I can think of nothing more relaxing than spending a
beautiful, summer evening sitting in a graveyard. That’s right. A graveyard. On
Sunday evenings, the Yorktown Summer Music Series features music performed in the cemetery
of Grace Episcopal Church. Last night we took a picnic supper, a bottle of wine, and folding chairs to enjoy the music of one of our favorite local bands,
Poisoned Dwarf.
The cemetery was nestled under a canopy of trees that
surely must be as old as some of the departed who have rested beneath them for two hundred years or more. Many of the tombstones were broken or so
worn you couldn’t read the inscriptions. I found myself thinking about the
lives of the people buried there. I started imagining stories about
them, wondering whether they had lived during the Revolutionary War or perhaps
died because of the war. Had some of them fought on the nearby battlefields or
traversed the river down the hill from the cemetery? Had they been active members of the
Episcopal church that served as a backdrop for the concert?
I tried to imagine the life of one woman whose husband
had died many years before she did. Was she left to raise a brood of children
on her own? One tombstone reminded me that infant mortality was high in
the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. Losing children to disease was a
common occurrence in the generations before vaccinations and good medical care.
But the heartfelt inscriptions indicated the loss was no less painful for those
parents.
As I sipped my wine from a plastic flute, my
imagination soared. I found myself assigning faces, personalities, and settings
to both the deceased and their survivors. I started making up stories in
my head and wishing I had taken my laptop to the concert.
I began to glance around at the other concertgoers and
wondered about their lives and their stories. Where had they lived, traveled, worshipped,
worked, and raised their families? Who might be dealing with chronic illness, a
cancer diagnosis, divorce or the recent death of a loved one? When they laid
their heads on their pillows each night, what was on their minds just before
going to sleep?
I went to the concert to relax and take a break from
writing. But my mind wouldn’t shut down and let me simply enjoy the music and
the pleasant breeze. I’ve heard other authors of fiction mention this
sometimes-frustrating phenomenon. Every situation we encounter and every person
we meet inspires us to write. Fortunately, retirement affords me time to do just that every day.
Cindy L. Freeman is the author of two award-winning
short stories, a novella, Diary in the
Attic, and three published novels: Unrevealed, The Dark
Room, and I Want to Go Home.
Website: www.cindylfreeman.com; Facebook page: Cindy Loomis Freeman.
Her books are available through amazon.com or hightidepublications.com