The mountains remember her
Hers is the first grave we decorate. When possible, we bring fresh flowers from mother’s garden.
She hasn’t a name; at least not one Granny shared with anyone. The marker simply states, Infant Daughter of Lawson and Helen. Had she lived, this unnamed infant would have been my granny’s firstborn daughter. A girl who might have grown up to marry and have children of her own one day. She was my mother’s sister. My aunt.
Etched in stone there is a date: July 3, 1928. A statement that she lived only one day.
I notice something new each time we visit the cemetery perched high atop the mountainside. It faces east so when Jesus returns, the souls of those who loved Him will rise so they meet face-to-face. Appalachians have many traditions, how the dead are buried and honored are two that are also etched in stone.
Because of the remoteness of the area, and the lack of money at the time, most of the graves were not marked with store-bought headstones. Instead, misshapen rocks, pointed up, mark the final resting place. Or at least the rocks have served that purpose in decades past. Before the hogs rummaged through the cemetery, and the bear tore down the fence Poppa and his brother’s-in-law built using hand tools.
This is a cemetery time forgot. But the mountains remember.
I have been decorating this particular grave my entire life. My mother would have been five months pregnant with me that May of 1967 when she trekked up the hill to lay flowers at the grave of her sister. Back then, the National Park Service piled dirt on the graves, a show of respect. The winds of time have carried that cover away.
I wonder, did mother feel a tug at her heart when she placed the flowers on the grave in 1967? Did I kick her belly as she bent to honor this unnamed sister? Did my mother ever ask, what was my sister’s name? Or had she learned, like the rest of the family, not to ask questions about dead babies, or inquire about this place which her family once owned outright. A place now called the Great Smoky Mountains National Park. A place 700 families were forced to leave either through a willing-seller to willing-buyer transaction with the North Carolina Park Commission, or with court-ordered land condemnation and eviction.
By July 1928, Helen would have heard about the “park men” sniffing around in the remote woods she called home. She may have even seen Mr. Sloan, a surveyor, traipsing through the woods measuring every inch of the 45.63 acres her Poppa owned. In 1927, the process of surveying all tracts was in full swing. On May 22, 1926, President Calvin Coolidge had signed a law providing for the establishment of the park as soon as at least 150,000 acres, and up to 300,000 acres, were purchased and the deeds delivered to the federal government.
Helen was familiar with the Queen and Styles families, who lived on Indian Creek. She was friends with Sarah and Arizona. It seemed natural to fall in love with their handsome, hardworking brother, Lawson. Helen and Lawson were married at Preacher A.E. Lowe’s house. Their story would not end happily ever after. Not only did their first baby die, but months later the deacons of the Indian Creek Baptist Church delivered the deed for the church property to the North Carolina Park Commission.
The selling of the Lord’s house would have spoken volumes. Many families had already sold and moved. Others, like her mother-in-law, Docia Queen Styles, wanted to stay. They refused to leave their land, their homes, and most of all, the graves of their loved ones. They remained on the land for as long as they could, but eventually, relinquished the land. However, because of the unique construction of the home in which Docia resided, the National Park deconstructed it and moved it to the present-day Oconaluftee Visitor Center. Literally millions of visitors walk the grounds. Few know about the woman who once lived there. The plaque reads Davis Cabin, for the man who built the home; not the Queen family who lived there.
The mountains remember her
Currently, the National Park allows families to drive motorized vehicles to the cemeteries once a year. Traditionally, our Decoration Day falls on Memorial Day weekend, but the family voted to change the date to ease the load of overworked park staff and to limit our interaction with hikers who don’t understand what in the world are all these cars doing in the backcountry. (We get angry looks).
Even if age or ailment hampers the ability to make the steep hike to the cemetery, just the opportunity ride into the same country our people loved is a privilege; one I hope to continue until my last breath. In my humble opinion, everyone who can trace their lineage to Indian Creek, or the Deep Creek watershed area, should load in the back of a pickup truck each May and join us. I don’t understand why more people don’t take the opportunity to visit the way-back part of the mountains, a place their ancestors once called home; a place that I can state, with certainty, would still be under our ownership were it not for the creation of the National Park.
Don’t get me wrong, I am a strong supporter of the park. However, the average visitor has no idea that thriving communities were once hidden beneath the canopy of trees. The sacrifices of those who once lived there mean little to most present-day visitors.
In my upcoming novel, The Mountains Remember (Mercer University Press, September, 2026), there is a sacred spot on Sadie Bird’s farm. It is a secret place. One where she has buried the babies who didn’t survive, little ones who lived only a day, tiny ones whom she would never nurse. Buried on her land were broken pieces of her heart, memorialized with the planting of daffodil bulbs. When the park man sets his sights on Sadie’s land, the thought of leaving her babies is incomprehensible. Sadie can’t. She won’t.
Yet that is what my grandmother, Helen, had to do, as did other women who once resided on land that is now the Great Smoky Mountains National Park and other public lands within the national park system. Visitors see tiny graves scattered throughout church cemeteries, but can any of us truly understand how much pain women endured when forced to leave behind a baby who once lived inside her womb? Or the angst felt when forced to abandon the grave of spouses, parents, or siblings? The Mountains Remember honors this type of loss.
This year, I noticed a small stone near Granny’s daughter. The stone has been there for decades. Perhaps even as far back as the late 1800s when the Indian Creek Church was formed. Immediately I knew, this was a marker, overlooked by many of us throughout the years. You see, when our elders pass on, their memories are at risk of perishing.
It has been said, “Youth is wasted on the young.” Without someone taking notes, sharing stories and photos, the memory of this soul is simply carried away on the wind.
But the mountains remember.