The American Cemetery

Sometimes what we don't plan for ends up being what we needed to see, something memorable and heart-stopping.

We planned for some sightseeing on our first day in England--going to Cambridge to see King's College Chapel and to explore a little bit of that city, then on to Ely (pronounced EElee) to visit the cathedral there. But along the way we passed a cemetery that I didn't know existed, one that sent a shiver through my bones and tears to my eyes. It was the resting place of the American soldiers who lost their lives in World War II while stationed in England.

Imagine rows and rows of white crosses in he midst of quiet green fields and trees; imagine each cross with a name, except for those (and there were many) with no name and only an inscription to the unknown soldier sleeping below. Imagine a cool, gray day with a few drops of rain and a light mist hovering just above the trees. Imagine our quiet voices and our sad hearts as we read the names, walked among the graves, and thought about that grim and terrible time in our world's history. But for the grace of God, my father, my uncles, my husband's uncles could also have been beneath that soft green grass.

The British government maintains the site and is currently doing restoration work to the chapel and visitors center. (I took the photo at left through the glass door so it's a little crooked). It will, I think, be stunning when complete. As it is, the cemetery shows the love and gratitude of the British people by the care that is so evident in the neat lawns, shrubs, gardens and reflecting pool.

A granite wall lists alphabetically the names of all the soldiers buried on the site. We found several from West Virginia, bringing the war even closer to home. Such a place makes one proud of their country, and mournful too--such loss of life, and all because of a mad man. So many young men, and probably a few women were there too, who would never live out their lives, see their children grow up, see their countries flourishing because they were there to fight when needed.

I will never understand war; I will never understand the urges that drive men to seek dominion over others at all costs. But I do understand bravery and sacrifice, and I was humbled in its presence.

Copyright Susanna Holstein. All rights reserved. No Republication or Redistribution Allowed without attribution to Susanna Holstein.

The Jackson's Mill Cemetery

Across the road from Jackson's Mill is a small cemetery. The stones told me this burial place had been here for some time. Although I've visited Jackson's Mill many times in the past 12 years, I had not taken the time to visit the small plot and pay respects to those sleeping there.


One of the first things I saw was this young sassafras growing on a woman's grave. It was obvious that the family who tended the grave had purposely left the seedling in place and let it grow. Perhaps their relative had like sassafras tea? I would like such a tree near my grave, I think, with its strong flavorful aroma and rich colored roots and autumn leaves. Yes, definitely a good plant to have nearby.


An older grave decorated a small flag in one corner of the graveyard attracted my attention.

This was an old grave indeed, for a soldier who fought in the Revolutionary War. He must have

been a very young man at the time--he would have been 17 in 1776. And passed away on Christmas Day. What must that have been like for his family? He did not live to see, however, the fame and tragedy of his young grandson--

Stonewall Jackson, the Confederate general renowned for his bravery, tactics and eccentric ways.

This pair of gravestones were beautiful. I did not note the names on the stones, but the verse on the smaller says "Asleep in Jesus, Blessed sleep, From which none, Ever wake to weep." Touching and pretty much to the point.

On another stone, I found the following verse:

I hope someone has strewn the lilies for this lady. How beautiful a sentiment.

As I left the cemetery, I noticed the stone steps still solid and strong after so many years in place, even if a bit worn. My shadow stretched long across them.

In this place of eternal sleepers, a tiny fern or two find a footing in the old stone. Life continues as nature goes its way of planting new growth in the most unlikely places.

Grafton National Cemetery

I knew there was a national cemetery at Grafton, but I had never seen it. No wonder--it is hidden away in a part of town called Fetterman, which used to be a separate community. It is on the opposite side of the Tygart River from downtown Grafton, and feels like a different place. And the cemetery early on Sunday morning had a somber feeling all of its own.

My friend MK Stover told me how to find the cemetery after the storytelling session Saturday night. I had mentioned T. Bailey Brown during the program--Brown is believed to have been the first Union soldier killed in the Civil War. He died on May 22, 1861, in Fetterman. I read about him in a small WV guidebook that has all the test of the historical markers in the state (a very handy thing to keep in the glovebox!).

I was surprised to find that MK knew so much about this soldier. She has, I learned, done a great deal of research on the topic (see her article about him here) and she got me interested in seeing the gravesite of Bailey Brown. For example, she told me that the mother of the founder of Mother's Day said the eulogy for Mr. Brown because no one else would do it--no one wanted to appear to be choosing sides, you see. I am hoping MK will write an article for Goldenseal magazine; I'm sure many people would be interested in learning about little-known bit of history.

So we found our way to the cemetery. Soldiers from the Civil War,, Spanish American War, World War I, World War II, and Korea are buried here. We did not see any graves of Vietnam veterans, but there may be some.

Pictures describe better than words what we found in this place of rest for those who saw so much unrest.

Bailey Brown's resting place.






Rest in peace, soldiers.

Weekend Post 5: Smoke Hole

There is a place in West Virginia I'd always meant to visit. Each time we passed the road that said "Smoke Hole" I'd feel pulled to turn in and explore. But we were always on our way somewhere else and on a schedule. So Smoke Hole remained on my to-see list.

I'm not referring to Smoke Hole Caverns, the touristy stop on Rte 28 that offers tours of some interesting underground caves. I've been there several times with my sons and grandchildren. The real Smoke Hole is another cave, but this one is on top of a mountain. The cave is shaped like a beehive, with a hole in the top. Native Americans used to smoke their meat in the cave, hence the name.

On our return trip last Sunday, we had to pass the road to Smoke Hole. "Turn up there," I told my husband. He sighed; he knows my whims and my urge to "just look" at places along our travels. And that I'll probably ask him to stop many times so I can take photos. The man deserves a badge for patience.

Soon after we started up Smoke Hole Road, this sight greeted our eyes...



And it just got better from there. Tumbles of rocks, small caves, sharp turns with breathtaking views were everywhere. After what seemed like 10 miles, but probably was more like 5, we came to a small settlement. Fishing camps were everywhere, because the road came out on a back stretch of the South Branch of the Potomac. An old store and this log church were on the bank above the river. The church was built about 1850 and was known as the Episcopal Meeting House.

We turned right to head back to a highway and home, realizing that we'd taken a good long detour with this trip. We did not try to hike up to the Smoke Hole--that will have to wait for a trip dedicated to that purpose. But as we drove along the side of the river, a historical marker caught our eye.

It turned out to be the site of the grave of a Revolutionary War soldier named William Eagle. He joined the army in 1776, fought with several companies, was at Valley Forge and Yorktown, then returned to the mountains. He lived until 1848, a grand old man of 87.

A nearby rock outcropping, called Eagle Rocks, was named in his honor. I tried to imagine what this place was like back when Mr. Eagle was living--it is remote enough today, accessible by a twisting one-lane road, bound by high mountains, and enjoying fairly rugged weather in winter. Back then, the natives probably weren't too welcoming either, and there would have been plenty of bear and panthers about. But peaceful too, quiet and incredibly beautiful.

Even today the water in the South Branch is crystal clear. A few trout fisherman were casting lines as we passed, and one told us he'd caught a four-pound trout the day before.

Not a bad place to spend eternity, is it?

We finally got out to Rte 220, and came out at last back on Rte 33 after completing a long, large circle through the mountains. Seneca Rocks was a beautiful as ever in the late autumn sunlight.


When we got home, we were greeted by our visitors, oldest son George and his son Clayton. They came home for a few days of deer-hunting. Luck was with them, because they both went home yesterday with a deer for the freezer.

I do believe this is the last of the posts from last weekend's journey. Family, storytelling, sightseeing, old graves, fruitcakes, and home. It just doesn't get any better than that.