Finding Good Fortune in a Cemetery

As I drive through the intricately designed wrought iron gates of the Bonaventure Cemetery an otherworldly feeling settles over me. My car radio screeches with static only to begin the crooning of Louis Armstrong’s “What a Wonderful World” … oddly enough on a rock station. It is as if I have descended upon a magical place where life is cast upon land amongst both man and God’s masterpieces. I envision God scooping out the grassland and marsh and pouring in the cool waters of the Wilmington River to hug this land shaded by mighty Oaks so that sculptures, that would rival that of Lorenzo Bartolini, could grace the Spanish moss ridden plots and be preserved from the harsh Southern sun. Then suddenly some college kid, that looks as if he should have saved the money he spent on his camera equipment and bought some soap on a rope, knuckles in on your Zen moment so he can get “the perfect shot” before he is forced to step one foot to the right. What the heck is a kid doing with a camera that it took you turning thirty-two to get anyway? Is there an empty plot around here somewhere? Where better to hide a body? I digress.

Taliaferro Memorial

Nature, beauty, art, and death – what more do you need when celebrating the circle of life? How about a party hat and a fruity drink with a little umbrella? Though Bonaventure means "Good Fortune" let’s not forget the life insurance. After all, it isn’t everyday that you have the opportunity to walk amongst war veterans, actors, government elite, Academy Award winners and others that make up a veritable cornucopia of ghostly goodness. One of them might have taken a liking to you. Just thank your lucky stars you won’t be rubbing elbows on this trip.

American Legion Field at Bonaventure Cemetery (Veterans of World Wars)

Bonaventure’s specter saga begins with the American Revolutionary War when Bonaventure acted as a hospital for French troops who were doing their dead level best to capture Savannah from the British. Anyone who has ever visited Savannah knows that she is a city worth fighting for. Thankfully… er… tragically, many French troops died awaiting care sought at Bonaventure. Do their spirits seek solace even today?

If a ghost named Pierre sidling up to you with a cigarette hanging from his mouth does not, however, get your juices flowing then there are far more ghosts to choose from. Bonaventure is the resting ground to many soldiers. The Revolutionary, Civil, Spanish-American, Vietnam, Korean, World, and Gulf Wars are all represented amongst these sacred markers.

Conrad Aiken Memorial

If you prefer to make love, not war, there are still more spirits to choose from. Poet Laureate Conrad Aiken is buried at Bonaventure. Though, with his many accomplishments it is doubtful that Pulitzer Prize winning Aiken is disgruntlingly haunting the grounds of Bonaventure, his spirit trailing after you, reciting The Dance of Life, “... ruinous blisses, joyous pains, life the destroyer, life the breaker, and death, the everlasting maker...”

Edythe Chapman, Actress

Now, one could argue that Mrs. Edythe Chapman may have more of what it takes to be a discontented spirit. Silent films were never truly given their due. Have you ever contemplated the intricacies of conveying a broken heart with no words and it not being received as a wicked case of indigestion? Mrs. Chapman was one of the finest of silent screen actors, being known as “Hollywood’s Mother” in the 1920s. Making movies with a man such as Cecil B. Demille should offer you some notoriety yet there are not nearly the trails of feet tracking amidst Edythe’s grave that there are elsewhere.

"Little" Gracie Watson Memorial

No. The faint imprint of variously sized Crocs are primarily around such sites as Johnny Mercer’s and Little Gracie’s graves. If Mr. Mercer’s name does not ring a bell then you have announced yourself as a tourist. No one will hold that against you, not in the heartland of Southern hospitality. You will simply be educated. You might be surprised at what you already know, in fact. Ever heard of “Hooray for Hollywood,” “You Must Have Been a Beautiful Baby,” “Jeepers, Creepers”? No? All right, you will get a pass on those but you should probably widen your musical repertoire if you haven’t heard of Mr. Mercer’s most-famous “Moon River.” This world-famous Academy Award winner is buried in Bonaventure Cemetery and this site is hard to miss. With its majestic cross watching over his family’s graves and a reflection bench engraved with many of his song titles, his caricature, and his autograph it’s hard to miss.

Johnny Mercer Family Plot

No one can truly put his or her finger on why “Little” Gracie Watson has become such a ray of sunshine in this plantation of the dearly departed. One can only assume that her story touches that uncorrupt part that still somehow resides within the iniquitous, and often cynical, marrow we call our souls. Gracie, with her wavy locks and bowtie mouth, is the shining light of reality that bursts through the crap-storm of drama that is our daily lives. Allow me to explain.

Gracie was born in 1883 and was an only child to a father who managed the Pulaski Hotels. “Little” Gracie was known as a sort of hostess to all of the guests. Described as “beautiful and charming” the guests cherished her up until 1889 when the only child of Mr. and Mrs. Watson lamentably closed her big eyes for the last time at the tender age of six. Pneumonia had claimed a very young life. When John Walz, a rising sculptor who has many examples of his work within Bonaventure Cemetery, moved to Savannah in 1890, he was so stirred by the effect that Gracie’s presence, and then the lack thereof, had on her family and the many guests that frequented Watson’s hotels that he felt compelled to immortalize her in marble by carving her likeness from a photograph.

Gravesite of John Walz, Sculptor

Ironically, Mr. Walz was buried at Bonaventure with no headstone to speak of. This story is a fabulous catalyst to a proper, albeit personal, paradigm shift; how easily we reap the benefits of the product of someone's thoughtfulness while we so easily forget the thoughtful one himself. Gracie’s story centers us while John Walz's twist on that story rocks our world. Gracie's story reminds us of the sweet innocence of children and that at one time innocence once resided in each of us. It goes even deeper to remind us that simply being that welcoming presence in someone’s life can make a significant difference. All the while, Walz's story reminds us that we should seek reward in what we are doing for others rather than seeking reward for what we have done for others.

Of course, this little tour of the inner, deeper, you is made possible by your putting two and two together: Gracie's memorial and John Walz's lack thereof. Most folks just check out the lovely marble girl, read the sad story, and proceed on with their fast food lives, begging for a juicy tidbit of information that they can construe into a blood curdling tale of which would curl the toes of Michael Myers.

If you do find yourself seeking after such dubious goings-on, please note that Bonaventure Cemetery has a strict closing time of 5 o’clock. A nice gentleman will be standing at the large iron gates ready to shut and lock them. It does cause one to wonder. Is it me they are trying to keep out or something nefarious they are attempting to keep in? The only noted after-hour visitors have been Minerva and the dogs. Minerva, as readers of Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil know, was the most famous of Voodoo priestesses in Savannah and she had an appreciation for Bonaventure Cemetery, not to mention a respect for the spirits within. Was her passion so strong that her spirit is collecting soil for her many spells still today? I will leave you to figure that one out. As for the dogs, well, just make sure you are out of the gates by five o’clock. There’s nothing quite like being chased down by a pack of ghost dogs to rack up the therapy bills.

You see, there is a whole other side of this cathartic wonderland. Just as dusk begins to appear, the sun setting behind the old oak trees leaving the Wilmington River to be cast in the moon’s glow, fog rolls through the cemetery from off of that same river and an eerie feeling settles over you. Your heartbeat begins to match that of the bass line in Dr. John’s rendition of “Season of the Witch.” You instinctively look around, expecting an old black woman in a Voodoo gown to creep up on you and ask you if you want your bones read. Dogs begin to bark in the distance, raising the hair on the back of your neck. Thankfully, just then, a groundskeeper honks and pulls his truck up to nicely remind you – with Southern hospitality – that this esoteric haven of perverse beauty, which has quickly become a necropolis of nightmare proportions, closes promptly in four minutes. You make your way back to your car and wave at the nice gentleman at the gate, leaving with just one question, “Did that statue just wink at me?”

What I like about coffee...

I stumbled upon a draft that I thought was sweet so I made a simple jpg of it.

St. Augustine, FL

Yeah, I know I suck in the most prodigious of ways in regard to my actual post-time on here; but, I swear I will try and do better. Hmmm... a feeling of déjà vu just engulfed me, visions of my mother with a stern - not to mention incredulous - look on her face. I digress.



During my last trip to St. Augustine, FL, I really stopped and took the time to enjoy some of the things that the city had to offer. As the oldest continuously occupied European established city, and the oldest port, in the continental United States¹, I knew there simply had to be some cemeteries or, at the very least, some churches so rich in history that being there took you back in time.



The Spanish influence of St. Augustine is still alive and thriving today. From its architecture to its spirit, the city is resplendent with an eclectic mix of class, spice and life. Whether you are attending school within a historic landmark such as Flagler College, worshiping at Memorial Presbyterian Church, or simply driving over the Bridge of Lions, one cannot evade the rich sense of history and pride that St. Augustine is inundated with.

Walking along the halls of what is now Flagler College, yet in the late 1800's was a luxury hotel, you can almost feel the brush of fine clothing as if the elite of St. Augustine are rubbing shoulders with you.



In 1885, Henry Flagler began construction on the 540-room Ponce de León Hotel. Learning that the hotel was the first large scale building constructed entirely of poured concrete, it is easy to envision a sterile industrial building. It only goes to show you how versatile concrete is in construction. No, the word "concrete" certainly does not assist in imagining a building that embodies such grandeur as the Ponce de León Hotel truly does.

Today, 124 years later and since purchased by Flagler College, there is still something so majestic about the rust colored steeples and spires that reach towards the Florida sky. With its Spanish Renaissance Revival style with scattered cupolas and its lush surroundings, it is easy to see why this was one of Flagler's few hotels that survived the Great Depression.






There is no contesting that St. Augustine has a heavy spiritual influence just as its greatest influence, Spain, does. While the city has many beautiful and noteworthy churches, Memorial Presbyterian Church is my favorite. With its Venetian Renaissance styled copper dome rising roughly 150 feet overhead and the painstakingly intricate terracotta frieze done by Italian artists, this church is remarkable amongst the Spanish city’s architectural norm and is one of the most attractive sites of St. Augustine.

Original to the first church building, the bell in the east tower and the five pillars surrounding the church are noteworthy as the pillars are made of coquina. Coquina stone is a natural sedimentary rock formed along the east coast of Florida. While Florida may not be well-supplied with what most would consider a "rock", it is well equipped with coquina which is mainly composed of seashells or coral.

The First Presbyterian Church of St. Augustine was organized in 1824, only three years after Florida was bartered to the United States and religious freedom was inculcated in what was before that a Spanish colony. The present-day church building was built, interestingly enough, by Henry Flagler just as the Ponce de León Hotel was. He was the son of a Presbyterian minister. Memorialized for his daughter in 1889 and dedicated in 1890, Flagler had the church erected; and, subsequently the name of the church was changed to Memorial Presbyterian Church.

Finding Yourself

What do you see when you see me?
Because when I see you...

I see someone trying so hard
To let down their guard
Only long enough for me to catch
A glimpse of that match that'll scratch
Your surface and leave you charred.

I see the one who is hiding, subsiding.
I see you who is disengaged and upstaged.

I feel it swirling all around me...
The hate, the weight
While you debate and create this dictate
That we all get in line for.

I sense the quake and the ache
While you break and mistake me for
One of these stooges, you confuse us for.

What do you see when you see me?
Or are you really seeing me at all?

There is more to me than this.
This facade that no prod, no act of God
Could ever erase the face of my disgrace.

This bluff that, oddly enough, shows I'm tough
When, in reality, I cry and die, say goodbye,
Turn a blind eye to all those same sins you bury.

I am not my tears, cheers, or fears.
I am who I am when it appears
That I have put the world aside to bide and ride while I collide
Into the reality of what is left of me.

When I am left naked and exposed, completely disclosed
Then I am who I am... who I am at my best,
Not redressed on this quest while I wrest
The true test of my soul.

When I retreat inside and putting pride aside
I reside in fortitude and see gratitude
For the love I possess in this mess we call a world.

I recognize the revise of the script that is my life,
Not downplaying my heart so rife with my strife
Towards eternal life and all that it entails.

I observe the verve, nerve and swerve
It took to allow joy and peace to fleece and lease
That lot called my piece of the pie that is this world.

I dredge and acknowledge my pledge,
That cannot deny my longsuffering,
Amongst that which resounds, sounds and surrounds
I find still some kindness in my often mindless meanderings.

While I understand it's canned to reprimand me
To brand myself as valuable, stable, not able
To label myself as "good."

Yet there, through the mire, I aspire and find
Behind my stress is goodness, no less than
What my God has made me to be.

Through my faithfulness I am rewarded and afforded
A gentleness that embraces, encases, the laces
That, unstrung, reveal my discipline within while I begin again
To try and solve this riddle that is my soul.

More Inspiration from Bonaventure

Some photos speak for themselves...

Near the West Virginia/Virginia Border:

Ohio Photo Opps

Dawes Arboretum

Experiencing the cold, wet, winter that is Ohio, Dawes Arboretum stands as a beacon of hope and light for all tourists searching for nature amidst the ice, sleet, and snow. For this is an arboretum, of which resides many trees and shrubs indigenous to the respective area! Surely Dawes Arboretum will proclaim, "There is life in Ohio!"



For he that planteth a tree is a servant of God! (Henry van Dyke) Unfortunately, ol' Henry didn't specify that said tree should be both of a hardy sort and unspeakably beautiful year round. Alas, we poor unfortunate Winter tourists are not blessed to enjoy such amazing specimens as the Green Ash with it's golden hued leaves that would lighten up any tenebrous evening in chilly Ohio.

We give honor due, however, to whom honor is truly due: the planter of holly, whether it be tree or shrub.



And we give honor to the planter of many, many, er... many conifers such as the blue spruce for they are planted far and wide.

Welcome to the midwest...

Much like when Steven Spielberg was trying to make us cringe and hold our breaths by applying the Jaws Theme whenever that pernicious shark was sure to appear, so does West Virginia and Ohio prepare us for the chilling and, just as painful, bite of their version of Winter. The icicles along the cliffsides begin just as the Jaws Theme does: slow, interspersed and seemingly innocuous. As the innocent bystander goes on their merry way, however, the occurrences are no longer rare and isolated incidents but rather are becoming part of the regular scenery, constant background music if you will. And just as in all horror movies, following any good plot line, there must be a dramatic climax... only one truly clinched and guranteed result of such an apocalyptic buildup - and that, my friends, is that the victims will know pain and agony as they have never truly understood such things before. This is the very best description I could possibly impart to anyone who is considering, however insane it may be, to visit a place such as Ohio in January.

Writing...

Okay. I've been trying to write...again. I started with two small pieces. I say "piece" because calling this writing "poetry" just seems so trite or maybe even pretentious. I can write innocuously about locations, opinions, and God's creations. Unfortunately, writing that is completely based upon my imagination... Well, that leaves me feeling naked and vulnerable. In all honesty, I have decided to post these two pieces now because my blog has been left stagnant for near six months now; and, I am a coward who is hoping that if anyone reads this, at all, they will be disturbed or distorted enough to actually enjoy or identify with this:

My passion
My light... it dies out only to come back like wind to the embers
It all remains hot ash until the sound of leaves rustle and the trees sway
Then it's there... it's coming back to life.

The pain submerges, the hurts allowed
the anger drowns but with it my soul
that extra part of me that is so fraught... so charged with life

let the leaves blow
let the trees sway
let the tide roll and let the earth quake

I'm alive
I sing, I laugh, I paint, I write, I am

nothing can stop me now as I soar
I fly high above the treetops that swayed in my awakening
the leaves swirl around me in a tornado of excitement at my arrival
the waves lap at my feet as I dance upon the the shoreline

Yet again, I have arrived.

--------------------------------------------------------------------

The weight holds me down
It pushes, suppresses, maligns
I wave my hand above the water
I see my face and stretch towards it

I push back
I trudge
I press away the mire and rebuke the resistance
I fought so hard to push the monster into the dark
only to find the best parts of me sacrificed

Me, that person... her – she fights
water trickles like the soft keys of a piano and I swim
I break the crest and I breath I breath again

before I slept as if in a daze
I could hear and see but could not take part in my dreams

now I walk amongst the other dreamers only now I take command
now I imagine, I dance
now I write the pages instead of turning themselves
i have awakened.

Let me sleep no more
let me listen to the soft tinkering of the piano as the trickling water turns into crashing waves and washes the darkness away only to leave the light

cleanse me make me not new but what I was meant to be
leave me being... me
who I am
I am awakened

my heart sings, my hand writes, my soul paints the portrait that is my life

Mission Nombre de Dios

Father Lopez, founding pastor of the the parish of St. Augustine, wrote in his diary, "On Saturday the 8th the General landed with many banners spread, to the sounds of trumpets and salutes of artillery. As I had gone ashore the evening before, I took a Cross and went to meet him singing Te Deum Laudamus. The General followed by all who accompanied him, marched up to the Cross, knelt and kissed it. A large number of Indians watched and imitated all they saw done." This sets the tone perfectly for Mission Nombre de Dios. Tucked amongst the beautiful salt marshes of St. Augustine, Florida, this Mission is both a place of peace and tranquility.





When you first look upon "The Great Cross" it is easy to see why Father Lopez documented that moment in time and how it is so clearly edified in a cross that can be seen by Google Earth's satellites. It is made of stainless steel and ascends 280 feet above the beautiful marshes that surround it. It is truly a breathtaking sight.





As you stroll towards the Chapel of Our Lady of La Leche you will follow a path along "The Seven Sorrows of Mary." These are tabby monuments with carvings placed almost as if they are headstones upon the tabby, save for the first which is an actual statue of Mary holding Jesus, the cut from which poured water boldly displayed on His side. They are referred to as "meditations" for they afford us "an opportunity to meditate on some of the major events in the life of Jesus."



All paths lead to the chapel. The present-day chapel is actually the fourth in its place. Originally erected in 1615, the previous chapels were victims of war, storms and even pirates! The latest version of the chapel was erected in 1918 and definitley still has that old world charm. It is small and quaint but feels no less spiritual in size.