Tombstone Tuesday - Animals!

Browsing around in my husband's photos folder tonight, I came across this photo. We took it in June of 1989 when we were newlyweds touring across Ireland. We were at Powerscourt Estate near Enniskerry, County Wicklow, Ireland. It is an absolutely stunning estate, dating back to the 13th century, and though they had had a fire a few years before we visited, it was still lovely in its opulence. This whole cemetery was for pets. I remember being annoyed at the time that animals would have an entire cemetery to themselves while my own ancestors were lost in a maze of unmarked graves covered by brambles.

EUGENIE

Jersey Cow

Died 1967 aged 17 years

She had 17 calves and produced

over 100,000 gallons of milk

PRINCESS

Aberdeen Angus Cow

Died 1972 aged 11 years

3 times Dublin Champion

I browsed the web a bit and found this more recent photo which shows just how much moss and dirt it has gathered in the 21 years since we photographed it. 

Killed

March 16th 1905.

JYP & TIM

Irish Terriers

Faithful friends for

12 years.

Yup, I know it's a class thing, but it still rankles to have my "bog Irish" great-grandparents lying in some unknown spot whilst Jyp & Tim get the timeless memorial.

Sarah and Ann Drury, Mountain View Cemetery, Shrewsbury, Massachusetts

Here lies the body of Ann Drury

Here lies the body of Sarah Drury

Ann and Sarah were twin daughters of Daniel and Sarah Drury. Their births on 23 November 1738 are listed in the published Vital Records of Shrewsbury, Massachusetts to 1850. Their deaths are also: Ann died 30 June 1740 and Sarah died 20 July 1730. Daniel and Sarah went on to have many more children, but this must have been very painful to bear. No cause of death is found in either the vital records of Shrewsbury or in Andrew Ward's History of Shrewsbury.

Despite the closeness in time of their deaths, their gravestones seem to be of different kinds of stone. The carver is the same. Note that his N's are backwards! I love how the stones lean towards each other, as if trying to console one another. Also, the large, primitive letters, just like those a child would write, and the damage, giving the impression of something unfinished.

Tombstone Tuesday - One Litchfield Couple

Mt. Hope Cemetery, in the West End of Scituate, Massachusetts, is my favorite cemetery, and someday I hope to have my ashes buried there, beneath the soft pines. I have lots of ancestors and other relatives buried there, from parents and brother to GGGG grandparents, two of whom I discuss here. I just love how by researching a little bit a few scant letters carved into a piece of stone two hundred years ago can open up a window into your own past. My GGGG grandparents, James and Elizabeth (Litchfield) Litchfield are buried in the oldest part of the cemetery, towards the back.

In memory of

Mr. James Litchfield,

who died

Oct. 10, 1786:

aged 48 years.

In memory of

Mrs. Elizabeth.

wife of

Mr. James Litchfield:

who died

Dec. 29, 1835:

aged 91 years.

About the Stones

Despite the 49 years difference in their ages at death, these stones appear to have been carved by the same carver. They are the same size and have the exact same willow and urn decoration at the top of the stone, s well as exact side borders. And this stone carver was punctuation-happy! Not only is he rather free with commas, but he loved him a good colon! He uses capitals and italics in exactly the same way, so we are sure it's the same fellow.

About the Urn and Willow

This is motif that was most commonly depicted in the late 18th and early 19th centuries, when classicism was at it's height, and death was thought of in a more secular way, as opposed to the old deaths heads and cherubs used earlier. The willow and urn was popular for quite a long period, so precise dating by gravestone symbols is not possible. It is unlikely that James' gravestone was erected at the time of his death, though, because that was quite early for the urn and willow, even in Boston, and Scituate is a good 30 miles away. It took some time for the designs to spread out into surrounding communities. It is more likely that at Elizabeth's death, someone had both stones carved and erected.

About the Litchfields

There were billions of them, mostly congregated in the area near this cemetery. I haven't even begun to delve deeply into mine, but they are the ones who cause the most pedigree collapse in my tree. Elizabeth, wife of James Litchfield, was also a Litchfield: they were second cousins. Then, their daughter Hannah Litchfield, married Capt. Daniel Litchfield in 1806 and here we have the explanation of any odd traits in our family tree! We have the Litchfield hump, the Litchfield twitch, the Litchfield flinch... just kidding! The Litchfield wandering eye, the Litchfield stutter...

My aunt, Abbie Herberta (Barnes) Thompson, recently loaned me a most precious book. She had it bound herself, in 1981, from five incredibly detailed, accurate and useful pamphlets on the Litchfields written by Wilford Jacob Litchfield from 1901-1906. I promised my poor Auntie that I would index this tome and got started on it before going for certification, then I put it aside, but I must take it up again, because it's an incredible volume. Anyway, in it can be found transcriptions of all sorts of supporting documentation such as wills, deeds, warnings out, vital records, correspondence, diaries and more! It's a treasure trove. I just want to give a few tidbits here about my gggg grandparents.

About Joseph

He was born in Scituate 10 February 1738. He was sometimes called Joseph Brine or Joseph Jr. to distinguish him from his cousin Joseph, born 1734. The brine part I'm not sure about, but suspect either he spent time at sea or drank too much! . Not a lot is known about his first wife, Anna Gordon who he married in 1760. They probably had two daughters, Susanna and Anna, but the author had only just learned of them, and I'd like to study that a bit.

James served in the Revolution and on town government (Highway Surveyor 1771, Hog Reeve 1773 and 1776) and in the Litchfield pamplets [p. 376] is described by a descendant as being: "a man of temperate and industrious habits, of mild and retiring disposition, but much beloved. He was a farmer and a carpenter... It appears that he did not take an active part in local affairs, the care of a large family occupying his attention and strength until his untimely death." Regarding his death, the pamplet also states on p. 377, "It was upon this property that James was building a new house when overtaken by his fatal sickness." Oh, sickness? Really? Because later we find this tidbit of a footnote: "It is a common saying that his early death was caused by an illness resulting from an injury to his head made by his brother, Lothrop Litchfield, while the latter was in an intoxicated condition. James was engaged in building his new house at the time of the alleged assault." I love this author because he clearly tells us it is just gossip, but hmmmmmmm. Maybe it should have been Lothrop Brine!

Finally, we find that "At his grave there was placed in 1897, through the efforts of a great-grandaughter, Mrs. Mandana (Clapp) Morris of North Scituate, a bronze marker of the Sons of the American Revolution. All descendants of James Litchfield are entitled to join a society like the S.A.R." Mandana happened to live next door to my GG grandparents, Israel Merritt Barnes and his wife (Olive Litchfield) Barnes, who named one of their daughters Mandana after their neighbor and Olive's cousin.

About Elizabeth

Elizabeth was James' second wife. Elizabeth was baptized at Scituate on 4 November 1744, and she and James were married on 7 January 1770. On page 380 we read: "She is described by her grand-daughter, Mrs. Elizabeth Litchfield (Merritt) Merritt (born 1812, died in 1905), as a woman of sedateness and hospitality, and very highly patriotic. When the tea was thrown overboard in Boston harbor, it is said that Mrs. Litchfield threw her tea-pot against a stone-wall, breaking it, thus manifesting her displeasure at the levying of the hated tea-tax. After the death of her husband, leaving a large family and unfinished home on her hands, she had a part of the structure made habitable and there she brought up her family in an industrious and frugal manner. Lawrence, her eldest son, lived in the same house, and cared for his mother in her declining days. It is said that she was a remarkable woman for her time."

Of course this warrants much more research, but I think I'd need a lifetime to corroborate everything in the Litchfield pamplets. You can find it digitized now, at http://ia311318.us.archive.org/3/items/litchfieldfamily11sout/litchfieldfamily11sout.pdf

As a matter of amusement, look at this, available only in India! And you get a 61 Rupee discount:

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Tombstone Tuesday - A Rabbit-Proof Fence at Shocklach

My father-in-law, Brian R. R. Kimmitt ("Grandad") lives in Malpas, Cheshire, England. It's a beautiful place – low, rolling hills dotted with great trees who, never having been obliged to share the sunlight with their brethren, spread majestically across the misty backdrop, daring you to don your Wellies and wander among them.


My mother-in-law, Rosemary Kimmitt ("Granny"), née Ida Rosemary Churton, passed away in 2001. She is buried in an isolated church yard called St. Edith's in Shocklach, Cheshire. Some say the church belonged to a village which was burned after one of the many bouts of plague which swept England, but others say this is a myth and there is no evidence of other buildings on the site. In any case, there is no longer a Shocklach village – only the tiny Norman church remains.


St. Edith's lies hidden behind hedgerows off the main road, about half a mile from the River Dee. It was built in about 1150 by the Lord of the Manor, Thomas de Shocklach. It is constructed of irregularly shaped red sandstone blocks held together with mortar. The nave is almost entirely 12th century and the chancel is 14th century. Against the west wall are two large buttresses. The south door archway dates from about 1150 and is a good example of Norman work. The baptismal font is unusual in that it is seven-sided. The church registers date from 1538 and the churchwardens' accounts from 1725. ["Photographs of Shocklach, Cheshire," webpage; (http://www.thornber.net/cheshire/htmlfiles/shocklach.html : accessed 6 Oct. 2009); citing Raymond Richard, Old Cheshire Churches, with a supplementary survey of the lesser old chapels of Cheshire, completely revised and enlarged,  (Didsbury: E. J. Morten, 1973, first published in 1947.]

I was utterly charmed by this place when I was first taken there in 1986. Approached via tiny lanes through pasture land tastefully decorated with grazing animals, the spot remains hidden until the road turns abruptly just before you arrive, revealing this unexpected relic. You feel as if you are intruding and the gravel crunches loudly underfoot as you walk from the carpark to the church yard gate. Conkers (horse chestnuts) litter the ground and become playthings for any Brit under 75. They can't help themselves. The ancient gravestones tilt at awkward angles and evoke black and white visions of Scrooge on his knees begging for a last chance at redemption. Birds twitter, cows low, wind lifts the grasses, gravestones lean darkly. It's just beautiful.


My father-in-law has served as a lay minister at St. Edith's for many years, so when it was time to christen our first son, we chose to take him to England and have the ceremony performed at St. Edith's. We took advantage of the unusual seven-sided font, and Grandad assisted. And when my mother-in-law passed away, she was of course buried at St. Edith's.


Herein lies my trauma. Along with the grief of losing Rosemary, I felt sad at the realization that her final resting place was not going to be romantically set amongst the leaning stones, but rather at the other end of the yard. Today's gravestones are straight and polished, with (gasp) san serif type! Still, I thought at the time that she was lucky to have such a glorious spot in which to rest her bones for all of eternity.


However, that wasn't the end of it. Granny was a fantastic gardener. She loved flowers, was a master flower arranger and spent much of her free time in the garden. Yet the charm of the pastoral setting interferes with the rite of leaving flowers at the grave. The bunnies eat them! Grandad vowed he would prevent the bunnies from running amok, so he built a chicken wire fence around Granny's stone. I don't like the fence. It feels contradictory that in such a peaceful and natural setting, she should be caged. It is as if she's in a detention camp or something. I think he saw it as his final way to protect her. His grief softened visibly after that ugly fence went up, so I decided I could cope. Nevertheless, just for the record, I don't want a rabbit-proof fence around my gravestone! RIP rabbit-free, Rosemary.

Tombstone Tuesday – The American Cemetery in Normandy

Last summer we took the boys to England to visit relatives and friends. From there we embarked on a 10-day holiday in northern France. When they weren't whining about missing their friends and championship sporting events, they really enjoyed being tourists. Despite themselves, I think they may have also learned a thing or two.

One of our most moving stops was Normandy, site of some of the most brutal fighting in World War II. In a bizarre parallel of the Invasion of Normandy, we traveled by ferry from Southampton to Cherbourg. It was a smooth sailing, and as we dined comfortably on breakfast, we tried to evoke images in their young minds of what it must have been like for those soldiers en route on 5-6 June 1944. We had watched a few movies before setting off, like The Longest Day(for Myles and me) andSaving Private Ryan (for the boys, too gory for me. I can imagine evisceration without it being graphically depicted, thank you), and this made a convenient reference for certain parts of the battles.

We drove along the still very sparsely populated coast, through tiny but familiarly named towns like Pointe du Hoc and Ste Mère Eglise. We stopped there to to glance around, imagining the horror of war, and even saw the effigy of the poor parachutist who got stuck on the church tower (see above). We were there just a few days after the celebrations of the 64th anniversary of D-Day, and I noticed the boys casting sidelong glances at some elderly gentlemen, obviously veterans, who were also touring the countryside. I wanted to invite them to come along with us. They are precious.

The locals were all very friendly and welcomed us with smiles and a courteous attempt to understand the boys' (and my!) French. You can see that even people who were not alive in WW2 still recognize the contributions the Americans, British and Canadians made. We were glad we had skipped Paris – this time, at least.

Next day we motored over to the American Cemetery in Colleville Sur Mer. Most people have at least seen it on television, as we had, but there is nothing like being there. It is set in a most splendidly glorious spot on a bluff overlooking Omaha Beach. When you first arrive, you admire the setting, noting how beautiful the world can be. It is so still that you hear the birds, even with 3 boys in tow. The museum is strategically placed so that you visit it before entering the cemetery. I think it serves both to educate and to prepare people for the experience.

BOOM, there you are, transported back in time, watching scratchy black and white films of wave after wave of seasick and petrified soldiers jump off the boats to almost certain death. Relentless Nazis gun them down. "They are all so young," I tell the boys, "That's you, next year, Ry." You see bits of their uniforms, photos of old French peasant women running down the tiny streets, waving and smiling, offering loaves of bread to soldiers. Young girls kissing them. All the while the sounds of guns and waves and death screams meander in and around the speeches of leaders lending hope and inspiration.

Then BOOM again. You emerge, blinking, into the bright sunshine. Echoes of the battle din reverberate in the stark silence. Perfect weather mocks their memory. All is calm and serene. You stand there in a bit of shock. Now you're ready to visit the cemetery.

Row upon row upon row of symmetrically placed crosses stand at attention in military precision overlooking the beaches, bearing witness to the horrors of war. I sent the boys off on a mission so I could enjoy the peace. I was moved by the occasional Star of David marker, and when I came upon the one below, of Sam Rubin, I stopped to photograph it.

SAM RUBIN

PVT 358 INF 90 DIV

MO JUNE 15 1944

As I took my face away from the camera, one son came along and said, "Oh, somebody left dirt on this one," and swiftly brushed it away, before I could let out a yelp of alarm. For Jews it is an act of respect to continue in the "mitzvah" of marking a grave by placing pebbles or dirt on the stone. It is a way to indicate participation in the mitzvah of erecting a tombstone, even if only in a more symbolic way. It shows that someone has visited, someone remembers.

After a brief lecture by Mom, suitable replacement stones were laid with great ceremony, accompanied by an apology to Private Rubin.

We looked at hundreds of stones that day, came across makeshift flower memorials that get cleaned up every evening by the staff. We found Medal of Honor winners and all sorts of funny names and things to spark the imagination of boys. But the one we remember most will always be Sam Rubin.

Not Your Average Joe – The Tombstone of Rabbi Judah Monis

Here lies buried the Remains of RABBI

JUDAH MONIS. MA. late HEBREW

Instructer at HARVARD College in

Cambridge in which Office He continued 40

years. He was by Birth and Religion a jew but

embraced the Christian Faith & was publickly

baptizd at Cambridge AD 1722 and

departed this Life April 25 1764. Aged

81 years 2 months and 21 days

A native branch of Jacob see

Which, once from off its olive brok,

Regrafted, from the living tree Rom. XI. 17 24

Of the reviving sap partook.

From teeming Zion's fertile womb, Isa. LXVI. 8

As dewy drops in early morn Psa. CX.3

Or rising bodies from the tomb John V.. 28. 29

At once be Isr'els nation born

I was shown this tombstone a few weeks ago by my historian friend, Harry. Harry is the greatest repository of local history you can imagine. He keeps everything in his enormous skull (illustration by an early psychic artist reproduced above). He's a retired teacher (in deed, not in spirit) and rejoices in bring new knowledge to anyone who is willing. This unusual gravestone is located in the old First Parish Church Burial Ground on Howard Street in Northboro, Mass. It contains the graves and beautifully carved stones of lots of typical British-type colonials. And then we find this startling inscription. An Italian Rabbi who migrated to New York, then to Cambridge, Mass., converted to Christianity and is buried in the sticks of Northborough.

The illustrations on the stone are of the skull and crossbones (death -duh!) and a grafted tree, which refers to his conversion. Just because some people have suffered death to defend their religion doesn't mean everyone did. The squeaky wheel gets written about in history books. I'm sure that masses of quieter people sort of went along with the general population in a kind of false assimilation, while still practicing behind closed doors. After a few generations, no one knew the difference, even family members. Depending upon the source you consult, there are different theories as to why Judah converted. On the Jewish Virtual Library website [http://www.jewishvirtuallibrary.org/jsource/biography/monis.html : accessed just now; no sources given for info, so beware] we learn that Judah was himself descended from Portuguese conversos. So maybe knowing that, it wasn't so hard for him to revert. In any case, he vehemently denied accusations that Harvard's restriction on dealing with anyone other than Christians was his reason. He wrote three tomes defending his decision. He went on to teach Hebrew and write the first Hebrew grammar printed in the colonies. Word has it that he was a bore, though.

Proceedings of the Massachusetts Historical Society, Vol. 52 [books.google.com : accessed today] has a very detailed article in which it is evident that the author consulted numerous original documents. If you are interested in Judah, I'd start here. He states that Judah was a merchant and owned a shop when in New York and Cambridge. He married Mary Marret, whose sister was married to John Martyn, Pastor of the first Church in Northboro. I love to imagine the awkward silences at the dinner table. Worse than that, dinner hour was probably filled with endless discourse on the nature of the Trinity and other lighthearted subjects. I'd rather do dishes.

I'm grateful to Harry for showing me this grave and look forward to another jaunt. He's been telling me for years about some slave graves in Princeton. Luckily, every week has a Tombstone Tuesday!