwhelming gratitude compelled me to keep company for a while with her silent tribute there-behind the cedar tree.
It was the least I could do.

©2014janet carol davis