TWO CENT: The living among the dead | Community

Last Saturday I had the privilege of leading a small group of curious locals through Oakwood Cemetery in Hermitage.

John Zavinski, a founding member of the Sharon Historical Society and my colleague at the Herald, persuaded me to volunteer for the event.

For reasons of space, I will only go into the highlights.

The theme of the tour was “Unsung Heroes.” It was to include ten stops, each with its own relatively unknown story. Some were sad, some historically interesting, but they all had a local familiarity about them.

She Sharon stories.

The event’s booklet (edited by Zavinski) states of the tour stops: “These men and women were the pioneers, the community leaders, the selfless veterans, or simply the friends and neighbors who made the community what it is today… Each stone represents a story, many of which are on the verge of being forgotten.”

Let’s be honest: I’ve always associated cemeteries with something macabre. In reality, Oakwood, like any other cemetery in the country, is a beautifully manicured green space, just as well-kept as Buhl Park in Hermitage and just as colorful.

Flowerbeds line the rows and corners of stone sentinels, which range in size from clipboard to billboard. The wide asphalt paths are perfect for walking, biking, and tours organized by the historical society.

This is because, during the “rural” or “park” cemetery movement of the 1830s, cemeteries became increasingly more garden-like and therefore became popular picnic spots.

That’s what it said in the booklet.

My group initially consisted of about 12 participants. After a nearly 40-minute presentation at the Daffin family plot, that number began to steadily decrease.

Eleven. Ten. Eight.

Halfway along our route, Zavinski gave a talk at the final resting place of his personal heroine, the widely traveled, published author and historian Sarah Graham Morrison.

He began his speech by saying, “It’s a good day to be alive,” which was followed by silence, followed by the sound of a participant clearing his throat.

Towards the end of the presentation, a man in my group, holding his cell phone close to his ear, whispered, “I have to accept that.” I never saw him or his guest again.

Six.

Morrison’s life, a story not unlike those one would find in the “Adventure” section, includes episodes in the United States, Canada, Egypt, India, Burma, China, Japan, Peru, Bolivia, *gasp* Chile, Argentina, Uruguay, Brazil, Portugal, and England.

When he finished, we had five minutes left. “Who wants to talk about trees?” asked John.

Five.

As I watched my followers flounder, I began to feel pity for the reluctant and complaining Moses we see in Numbers 11:11-15. But just like God’s chosen crybabies during the Exodus, we kept going.

The next checkpoint was the tombstone of Sharon’s celebrated Gypsy Queen, whose funeral and burial attracted national attention. She was rumored to have hidden a fortune in Gypsy gold, jewelry and other exotic trinkets.

The tombstone, a stone cross about my height, looked as if it had been placed on a carnival float; colorful beads and faux pearls clung to its otherwise stoic form.

Between this stop and the next, a woman claimed she was looking for the local restroom, but the look in her eyes told me she was actually looking to use the restroom in her own house.

Four.

When we reached the Buhl Chapel and the Mausoleum two stops later, group three had now become a group of three.

The chapel itself was a masterpiece of masonry and carpentry, with wooden beams modelled on archangels and a neo-Gothic exterior made of dark stone. Twelve Tiffany windows, six on each side, let in shafts of colourful light. Each design centred on an object symbolising one of the twelve apostles.

I immediately recognized the window that was supposed to represent Judas: a golden chalice with a coiled snake inside.

I know we’re supposed to hate Judas, but come on, this is the most metal thing I can think of.

Zavinski’s zeal for local history goes beyond the necessary and reaches into infinity. Nowhere else have I seen a grown man practically revert to a child on Christmas morning at the sight of a century-old obituary or a smudged photograph of a building that no longer exists.

Don’t laugh; this kind of personal commitment is crucial to preserving Sharon’s identity. America’s unknown Sharons and Sharpsvilles need dedicated historians to keep their stories alive, even if only in newspaper clippings and tattered letters.

Programs like the Oakwood History Walk aren’t just an excuse to get some fresh air. They aim to make these stories known in a tangible way. While they may seem unimportant to us in this day and age, they are nonetheless part of the larger American story.

I recommend visiting Oakwood and trying to find one of your relatives. The Sharon Historical Society also offers regular tours and is full of interesting things to see.

PHILIPPIANS 3:8-11

In fact, I consider everything a loss because knowing Jesus intimately is priceless.

For his sake I have suffered the loss of all things and count them as rubbish, in order that I may gain Christ and be found in him, not with my own righteousness that comes from faith, but with that which is through faith in Christ, the righteousness that comes from God through faith.

That I may know him and the power of his resurrection, and share in his sufferings, and be conformed to him in his death, so that by every possible means I may attain the resurrection from spiritual death.

JOEY GARCIA is an editor and page designer at the Herald. Follow him on Instagram: @joeyg_art_cia2.0