On Simplicity I

Pillars of Love

Helena Rufe: “Aged three years, died 1852.” Marie Penrose-Farren: “Deceased A.D. 1881, her twenty-fourth year.” Patrick Mahoney Koller: “Passed Unto Glory — September 9, 1995.” So read the markers in Old St. Mary’s, home to parishioners who have gone home.

As a parish groundskeeper, one of my great joys is reading the epitaphs in our cemetery. These final vestiges of my parish forefathers have been fodder for many hours of pensive reflection, with my 28-inch John Deere ahead of me. They serve a greater purpose than simply to mark the deaths of past parishioners; they tell tales of immigrant travel, ordinary townspeople, and inter-family treachery. Each plot represents an irreplaceable contribution to the history of our church and town. The stories of the souls whose bodies now rest in St. Mary’s Cemetery are enlivening.

History is revealed even in the simple appearance of a headstone. Granite or limestone, sunken or flush, modern or archaic text, white or gray or red—all are evidence of a gravestone’s age, quality, and cost. The majority of St. Mary’s markers date from the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries and bear the names and dates of impoverished Irish immigrants who could afford little more than backyard rubble for a memorial. That’s what gives St. Mary’s its charm.

Before I ever start my work in the graveyard, I make a two- or three-minute pilgrimage to the central monument, built in honor of the Blessed Virgin. There, I am always amused to see the five forsythia, which were ordered to be unearthed three pastors ago, still thriving vibrantly and speedily overtaking the neighboring azalea. Poor Msgr. Fogarty’s wish was never granted, but at least now he lies in his beloved southeast corner plot, closest to the parish schoolhouse across State Street. Despite the forsythia folly, I’m sure he lies in peace with the scent of nearby hemlocks.

After visiting the monument, I usually return to the cemetery entrance, dragging the Deere behind me. The gates are a striking splendor of stained glass, shaped as a butterfly. Designed by a parishioner, they are wonderfully symbolic of new life and brilliantly dyed in spring colors. Because of the work ahead of me, I can never stop to stare, but rather must turn my back on their beauty and proceed to cut the grass in north-south passes.

In my third pass, I happily cut around the Nugent obelisk—the “Colossus of Doylestown.” Its whitewashed limestone reflects every ray of light that hits it and attracts the eye of every man who passes it. A standout among the immigrant rubble, the Nugent pillar memorializes an affluent and influential lawyer who worked two blocks from the church, at the county courthouse. The somewhat ostentatious, spire-like column tapers to the top, where there stands a proud but weatherworn statuette of the Good Shepherd. For nearly a century and a half, the monolith of Theodore Nugent, Esq. has towered over his remains and served as a landmark for cars traveling on State Street toward the center of town.

Later passes take me by many old friends, like Sophie Mayer, Peter Polka, William O’Doyle, and others. In the middle of the cemetery annex, where the grass smells freshly cut even before I arrive, Rose Traylor’s plot always awaits me with a new trick. Rose’s headstone is tended fastidiously by her sister, who still lives locally and pays her respects each day after the eight o’clock Mass. It seems that at least once a week a new plant sprouts up in front of dear Rose’s stone. Although St. Mary’s has no restrictions on items that may be placed or planted at gravesites, as time has passed, it has become an increasingly difficult challenge to cut the grass on Rose’s plot, or even to distinguish weeds from flowers. As a maintenance employee performing a corporal work of mercy, I don’t mind the extra work that Mrs. Traylor creates for me, but her efforts always draw a chuckle. She’s lucky to rest in the annex—one of the most secluded and sweetest smelling areas in the graveyard.

But perhaps the section of the cemetery I find most meaningful is the eastern edge, where lay the deceased infants and stillborn babies of our parish families. Tiny plots are provided to couples that suffer the dreadful loss of one so young. Shaded in the summertime by the pink blossoms of a dogwood stand, the miniature memorials recall the hallowedness of all human life. They testify to the sanctity of all human souls and stand as pillars of love. Although they are easily visible from both the church and school parking lots, the silence of the infants’ section is left undisturbed. It is truly a sanctuary of innocence.

The short lives of those babies and the beauty of their resting place have had tremendous influence on passers-by—more than Mr. Nugent or his pillar will ever have.