just enough light

Those in attendance grew restless as the Board went through all their normal gyrations of approving notes from the previous meeting, making announcements, and inquiring about old business that needed a revisit. When Board member, Randy Turner, raised a question about a detail pertaining to the payment date for the town’s liability insurance policy, an issue of business they had discussed in the previous meeting, everyone shifted as if all the chairs had been wired with a light voltage.

Finally, Board Chairman, Chet Knolls, spoke. “I’m not sure if this is old business or new business. I guess it’s a new wrinkle to a matter we discussed in our last meeting. It’s regarding the cemetery. We have David Murphy who would like to address the Board.  Mr. Murphy.” He gave a head nod in David’s direction.

David stood at the small wooden podium facing the Board, his back to the audience. He put several pages of notes in front of him, which he never looked at. He smiled at the Board and began.

“Members of the Board, and my friends, thank you hearing me this evening.”  He began with a long, detailed, and crystal clear explanation of what he understood the situation to be. Under normal circumstances, such a long introduction would have put the crowd to sleep and would have allowed Birch to knit a whole sweater for her niece. But no one got bored. David had done his homework, and he knew his history. Having laid out the “situation,” as A. J. had called it, he continued.

“Hillside Cemetery is a beautiful place. A peaceful place. Not just because of Digger’s care, though he’s a big part of it.  Thank you, Digger.” Digger smiled and nodded. “It’s also because so much thought, planning, and care went into the layout from the beginning. The people to whom we owe our town knew they and we would need a place not only to bury our families, but also a place to go, be still, and relax in a comfortable and safe place. There are so few places in our world that feel safe, where we can gather ourselves together when things are flying apart. It’s good that we have such a place. The placement of the trees, the roads, the sense of being enclosed, embraced, we should protect that at all costs.”

Nods all around. A few people fished around in their purses for tissues. Many of those listening intently had their own favorite bench or headstone they sat on when they needed a place of escape or, as David had said, to gather themselves together. You could drive by Hillside almost any time during daylight hours and see someone strolling or sitting quietly within the sacred confines.

David continued with a history of the cemetery as it overlapped with that of the town and his own personal history. He spoke of some of the people buried there who had made life good for the citizens of Bynum, and some who had played a pivotal role in his own life, a life characterized by being on the fringe much of the time. He talked about Mrs. Jackson, his third grade teacher, Mr. Hanson, the high school principal, and Mr. Winningham, the man who gave him his first job in the hardware store.  Each of them was now resting in their own family plots among their parents, grandparents, and in Mr. Hanson’s case, his teen-aged daughter.

He didn’t have to elaborate for those who were old enough to know the stories. Mrs. Jackson had been David’s safe haven the year he had been tormented repeatedly by the Burson twins, one of whom was now a long-term resident in the state correctional facility in a nearby county. David had not felt safe on the playground, in the cafeteria, or on the way home from school. Mrs. Jackson knew he was going home to an empty house, so she gave him jobs in the classroom after school, loaned him books to challenge his precocious reading skills, and years later he learned of other ways she ran interference for him with the elementary school principal.  Mr. Hanson knew David was a shy and awkward kid who had a keen mind, but no interest in football, 4-H, or most of the other activities the other boys were into. He encouraged David to join the drama club, to try out for the school play, and of all things, to be the equipment manager and trainer for the athletic teams. This had given David his first hint of physical therapy as a career. Dan Winningham approached David about working for him the summer after David’s junior year, the year David’s father died. David swept floors and stocked shelves for Dan after hours. This filled the evenings that would otherwise have been interminable.  David stayed with the hardware store until he left for college. He visited Dan at the store every time he came back for a visit. When David finished college and moved back to Bynum, he regularly had coffee with Dan and Betty at their kitchen table on David’s way to his work. David had been a daily visitor to the hospital during Dan’s final weeks after a long and torturous battle with cancer. He stood with his arm around Betty as Dan took his last breath.

The room sat spellbound as David spoke.  The people who had been important to him, of course, were intertwined with the lives of virtually everyone in the room and everyone they knew. Lots of head nods and an occasional “Oh, yes” confirmed that.

Finally, David came to his conclusion.  “I have consulted with a number of people about various ways of accomplishing the task of annexing and connecting the lot to the west of the cemetery without disrupting the integrity of the space. Many options exist, but few can be accomplished without considerable expense or damage to what we have come to appreciate about the cemetery.  I will not be responsible for damaging that integrity and I cannot and will not place a financial burden on this town.”

The Board as a unit exhaled, leaned back in their chairs, a few put their hands behind their heads and locked their fingers in a satisfied posture.  Everyone else remained riveted. David continued.

“And I will not relinquish my cemetery plots.”