Graham, Texas
By Rebecca Hertz
Entering Young County the landscape changes drastically. Parched prairie grass,
clumps of mesquite and dry stock tanks are replaced with the lush green foliage
of mature trees and ponds brimming with water. To the northwest, hazy, blue
mountains rest against the summer sky. The flat endless prairie gives way to
the rolling hills and the two lane blacktop highway snakes toward the city of
Graham.
Oakhurst cemetery lies on the outer edge of town. It
is the final place of rest for what appears to be thousands of Young County
residents. The ocean of headstones seems endless. Some are elaborate and
statuesque, towering above the other declaring their station and importance.
Others are jagged pieces of rock or concrete with names carved by an unsteady
hand. But death is a great equalizer and prominence quickly disappears at a
depth of six feet.
I have come to find my biological father, a man I
never met. I know him only from photographs and memories of others. He was a convicted
con man and a thief who abandoned me. And still I seek him out in the safety of
this cemetery – far from his reach for reasons I cannot explain.
Daunted by the enormity of the task I have
undertaken, I divide the property into sections, park my car in a shady spot
and venture on foot examining each marker I pass. Some are so old the carvings
have weathered away. As time and nature drain the life’s blood the identity too
disappears.
I am drawn to the tiny stones shaped as hearts or
angels that adorn the graves of children. I pause in tribute or maybe it’s envy
of the peaceful rest that came so quickly. I sense that my emotions and pace
have slowed down.
The rows contain 20-25 graves. I have covered about
1/3 of the cemetery when I begin to feel unsteady and tiny white stars start
closing in. The heat and scorching sun have taken their toll and I decide there
must be a better way.
Weak and tired I pour myself into the car and crank
up the AC to the highest setting. A sense of failure presses heavily on my
chest and my arms ache. My thoughts are jumbled and panicked as I attempt to
map out my next steps.
Overwhelmed by my confusion, I submit to the forces
I cannot control. I give up the fight, relax against the headrest and let the
cool air wash over me. Closing my eyes, I remind myself to breath and the fog
begins to lift.
I make another pass, driving slowly through the
cemetery hoping I will see something I missed before. Approaching the brown
stone pillars that line the entrance I pause for one last glance in my rearview
mirror at the landscape of white and gray stones that shout to me in their
silence. I know I will miss their welcoming acceptance – the stories told by
the few words left behind in this place where no one ca exert power over
another. Held captive by time and space, I can only carry them with me in my
heart. So I depart with tears already knowing I will never return.
Determined to arm myself with a map of the graveyard
to hasten my progress, I drive into town. It is already 4:30 p.m. My first stop
is the newspaper office in hopes they can direct me. A smiling blond haired
woman in her 40s contemplates my dilemma and sends me to the funeral home.
The gray brick structure sits stately on the corner
across from the square. The polished furniture and beige tufted sofa reside in
silence, patiently awaiting the arrival of the grieving and tearful. A man in a
black suit and mournful face appears to greet me speaking softly as if to avoid
waking the residents.
“I’m so sorry but I can’t help you. I would suggest
that you try the court house,” he said extending his pale manicured hand.
The courthouse is only a block away but I opt to
drive the distance and avoid the heat passing the entrance several times before
recognizing it. I walk past the prominent “no skateboarding” signs and ascend
the steps. It is cool and dark with plaster walls and oak woodwork. I can’t get
my bearings and wander past accounting offices and disserted courtrooms wasting
too much time before I happen upon the county clerk. The secretary directs me
to the city hall. This time I can see the entrance from where I stand.
I race to the building cursing the red light that
stands between my destination and me. I’ve wasted my time. These people have
wasted my time.
Two women and a maintenance worker have congregated
at the coffee machine counting the minutes to the end of the workday. Turning
to look at me as I enter, they stand for a moment sizing up this unknown dusty,
disheveled woman, clothing drenched, red faced, hair dripping with sweat.
I smile and move to the counter. They hold their
position.
“I’m looking for information. Is there any sort of
map of the cemetery I could use to locate a grave?”
“We don’t have anything like that,” says a dark
haired woman whose features are fuzzy to my sun strained eyes. “Which cemetery
are you looking in?”
“There is more than one?” I say.
“Oakhurst and Pinemont. Who are you looking for?”
she asks glancing at her watch.
I give her my father’s name and the year of his
death. Finally stirring from her perch at the coffee machine, she retreats into
a large vault with an enormous circular door. She emerges with two large green
clothbound books. She searches through handwritten records and returns to the
vault twice for more books.
“There haven’s been any plots sold in Oakhurst since
the 50s,” she says.
“If someone were very poor, where would they more
likely be buried?”
“Pinemont has a pauper’s section; you might want to
try that.”
She gives me directions and explains that some
graves have only temporary markers or no identification at all.
“How will I know if I am in the right place?”
“Oh, you’ll know.”
Pinemont cemetery is a more recent addition to the
community. The marble headstones and monuments are polished and pristine
reflecting the green grass that surrounds them. No soil is visible. Even new
graves are covered with green blankets.
Unlike Oakhurst, here the hierarchy has not yet broken down. The monuments to
earthly glory still reach toward the sky and gleam in the sunlight.
The pauper’s graves are separated from the main
cemetery by a red dirt road. There is little shade or adornment. The space
appears to be an afterthought utilized only as necessity dictates. Though only
a few feet lay between the prosperous and the destitute, the distance is as
vast as the open range and the dry cracked earth contrasts the cool shade and lush
foliage of the main cemetery.
I examine a few stones and kneel to read the faded
lettering on the metal tags that mark other graves. Much of the space is
unmarked. I search for seams or outlines in the brown brittle grass for a sign
that a grave even exists. Having exhausted the area I sit on the exposed roots
of the only tree to rest in the shade and contemplate. Here the poorest among
us, invisible in life, rest in anonymity. As the seasons pass the outline of
their existence is erased.
Beside me on a red brick with the name Smith
carefully lettered in black paint lays a lizard sunning himself on the warm
clay. Unaffected by my presence he occasionally looks up at me then drifts back
to sleep.
Wasted and numb, I reach my hand to wipe the sweat from my eyes and dissolve
into tears. I didn’t find my father’s grave. Perhaps we touched today, but I
will never know.