The hubs and I recently visited Historic Oakland Cemetary in Atlanta. It was quite fascinating. We needed more time and a cooler day, but we thoroughly enjoyed our time there.
It’s the oldest cemetery in Atlanta (the city was once called “Marthasville”), I like Atlanta better – I approve the name change.
Oakland is 48 acres and has over 70,000 people buried there. Many are names you’d recognize (Margaret Mitchell, Bobby Jones, Ivan Allen, Maynard Jackson…and others).
I’m not very interested in “famous” people. However, ordinary folks intrigue me! The full of that cemetery is the regular people – homemakers, farmers, businessmen/women, soldiers, and slaves. There are markers for husbands, wives, mothers and fathers, and grandparents. There are plenty of markers for children.
The monuments are nothing short of amazing architecture. The epitaphs are beautiful and well thought out. Some are simple – which is beautiful in a different way.
My breath was taken away more than once as I imagined the lives of these people and their loved ones who grieved their passing—Especially when I saw that someone had to bury their child. I found myself saying, “Oh no!” Over and over again.
Oakland is beautiful and heart-wrenching. The grounds are covered in breathtaking greenery and blooming flowers. Magnificent old trees are everywhere, offering shade and a quiet place to take it all to heart. Cobblestone and brick walkways guide your path through Atlanta’s history.
We barely scratched the surface – 48 acres is a lot of ground to cover. 70,000 lives to learn about takes time. We will have to go back – plan more time next time.
Yet, that’s the very thing you realize when you are there walking the pathways between centuries – time runs out and then weaves back in through the generations.
Beautiful. For some strange reason I love old cemeteries…something my mom and I shared. I used to take her to the old, old cemeteries of her youth so she could reminisce about those gone on ahead. Up at Jeruslem Church in Waleska we found the graves of her two brothers who were born and died before she was born. One was 4 and the other was 10. At that time I just remember thinking how sad. It was not until I experienced the gut-wrenching loss of our grandson (who was more like my son) last year that I fully understood what my grandparents must have gone through. These little boys died within a year of each other. The agony their parents must have experienced is now etched into my mind and my shattered heart and broken soul. It does not matter what era it was, I’m sure the pain was the same. Other graves of little children now hurt me more than ever as I (and I am sure you) realize the depth of the grief of the loss of a child.