Faith Works 6-8-13

Faith Works 6-8-13

Jeff Gill

 

Thoughts on leaving Fairmount Cemetery

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Depending on when or where you're reading this, you may not know about the delightful sixteen year old young woman who died in our county after an accident on Memorial Day.

 

If you don't, it is enough to say she was well loved by family and friends and classmates and many, many more. She was, as is obvious, far too young to die – as if there is an age where it ever feels entirely right.

 

After a memorial service which attempted to sketch out the depth of our feeling and the breadth of our love for her, a procession longer than I ever hope to see again, and shorter than the number who would have gone if they could, wended its way from Lakewood High School to Fairmount Cemetery on US 40, the old National Road.

 

We passed milestones one after another, worn and weathered, some of the words obscured by the years, "Cumberla…" and "Wheelin…" above numbers once incredibly important, now so small in terms of modern speed as to be no more than the historical curiosity they now are.

 

Others have passed these milestones of course, wagons and carriages and sulkies and carts and buggies and Model Ts and Packards and Hudsons and Mustangs. Earlier funeral processions have gone by them, and more will no doubt do so in days and years to come, while the milestones sit and stare, declaring their sullen distances to no one in particular.

 

The family of the young woman we've lost has been to this cemetery before, for older family members whose days had become a burden, and yet even then it didn't seem like the right time. So much more so today, bright and clear and even beautiful in a way I could only be thankful for later.

 

With the saying of the last formal words at the graveside, and the singing of one last song, we turned and walked away, back to our cars. There were more gatherings to share, stories yet to tell, but for now we were done here.

 

At the top of the hill where the cemetery sits is a small brick church, and matching in bulk next to it, a mound. Some twelve to fourteen feet high, it's a mound from a period that archaeologically goes back about 2,500 years, a period we label today as "Adena," from a typical such mound on the grounds of the Adena Mansion down in Chillicothe.

 

Most Adena mounds are cemeteries themselves, rising up where our contemporary graveyards spread out. Each new usage, from the ground level to the peak, represents a set of interments in most cases, a collection of remains from those who had died in the family or clan over a multi-year period. So some are cremated remains, some bundles of bones, and occasionally a complete, "extended" committal in the middle, likely a person whose death either triggered the next usage of the site, or simply the one who died most recently before the time for burying had begun.

 

Today, the emotion is raw, ragged, painful and deep. Like any fresh, major injury, it is impossible to imagine healing and calm satisfaction ever again while you are hurting with the initial impact. Maybe after a healer's care, perhaps in a day or two, you won't be there yet, but you can conceive of it happening someday. Not in the moment.

 

Yet there, looking down at all of us, is a sign, as are the stones set into the ground all around us, of how that day will come. When those honored dead were brought here, on a litter carried by family (we would imagine), their grief was no less real, no softer-edged, not something you could quickly dismiss. It was over two millennia ago, but you know, you just know, that the pain was sharp and vivid as the remains were covered with earth.

 

You don't want to call it, or imagine it, as detachment, let alone uncaring, but there is a time and season for each wave of feeling in turn. The tide will recede, and when it comes up to fullness again, it will be a different time altogether. The layers mount up towards the sky on the mound, our rows of tombstones extend further towards the horizon. Walking along them, we spot a name we know, remembering that earlier day when we came.

 

And we pass through the gate, and drive down the road, but know that we will be back. One way or another.

 

Jeff Gill is a writer, storyteller, and pastor in Licking County. Tell him about a cemetery dear to you at knapsack77@gmail.com, or @Knapsack on Twitter.

Knapsack 6-6-13

Notes from my Knapsack – 6-6-13
Jeff Gill

Vertical challenges in Our Fair Village
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Philmont Scout Ranch is out in the northeast corner of New Mexico, on the eastern side of the Sangre de Cristo mountain range that you look at from the west if you're in Taos.

75 years old this summer, the property was given to Scouting by Waite Phillips for exactly the purposes to which a group of some seventeen youth and adults will put it in a few weeks: backpacking and hiking. All our food and gear for sleeping and cooking will be on our backs, 35 to 50-plus pounds worth.

And the hiking starts at Base Camp outside of Cimarron, NM at about 7,000 feet of elevation, and our trek (Trek 22 for those who know the process) will cover 81 miles over ten days on the trail (plus a day of orientation at the start, and a day of celebration and check-out at the end, for twelve days total).

The high point on our ten day journey is Baldy Mountain, 12,400 feet, and we don't just hike from 7,000 steadily up to 12,400 and down again over the trek. It's up and down and the whole Grand Ol' Duke of York routine. So training for us tenderfeet is important.

You can put on miles in Ohio, but what about building up those muscles for going uphill, and even more critically, downhill, with loads of water and gear on your back – and properly stowed, on your hips, weight-wise?

For that, you need vertical elevation, and that's not what central Ohio is known for. Add in a busy schedule of clearing the decks so one can be gone for almost three weeks (we're taking the train there and back), and there's not much time to go to places like Zaleski or Shawnee State Forest's rigorous backpacking trails, or put in sharp steep hikes at places like Fort Hill. So what to do?

First, they tell us that eastern woodland hikers sometimes run afoul of thinking their bodies are trained, but hit challenges and injuries because they were in woods on dirt trails for their mileage pre-Philmont, and out west the trails are hardpan and rock. So they actually recommend lots of miles on pavement, and stair-climbing.

Two places I've made extra trips when I have just a spare moment, and my ministerial schedule permits: Licking Memorial Hospital, from the cafeteria area in the basement to the stairs above the sixth floor, gives you virtually nine levels of double staircases from bottom to top and back again, and a second loop for luck; also the Don Hill County Administration Building in downtown Newark gives me five (ten with twice). So there's some stair-based endurance and pounding for my joints.

But right here in Granville, I've found a ten mile loop that gives me almost enough vertical to be challenging, although the real test will be when I hit the true mountain trails, and I'll let you know how it compares.

Anyhow, if you go to the Bryn Du Mansion, head down Jones and west on the walking path; take the side spur after The Colony, then the first turn left, into Bryn Du Woods – bear steadily west, across the main drag to the road that curves up towards Alligator Mound Hill, and then take the emergency access road, walking around the two gates, wheezing your way up to the ancient Alligator itself. Enjoy the view, catch your breath.

Now head down (a couple ways to do this, some of them legal) but end up at College and Granger, turn south, cross Broadway and go up Mount Parnassus; down the backside of it to the gates of Maple Grove, west on Maple to the Pearl St. connector to the bike path, bike path to Main St., and turn right, up the hill past the Old Colony Burying Ground.

Through the Four Corners, up President's Drive to the crosswalk, up the stairs to Swasey Chapel. If you're lucky, the chapel doors are open, and you can go up the steps to the balcony, across, and down the other steps. Then down to Slayter and the stairs behind the commons to Deeds Field and Piper Stadium, wend your way around to Washington, and out Pearl, now North St. to the Bioreserve. Take a loop there, then back to Bryn Du by as much more of this as you can stand, or the direct route of Pearl to Broadway and home.

Jeff Gill is a writer, storyteller, and pastor in Licking County; tell him about your favorite local hikes at knapsack77@gmail.com, or @Knapsack on Twitter.