Nate trudged up an incline of wild undergrowth. The snags and snarls of the rolling terrain appealed less to him than when he'd viewed it from the comfort of the back porch. Below the incline, a stream acted as his compass. He weaved in and out of blackberries and blueberries bushes, and trees of plums, figs, and peaches. All identifiable by the fruit they bore. Sometimes he wandered deep enough into the woods to lose sight of the brook, but the gurgling sound of water rushing across the rock-covered bottom helped him keep his bearing.
He took a moment to rest and thought of Hannah. According to her, it was common long ago for a large estate to have a private cemetery. They agreed that Nathan Freedman's final resting place probably lay somewhere on the property. Odds on finding the grave seemed slim, yet still worth the effort.
After breakfast, his grandparents had taken a trip into town for groceries, believing Nate would spend the morning reading in his room. Nate had watched their car pull around the bend then snuck down the secret staircase and out the backdoor.
He had no real hope of finding the cemetery today, but he could at least scout the area for the most favorable place to start a search. Still, he didn't want to chance missing something. With a stick he fashioned into a staff, he probed the ground for any remnants of a burial site. Vines growing thick enough to hide a fence, piles of rocks that resembled grave markers, or even rocks that looked like broken headstones. Nate investigated them all.
Two hours into the search, he came to a clearing where a gap in a growth of old trees resembled a yawning mouth. Under maples, oaks, and evergreens, a carpet of leaves and fallen branches littered the ground. Nate fig...
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...e people hadn't realized they were on private land. Or maybe they realized it, so had picked the odd parking area.
Spotting something on the passenger seat, Nate pressed his face against the window for a better look. The sleeve of an airline ticket from the same carrier as the one he had taken, lay opened. Nate cupped his face with his hand to block the glare off the glass so he could make out the flight number. Flight 417. Nate straightened, but before he could even think about what that meant, he froze.
Reflecting in the car window just off to his side, loomed a dark threatening shape. Nate wondered if that warning about objects being closer than they looked applied to a car's windows as well. If so, he was in big trouble. He stood as still as possible, the way he heard you should if you were ever hiking in the woods and stupid enough to run into a bear.
He described the fields of Ohio’s villages in autumn and their beauty. He described the “apples ripe”, the “grapes on the trellis’d vines”, “the sky so calm”. so transparent after the rain”. He made us feel as if we were smelling the grapes, the buckwheat and touch them. He made us hear the buzzing of the bees.
Ever take a midnight train to Georgia? No, well ever drive through Georgia? When driving through Georgia on State Road 49, there is a little town called Andersonville that is very easy to miss. To many it is just another town. Yet this town has its own trail. The Andersonville Trail is a small brown dirt road that leads visitors to the Andersonville National Historic Site (Roberts xi). This National Historic Site looks like a “well- tended” national cemetery. On closer examination, this cemetery is nothing like Arlington (Roberts xi). “In this national cemetery, the marble headstones are so close together, they almost touch. The markers appear to be one long head...
Ironically the burial ground’s discovery came from a land of no significance to prime, for an intended thirty-four-story federal office building. An environmental impact statement set off archeological test excavations, by producing an 18th century map delivering necessity to substantiate or disprove survival of a “Negro’s Burial Ground” (Kutz 1994).
The African Burial Ground National Monument and Museum (NPS) is New York’s earliest known African American cemetery, which dates back to 1626. The burial ground was in-active use from 1626 to 1794. The African Burial Ground was the setting for thousands of funerals during the time period. The families that would lay their loved ones to rest would do so with dignity and respect in a ceremony that was rich in traditions. These ceremonies would weave together traditions from their African homeland and new Christian traditions. The site contains the remains of 419 African American men, women and children in what was the largest colonial-era cemetery for free and enslaved Africans. The burial ground was closed in the 1790s, and was later divided into different sections to be put up for sale. The site was then covered with numerous layers of building developments until it was rediscovered in 1991. All other burial sites had already been destroyed over the years by the construction of other buildings. In 1993, the site was designated a National Historic Landmark and it was declared a National Monument in 2006.
Throughout the years, there have been thousands of American soldiers killed in battle. Out of these thousands, there are some that are unidentified and unknown. This means that the families of these soldiers are never able to see their son or daughter ever again. To honor these unidentified soldiers, the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier was created in Arlington National Cemetery in 1921. On top of this hill, this monument contains the remains of unknown soldiers from World War I, World War II, the Korean War, and the Vietnam War. The tomb is guarded twenty-four hours a day and seven days a week. It has been guarded every minute of every day since 1937. Photographer D. Myles Cullen captured one of these tomb guards in action. This visual depicts this tomb guard in front of the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier which is significant because it honors the many soldiers that have died in war without being identified.
I prepared myself for the upcoming adventurous day. I set out along a less-traveled path through the woods leading to the shore. I could hear every rustle of the newly fallen leaves covering the ground. The brown ground signaled the changing of seasons and nature's way of preparing for the long winter ahead. Soon these leaves would be covered with a thick layer of snow. The leaves still clinging to the trees above displayed a brilliant array of color, simultaneously showing the differences of each and the beauty of the entire forest.
After several miles of tromping through the thick, slimy mud, I reached the hill with the tree upon it. Panting, I raced towards the hill and begin to climb it. My foot slid on the slick ground, but I persevered. I reached the top of the hill and felt disappointed. Trees were supposed to be surrounded by other plants and teeming with wildlife. Not this tree. The mud I trudged through covered the hill, coating the tree’s roots. There were no other plants. In fact, as I looked around, I noticed tha...
The cemetery my grandfather is buried at Gate of Heaven Cemetery, one of the largest cemeteries in the New York City area. It’s filled with people of all backgrounds and nationalities that came to the city and surrounding area. It has become home to many people as it was created in 1917 and it’s still active to this day, showing exactly one hundred years of progression. The location of the cemetery’s first plots is important to begin with, because New York City is an urban and central hub for lots of the world, the cemetery being outside the city in Westchester County is done on purpose. A cemetery can be a somewhat depressing sight, so it’s placed away from everyone and where they will only see it if they travel out to. It creates a separation between “us and them” (233). Because of the large number of residents from New York City are buried there, the cemetery’s origins start the progressive story of how it grew. The beginning of the cemetery tells a great deal about who was living there at the time. The original tombstones had all of the last names seemed to be
3. Chapter 1, page 5, #3: “Moving through the soaked, coarse grass I began to examine each one closely, and finally identified the tree I was looking for by means of certain small scars rising along its trunk, and by a limb extending over the river, and another thinner limb growing near it.
He was burried upright in one of the walls of the Church of the Cordeliers at Salon, and his wife Anne erected a splendid marble plaque to his memory. Nostradamus' grave was opened by superstitious soldiers during the Revolution but his remains were reburied in the other church at Salon, the Church of St. Laurent, where his grave and portrait can still be seen.
Sitting in the back seat between two towering piles of clothes and snacks we drive up the abandoned streets of Adell. I see vast open fields of corn and dense wooded forest filled with life, along with the occasional, towering grain house. We pull into a dry, dusty, driveway of rock and thriving, overgrown weeds. We come up to an aged log cabin with a massive crab apple tree with its sharp thorns like claws. The ancient weeping willow provides, with is huge sagging arms, shade from the intense rays of the sun. Near the back of the house there is a rotten, wobbly dock slowly rotting in the dark blue, cool water. Near that we store our old rusted canoes, to which the desperate frogs hop for shelter. When I venture out to the water I feel the thick gooey mud squish through my toes and the fish mindlessly try to escape but instead swim into my legs. On the lively river banks I see great blue herring and there attempt to catch a fish for their dinner. They gracefully fly with their beautiful wings arching in the sun to silvery points.
I slowly trudged up the road towards the farm. The country road was dusty, and quiet except for the occasional passing vehicle. Only the clear, burbling sound of a wren’s birdsong sporadically broke the boredom. A faded sign flapped lethargically against the gate. On it, a big black and white cow stood over the words “Bent Rail Farm”. The sign needed fresh paint, and one of its hinges was broken. Suddenly, the distant roar of an engine shattered the stillness of that Friday afternoon. Big tires speeding over gravel pelted small stones in all directions. The truck stopped in front of the red-brick farmhouse with the green door and shutters. It was the large milking truck that stopped by every Friday afternoon. I leisurely passed by fields of corn, wheat, barley, and strawberries. The fields stretched from the gradient hills to the snowy mountains. The blasting wind blew like a bellowing blizzard. A river cut through the hilly panorama. The river ubiquitously flowed from tranquil to tempestuous water. Raging river rapids rushed recklessly into rocks ricocheting and rebounding relentlessly through this rigorous river. Leaves danced with the wind as I looked around the valley. The sun was trapped by smoky, and soggy clouds.
Her spry, Timberland-clad foot planted itself upon a jagged boulder, motionless, until her calf muscles tightened and catapulted her small frame into the next stride. Then Sara's dance continued, her feet playing effortlessly with the difficult terrain. As her foot lifted from the ground, compressed mint-colored lichen would spring back into position, only to be crushed by my immense boot, struggling to step where hers had been. My eyes fixated on the forest floor, as fallen trees, swollen roots, and unsteady rocks posed constant threats for my exhausted body. Without glancing up I knew what was ahead: the same dense, impenetrable green that had surrounded us for hours. My throat prickled with unfathomable thirst, as my long-empty Nalgene bottle slapped mockingly at my side. Gnarled branches snared at my clothes and tore at my hair, and I blindly hurled myself after Sara. The portage had become a battle, and the ominously darkening sky raised the potential for casualties. Gritting my teeth with gumption, I refused to stop; I would march on until I could no longer stand.
It’s a beautiful morning, as my group of friends and I wake up, we hear the pounding and the thrashing of the water slamming on the moss covered granite rock, I go down the eroded leaf covered pathway to fetch water just like I would do every morning, the sun had just begun to rise, the mixture of scarlet red, orange, and a bleach-like yellow beaming against the hurried water of the river that led into the waterfall shone like flakes of gold floating on top of the whitening water. The serene environment of the surrounding rocks overlooking the waterfall, the ambience of water clashing against the granite, and the aroma of the white pine filling the forest is an awe inspiring experience to all who dare make their way down the narrow and lengthy
On the edge of a small wood, an ancient tree sat hunched over, the gnarled, old king of a once vast domain that had long ago been turned to pasture. The great, gray knees gripped the hard earth with a solidity of purpose that made it difficult to determine just where the tree began and the soil ended, so strong was the union of the ancient bark and grainy sustenance. Many years had those roots known—years when the dry sands had shriveled the outer branches under a parched sun, years when the waters had risen up, drowning those same sands in the tears of unceasing time.