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A few weeks ago, driving through Lincolnville, just past the public beach and the turn to the Islesboro ferry, I noticed a small brown sign with white block letters, “French Cemetery,” at the edge of someone’s driveway. Wow, I think, how odd, a hidden cemetery identified by its nationality. I have an appointment, and by the time I’m returning, it’s dusk and raining. I drive on.
But I can’t get it out of my mind. And so this morning, I have come to see this French cemetery, which, it turns out, is the French Cemetery, as in the family name. The arrow directs me down the driveway and through a private yard to enter under an archway of dense cedar trees. I walk between two five-foot-tall pillars of stone and cement, each with a smooth granite plaque. One gives me the name; the other, the date, c. 1815.
It’s a simple graveyard of a few hundred stones, some stray dandelions, and lots of ankle-twisting bumps and ridges. A crow caws. Small bites of ocean blue peek through the trees. The traffic on Route 1 hums for the first few minutes, and then I no longer hear it, although it must still be there. The wind is slight.
My grandparents—Lazarus, Aphrodite, Majorique, and Catherine—are all buried somewhere, but I have never had a visit-the-grave family. I don’t even have a know-where-the-grave-is family.
Some stones are listing to one side; some are lying flat on the ground. I want to straighten them, prop them up. I know I can’t—and I don’t—but I am by nature a fixer, and so it is good to have no stones to tend.
Although graveyards have never been part of my history, I have been an obituary reader forever, The New York Times, Boston Globe, Bangor Daily News—it doesn’t matter whether I know any of those people. It isn’t about recognizing the death, but more, I think, acknowledging the life. I am fascinated with the stories they conjure up, the what-ifs. And I love the names. This morning’s local newspaper noted the passing of Trinidad, Molly, Tammy Lee, Gladys, Alta, Miles, Birchum, and Raymond. I love the names here in French Cemetery, too—George, Hezekiah, Felix, Marion, Leroy, Eliphalet—and the stories I read in the stones.
I am surprised by how happy I am here where beautiful, inscribed granite markers live with ordinary backyard rocks with no carving, no dates or names, just a foot or so high, and clearly placed as a marker of a life. Some just say Brother or Sister or Father. One has a birth date of 1842, a dash, and nothing else. Only 14 stones have been placed here in the last 30 years.
I find the Frenches clustered around an underground vault with moss-covered lintels stacked on top.
And downhill from the giant family is a circle of loosely configured rocks. Only a foot in diameter, the circle encloses a few stalks of seedy grass, three purple-and-white johnny jump-ups, a three-inch-tall pipe-cleaner doll with an acorn-like head and a faded red dress. On a foot-high metal rod sits a turquoise winged figure, arms folded over bent knees, chin in hand. A small, gold, plastic sign says Jared Quin, 1986–2001. He is all by himself. As I start to walk away, I see a bright blue, shiny, glass trinket of a heart under a leaf. I am tempted to move absolutely nothing. This is a grave aching to tell its story. I sit down in the grass to listen.
Annaliese Jakimides (pronounced Jah-KIH-mih-deez) is a writer, editor, and visual artist. She lives in downtown Bangor.
But I can’t get it out of my mind. And so this morning, I have come to see this French cemetery, which, it turns out, is the French Cemetery, as in the family name. The arrow directs me down the driveway and through a private yard to enter under an archway of dense cedar trees. I walk between two five-foot-tall pillars of stone and cement, each with a smooth granite plaque. One gives me the name; the other, the date, c. 1815.
It’s a simple graveyard of a few hundred stones, some stray dandelions, and lots of ankle-twisting bumps and ridges. A crow caws. Small bites of ocean blue peek through the trees. The traffic on Route 1 hums for the first few minutes, and then I no longer hear it, although it must still be there. The wind is slight.
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My grandparents—Lazarus, Aphrodite, Majorique, and Catherine—are all buried somewhere, but I have never had a visit-the-grave family. I don’t even have a know-where-the-grave-is family.
Some stones are listing to one side; some are lying flat on the ground. I want to straighten them, prop them up. I know I can’t—and I don’t—but I am by nature a fixer, and so it is good to have no stones to tend.
Although graveyards have never been part of my history, I have been an obituary reader forever, The New York Times, Boston Globe, Bangor Daily News—it doesn’t matter whether I know any of those people. It isn’t about recognizing the death, but more, I think, acknowledging the life. I am fascinated with the stories they conjure up, the what-ifs. And I love the names. This morning’s local newspaper noted the passing of Trinidad, Molly, Tammy Lee, Gladys, Alta, Miles, Birchum, and Raymond. I love the names here in French Cemetery, too—George, Hezekiah, Felix, Marion, Leroy, Eliphalet—and the stories I read in the stones.
I am surprised by how happy I am here where beautiful, inscribed granite markers live with ordinary backyard rocks with no carving, no dates or names, just a foot or so high, and clearly placed as a marker of a life. Some just say Brother or Sister or Father. One has a birth date of 1842, a dash, and nothing else. Only 14 stones have been placed here in the last 30 years.
I find the Frenches clustered around an underground vault with moss-covered lintels stacked on top.
And downhill from the giant family is a circle of loosely configured rocks. Only a foot in diameter, the circle encloses a few stalks of seedy grass, three purple-and-white johnny jump-ups, a three-inch-tall pipe-cleaner doll with an acorn-like head and a faded red dress. On a foot-high metal rod sits a turquoise winged figure, arms folded over bent knees, chin in hand. A small, gold, plastic sign says Jared Quin, 1986–2001. He is all by himself. As I start to walk away, I see a bright blue, shiny, glass trinket of a heart under a leaf. I am tempted to move absolutely nothing. This is a grave aching to tell its story. I sit down in the grass to listen.
Annaliese Jakimides (pronounced Jah-KIH-mih-deez) is a writer, editor, and visual artist. She lives in downtown Bangor.
