Cemeteries can be such beautiful places. Recently, I visited the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier in the Arlington National cemetery just outside Washington, D.C.
Covered in milk-white marble from a Colorado quarry, the rectangular, neo-Classical Tomb sits atop the remains of an unidentified solider from World War I, and is located on the plaza at the front entrance of the Memorial Amphitheater. The remains of unknowns from WW II and Korea are laid just west of the Tomb.
Every moment of every day since 1937, a Tomb Guard with shouldered rifle has been standing watch. Meticulously uniformed, he begins his slow and measured, 21-step march down the narrow black mat that lies between the Tomb and the spectators who stand on the steps of the Amphitheater.
A sudden, sharp 90 turn to the right. He faces the direction of the Tomb and holds for 21 seconds. Another sharp right-face and a 21-second hold. Then he begins the measured 21 steps down the mat from whence he came. And repeat. Ad infinitum.
There’s something wrenchingly beautiful about this act, this sacrifice for a sacrifice. Especially for a country that prides itself on being practical. I can only imagine how much money it costs us to keep this ceremony going 2-4/7, and some would surely say the money could be better spent, but, again, there’s just something so beautiful about it.
And in cemeteries you meet such beautiful people of sacrifice. At Arlington, amid the sublime, formal beauty of tens of thousands of nearly identical white marble headstones placed in orderly rows five feet apart, I finally met “Jack” Joyce, an Army Captain and close friend of my father’s who served as an advisor in Vietnam and who would have “no doubt made it to General” had he not been gruesomely killed in an 1966 ambush.
Local cemeteries, too, often have their own beauty. Driving a mile east of town on a sinuous country road, I arrive at the one-car-wide eastern gate of the Louisville cemetery which has a clear view of Long’s Peak and the rest of the Front Range. It’s a pleasing mix of formal and rustic elements – its rectangular grid pattern, wrought iron fencing, and decades-old Pine trees planted here and there give it solemnity, while its narrow, unpaved roads, surrounding open space and mountain vistas give it a rural feel.
The chittering birds certainly seem happy to be here. And the scampering cottontails – one of whom is seemingly playing hide and seek with me among the headstones. Environmental aesthete that I am, that’s not the main reason I’m here. As Louisville historian Bridget Bacon notes, a cemetery is a “place of human connection,” and I’ve come to get to know the people of my town better.
I read the 95 names on the “World War” memorial, intrigued that a small, turn-of-the-century mining town sent so many of its men “over there.” A handful never breathed coal dust again.
After ten minutes of searching, I finally locate the rust-colored, granite headstone I’ve been searching for. I’m pleased with myself and moved at the same time. Here they are. George Ellis and his wife, Laura. George immigrated to the U.S. from Greece in 1910, and after working the railroads in Oklahoma, he landed in Denver where he shined shoes at $12.50 a month room and board. His scant formal schooling didn’t hold this coalminer back, however: he taught himself English by writing the words in a small notebook; he enlisted in the World War before he was U.S. citizen; he even served as Louisville mayor.
But that’s not the most lasting Ellis’ accomplishment. For forty years, starting about the time the first Tomb Guard took his post, George and Laura voluntarily took care of this cemetery, because the town couldn’t afford to. With the help of residents, they procured and planted the trees. The grass I stand on. A few nights every week, they came up here to mow or rake or do whatever else was needed to make it the beautiful spot it is today.
I look west toward Long’s Peak, and smile. It’s not for nothing they picked this spot. A beautiful view for beautiful people.
Daniel Brigham (daniel@danielbrigham.com) of Louisville is an educational consultant and communications specialist.
