Cemetery hill

From a distance it appears like a chess game set amongst fields of Hillier clay; pawns, rooks, bishops and queens stand as marble pillars aimed to the heavens. ‘O bury me not on the lone prairie, Where coyotes howl and the winds blow free, In a narrow grave just six by three…’the lyrics of an old cowboy song come to me as I mount a rise of hill on Closson Road close to the old Danforth. There is something about the setting of the little church yard ahead—Christ Church Cemetery— that suggests The Cowboy’s Lament.

“The place holds a wonderful wealth of history of the local people who lived and struggled and died,” Michael Korn tells me upon first meeting. When he bought a house on Wilson Road and began to research the story of his property, little did Michael know that the trail would not only lead him here but that he would become keeper of the records. “The oldest stone is dated 1843 with many of the names from Ireland. ‘My Wilson’s’, as I call them are over there,” Michael tells me, indicating a series of markers. We circle through row after row of head stones as he continues, “When I started a survey of the cemetery with Pat and Jim Van Kregten I began to take photos of the stones and to trace the stories.”

The Jones, Grants, Youngs…the Benways, a Dorland over here, the Alexanders across there. I note family names as the raw sweetness of autumn- turned fields lingers in the breeze. “Early in the 1840s the Anglicans were looking for a church,” Michael describes. “Robert Hubbs donated a two-acre plot and a building was put up.” He points beyond the sloping hills, “The Danforth was the main road and this was close by. The burial grounds are for all denominations,” he adds. “Finally a minister came, a Rev. Cox from the U.S.”, Michael recounts “The parish house was near Wellington and Rev. Cox was expected to also preach in Marysburgh and Demorestville. It must have been brutal to travel in winter…he grumbled a lot about it in his letters to Bishop Strachan.”

Michael leads me to a large empty space on the property and talks about the former church “In the 1800s when a family came here, there would usually be five to 10 children so it didn’t take long to fill the pews,” he tells me. “Legend has it that the choir at one time was referred to as the ‘sap bucket choir’ because there was so many of them they had to sit on buckets.”

The story goes that after another church was built in Wellington, the building that once stood where we are today was re-built after a fire but eventually fell into disuse and was moved to a nearby vineyard.

Lunn,Gerow… Palmer, Chase and Closson, reading off the markers is like scanning the local telephone directory. We continue through the corridors of pillars. “People didn’t enjoy the long lifespans of today…many died in their 20s…over there is a mother and two daughters who died within days of each other…the chap at the back was the postmaster in Wellington for many years, Mr. Burd… here is the former owner of the Cloverdale Cheese factory…there is John Graydon, who was a school teacher in Hillier…this person owned the old hotel in Bloomfield.” We stop to read an inscription that seems to honour every plot: ‘Gone but not forgotten.’

While examining symbols like the weeping willow and the image of hands that are carved in stone, Michael mentions, “Shaking the hand of God or a hand with the index finger pointing upward are common themes…the children’s stones often have a lamb…a little bird…many of the stones carry a fourline quote. There was a stone carver in Consecon and a man by the name of McMullen in Belleville who were known for their intricate work.”

Standing at the farthest corner of the grounds overseeing farmsteads on the horizon, Michael considers, “One can’t imagine how tough life must have been…I believe there were a lot of drinking problems. Over there is Mr. Bell…” I study the stone he points to as he continues, “His obituary tells of how one night in the 1800s he drank at the North American hotel in Picton and never made it home…he was found the next day fallen off his wagon. His wife was so distressed with being left with several children that she apparently arranged with the stone carver to have the hand of fate point its finger downwards.” We ready to leave and move toward the road as Michael reflects on markers in passing, “Robert Pye was the keeper at the Scotch Bonnet lighthouse, Helen B. Anderson was a poet, Lila Dunlap Nease a teacher and author…there are a lot of ‘whys’ in searching out stories with not a whole lot of answers… maybe buying the Wilson house was a calling to something I am meant to do.”

Cemeteries are places of reverence, of remembrance; they stand as testimony to community. For me, whenever I pass the place I call ‘cemetery hill’ I am reminded of something once told to me by an elder, “Any day above ground…”, he said, “is way better than one below.”