Mandy Newham-Cobb illustration
I once had a neighbor who planted splendidly ostentatious flower beds. They stood out amongst the dreary early days of spring like a sore—though quite green—thumb.
The patches of cheerful blooms seemed to unfold overnight across his lawn. I was awestruck, even envious, for the entire first week of passing his creation on my daily route to and from work. And then one day there were new additions. The floral blanket transcended from natural greens and pale pinks to vibrant neon oranges and unnatural electric blues.
Something was amiss.
As I drove slowly by his house one afternoon, I discovered my neighbor’s secret. He had lined his flowerbeds with silk flowers. Artificial charlatans had invaded our neighborhood! My insecurity vanished. After discovering his hoax, each time I passed it, his yard became more reminiscent of a graveyard than Eden. Still, I smiled—though for a very different reason.
Due to various motives, faux flora often adorn the graves of our loved ones, particularly in observance of special holidays such as Memorial Day or, as it is known in some circles, Decoration Day. There may be nothing more effective at removing the eerie quality of overgrown, abandoned graveyards than the gathering of dozens of families on a spring day, picnic baskets in hand, to spill bouquets of primary-hued fabric flowers around the bases of gray stones and to meticulously weed away signs of neglect. It is spiritual. Communal. It is historical. Cultural. It is many things; but it is certainly not artificial.
According to the U.S. Department of Veteran’s affairs, “three years after the Civil War ended, on May 5, 1868, the head of an organization of Union veterans—the Grand Army of the Republic (GAR)—established Decoration Day as a time for the nation to decorate the graves of the war dead with flowers,” believing this would be an appropriate time because flowers would be in bloom throughout the entire country. The first large-scale observance of Decoration Day was held in Arlington, Virginia, consecrating Robert E. Lee’s former homestead with commemorative draping. Ulysses S. Grant presided.
Today we think about Decoration Day, which became Memorial Day following World War I, as a national holiday. But Memorial Day was not originally a Southern holiday. While it has long been tied to a spiritual recognition for the dead, the holiday’s formal recognition came to honor United States military casualties, specifically Union soldiers. In true American spirit, inclusivity dictated that the graves of Confederates should also be honored with the tradition. At least, this is the official origin story.
Almost a year ago, I discussed Decoration Day in the mountains with Luke D. Hyde, proprietor of the Historic Calhoun House. He told me of visiting Watkins Cemetery in Bryson City on Memorial Day and of the waves of distinct segments of our community that would come and decorate family plots. This cemetery is somewhat unique for the American South. It is host to graves dating back to the early 1820s, representing European, African American, and Cherokee populations that make up our community’s composition. It is a completely unsegregated cemetery and has been since long before the Civil War. Though they may not arrive at the site at the same time, descendants from across the racial and cultural landscape of Western North Carolina gather here on Memorial Day. Populations that might have attended quite different churches that morning eventually emerge as one in observance of their ancestors and of the blood that some say has turned our clay soil red.
After hearing of this place, and after imagining the beauty of such a day, I soon found myself, with seven-year-old son in tow, taking a detour on my way home from work one day. I was eager—almost giddy—to witness the site of such unparalleled celebration of unity. I was idealistic to say the least.
Watkins Cemetery is perched at the end of a washed-out gravel drive. It would easily blend in with the small community were it not surrounded by a chain-link fence. We parked without obstacle as no one else was visiting.
This would be the second cemetery my son had joined me in exploring. The first required a canoe journey across Fontana Lake, my grandfather’s childhood home deep beneath the TVA-controlled waters, to a portion of the North Shore’s Hazel Creek, and then a brief hike past the remnants of Proctor—now an isolated, practically inaccessible area. Proctor Cemetery, as well as many community graveyards along the North Carolina border of Tennessee, has become a casualty of environmental protection progress. Though now forever sheltered from the slow creep of industry and commercialization, these family plots were consumed partially by land swaps and government usurpation in the name of eminent domain when the Great Smoky Mountains National Park and other federal works projects took root. It is now commonplace for large families to journey miles into the forest, along park-maintained trails, to pay homage to their homesteader ancestors.
As we began our exploration of Watkins—thankful for the significantly easier access than Proctor—I reminded my son of the solemnity of such places. That did not restrict his incessant complaints of briars scraping his bare legs or of his rather inappropriate fascination with battling imaginary zombies with his light saber. And while I reminded myself of the sacredness of the surroundings, I also felt disoriented by the wayward stones dotting the field in front of me, many of which were just that—stones with no name or dates or scripture. Tall yellowing grasses concealed rows of small memorials while larger gleaming headstones and newly placed bouquets flanked the outskirts.
There were differences in the plots, but those differences were not exclusionary nor created barriers. It was as if those differences were squeezed together into one windbreak of remembrance emoting upward from the dusty earth. Each speck, aged or fresh, was necessary and intentional. And for those that were not, for those stones or plots that had weathered many storms, there were reminders, like the shelter for gathering, that soon someone would arrive to mend them. Amid the disarray, the stones, even those without words, stood upright. They were preserved. Someone cared for the departed. As it was with my neighbor’s flowers, things were not as they seemed but for the contrary reason. There was no order or superficial beauty to the space. It was rough and daunting to navigate, but it was, and is, remarkable. It is beautiful because of its natural vulnerability and a community that guards its simplicity.
Linda Ellis penned the poem, “The Dash,” that I have heard referenced both at funeral services and motivational speaking events. The poem reminds us that though we often mark our lives with the date of our birth and the date of our death on headstones or in obituaries, what really matters is the space in between, the dash that represents every love, every moment, and hope. As I took my son’s hand and explained to him about why this was such a beautiful place and why some of the most significant stones were the ones without words, I looked down at his smile of understanding and reminded myself, once again, that it is about the dash in between the years. The space. The space or lack thereof between us and our neighbor and our loved ones.
Sometimes it’s about ensuring that there is as little space or markers of space between us. For those markers subvert the core of what community is—to be in communion with one another. Sometimes it’s about taking the time to truly understand why one might plant artificial flowers, instead of just driving by and shaking our heads.
About the author: Annette Saunooke Clapsaddle is an award-winning author and member of the Eastern Band of Cherokee Indians.