The warmth of an early spring does not reach deep inside the dark shadows under the towering canopy of a moss-draped oak. I’m sitting on a gnarled root, surrounded by the shattered remains of tributes to the fallen. Their worn epitaphs tell of a period that few want to remember, and of individuals that no one can recall. The bones of individuals who established this city lie under the dirt all around me.
As I quietly repeat their 18th century names aloud, they seem foreign: Cornelia, Manly, Augustus, Lyman…. They’re from New York, Philadelphia, and Ireland, to name a few cities. They arrived to assist with the construction of Mobile, a city on the Gulf of Mexico at the convergence of five rivers.
Walls, doglegs, and obscuring facades keep Church Street Cemetery disguised but not completely safe.
For the most part, it’s quiet here. The only sound is the susurrus of leaves in a sudden, chilly breeze. Midday traffic flows virtually continuously down the wide artery of Government Street in the distance, like the ceaseless roar of some great river. I can almost see a fat tributary foaming turbulently if I shut my eyes.
It’s more harder to block out automobile alarms, blaring stereos, and squeaking brakes. I’m obliged to try since it’s so peaceful within this necropolis. I concentrate on the here and now, the immediate, and wait for the silence to fall like dust over the graves once again.
The quietus nature of the cemetery entices the destitute to seek sanctuary inside its arms. Perhaps it’s a reminder of the frail thread that binds us all to the brink of oblivion. Alternatively, they may have more fundamental requirements, such as cool shade, soft green grass, and no one except the dead to frighten them away. These are, for the most part, harmless drunks, even friendly. They typically stay to themselves. I’ve never even been asked for spare change.
One person was courteous enough to bring out what he knew about the lost past that was strewn around ruinously yesterday.
With a mischievous grin in his steely blue eyes, he introduced himself as David and revealed his intentions for obtaining accommodation and board that evening. “I’m going to be arrested,” he said with a toothy smile as he raised his bag of drinks. He figured that for something as innocuous as going down the street with an open container, he’d receive a free room and three square meals.
While I don’t think his strategy was the finest one could come up with for getting a room for the night, I see where he’s coming from. Sometimes you have to do whatever it takes to make it. He was smart, eloquent, and well-groomed; he hadn’t yet been beaten down by the streets. We parted ways after I wished him success in his quest.
The next day, I went looking for him, but he was nowhere to be found. I can only presume he found the cell he was looking for. I expected him to return. The majority of the guys who live in Church Street Cemetery—at least the ones who are still alive—hid their few things wherever they could, expecting to retrieve them when they return from their day’s journey.
The majority of folks I witnessed seemed to show reverence for both the cemetery and those who pay their respects to this ancient and sacred site. They also don’t go overboard. I observed no more than five or six men camping out there, and the most of them were gone when I arrived. In the parking lot to the west, a police cruiser was regularly parked. I’m not sure whether he was there to harass the homeless or if it was just a handy nexus for waiting for the next call.
If the latter is accurate, I have to admit that the gang tag spray painted on the brick wall is more concerning to me. I’m particularly troubled by the cemeteries that have been desecrated by punks rather than the ravages of time. The vandals are the ones to be concerned about. They come at night to feast on the history, memory, and sanctity of a once-beautiful Victorian cemetery, stalking the tombs like vampires.
And to those who believe their spray-painted tags guarantee them a place in the city’s history, I remind you that the names Roper, O’Brien, and Cain mean nothing to you. So, what makes you so unique, I inquire? What makes you think we should remember you?
