"It says the cemetary is off Hwy 21," I mused.
"This isn't 21," she said adamantly.
"I know, I know, we're still on Hwy 10." I said defensively.
"Got the mobile data on?" she asked.
"No. Can't afford it. Right?" I responded.
"Yes, using mobile data excessively drives the cell phone bill outta sight," she added.
(We had discussed my over indulgence in using mobile data before.)
"It's information I downloaded at home, thank-you very much," I said with a smile.
We were traveling down a country road in Wilcox county, Alabama which was is little southwest of Montgomery. It was a beautiful day in May, and we had just left our friends in Mobile after a Mother's Day feast of boiled shrimp, corn, potatoes, and sausage piled high on a table surrounded by good friends. But now we were searching for my great-great-great-grandfather's grave. So, there we were, in one of the poorest counties in Alabama looking for a cemetery on a red dirt road.
"This isn't 21," she said adamantly.
"I know, I know, we're still on Hwy 10." I said defensively.
"Got the mobile data on?" she asked.
"No. Can't afford it. Right?" I responded.
"Yes, using mobile data excessively drives the cell phone bill outta sight," she added.
(We had discussed my over indulgence in using mobile data before.)
"It's information I downloaded at home, thank-you very much," I said with a smile.
We were traveling down a country road in Wilcox county, Alabama which was is little southwest of Montgomery. It was a beautiful day in May, and we had just left our friends in Mobile after a Mother's Day feast of boiled shrimp, corn, potatoes, and sausage piled high on a table surrounded by good friends. But now we were searching for my great-great-great-grandfather's grave. So, there we were, in one of the poorest counties in Alabama looking for a cemetery on a red dirt road.
Claudette braked the car abruptly, and I almost dropped my bottle of water.
"Whadaya see?" I asked.
"There were tombstones back there," she said emphatically as she shifted the car into reverse.
"You're not turning around?" I queried.
"No, it's not far," she said.
I cringed slightly. She is not extremely skilled at guiding an automobile in reverse. After a few yards the car stopped. "See, I said I saw tombstones," she said excitedly.
"You're right, but there's a church and there's not supposed to be a church," I added, bursting her bubble.
"At least I found some tombstones," she said, shifting the car into a forward gear. The tires made that chirping sound as we accelerated.
We continued to search Highway 21 south until we saw a sign indicating Monroe County, then retraced our trail to Oak Hill at the intersection of Highways 21 and 10. Claudette pulled the car up close to the fairly modern brick post office. I thought a rural postmaster would know where the cemetery was. But, alas, an absentee postmaster could tell me nothing. I quickly crossed the highway to the store. It was the other building at the intersection. It looked as if it could have been a refugee from the war, and I mean the Confederate War. It had those screened doors advertising Merita Bread and tufts of cotton stuck in the holes in the screens to keep out the flies. As I entered I noticed the sun streaming through the windows making the dust particles in the air sparkle like diamonds. The display racks were ancient. The interior was like a movie set out of a period film or maybe "Oh, Brother, Where Art Thou"
As I walked over the uneven heart pine floor I was met by a young woman. She was rather tall and slim and was dressed in tattered jeans, flip-flops, and a 'Bama t-shirt. A spider tattoo on summer-tanned skin peeked out from under her left shirt sleeve. Rings adorned almost every finger, including thumbs, and she wore bracelets. Her brown hair was pulled back from her face in a ponytail, and hoop earrings hung from her earlobes. The pixie-like face was a bit over made up, and there were crow's feet at the corners of her big brown eyes. "What canna do fer ya?" she said in that slow honey dripping voice only cultivated by females below the Mason-Dixon Line.
"I'm looking for this cemetery, the Old Hamburg Cemetery," I said.
"Er...I donno, we better ask Charlie," she said, turning around and walking toward the rear of the store.
A man in an apron appeared from behind a meat counter. The blood smeared apron covered jeans and a blue chambray shirt. His head was round and reminded me of an eight ball as the sun bounced off it. His eyes twinkled behind wire-rimed bifocals as he smiled and said, "Afternoon."
"This is Charlie. He's been 'round here a long time," Miss Make-up Queen of Highway 21 said.
"I'm trying to find the old Hamburg Cemetery," I said.
"It's right down da road dare," he said, wiping his hand on his apron and then gesturing to his left.
"Not far?" I asked.
"Oh, no. Jus' a coupla miles. Atta you pass da Allentown road, you'll be dare. Day say you can see it from da road."
"Just a couple of miles, after the Allentown road and we'll see it?" I repeated his directions.
"Dat's right. Day say you can see it from da road," he added.
"'Preciate it!" I said, and returned to Claudette waiting in front of the post office.
"We are good to go," I exclaimed. "We have directions!"
We traveled north on Highway 21 looking for landmarks. Soon we passed a road marked with a sign saying "Allentown Road". "Slow down, " I said, "We're getting close!" We continued moving along at a snail's pace, thirty miles per hour. "Look carefully," I advised the driver.
"There is nothing to see, but trees," she retorted.
"I know we've gone more than a couple of miles," I said with some reservation.
"Yes, and seen nothing," she said with a sigh.
"Looks like this road is joining a major highway. We missed it. Let's turn around and give it another look," I said.
"Okay," she said with resignation in her voice. Her enthusiasm was waning.
"This gives me a chance to look where you looked before," I said, thinking maybe I'd find it.
"What about that dirt road ahead?" she asked, slowing the Acura.
"Why not. Let's check it out. There was something about a dirt road in the internet description of the place," I said, thinking maybe things were getting better.
"And there was something about a plywood sign saying Hamburg Cemetery too, but I haven't seen it," Claudette answered, as she maneuvered car onto the red dirt road. (Just like in the Brooks and Dunn song.) She slowed as we crossed over a cattle guard. "Wasn't it supposed to be in a pasture?" she asked.
"I don't remember," I said, as we began a climb up a small ridge. "Could this be the ridge?" I thought. From the top of the ridge we could see the crooked red dirt road leading into a grove of cottonwoods. A herd of about twenty-five Charolais cattle were fairly close by.
"I think we should turn around and get out of this pasture," I said.
"Maybe we should go a little further," she persisted.
"That big Charolais bull seems to have taken an interest in us," I spoke with a sense of urgency.
"But the cemetery could be close by..." she said in an almost inaudible voice.
"Remember how hard that bull hit the fence at the bullfight in Madrid? We felt the splinters in our faces!" I reminded her.
"Okay, okay! I'll turn around," she relented.
"I know how much you like this car," was her sharp retort.
Soon we were back on the main road and looking for that ridge with the tombstones on it. There were no more dirt roads or angry Charolais bulls. No plywood signs. Our search for the Old Hamburg Cemetery and the final resting place of John Young was an exercise in futility. The disc jockey on the radio played: The Rough Side of the Mountain by the Reverend F. C. Barnes. Later that day we had better success finding the graves of a number of Claudette's ancestors in Cullman, AL, so all was not lost.
We overnighted in Anniston, AL, where my father had been an M.P. at Ft. McClellan during WWII, and a city to which my mother had hitchhiked over four hundred miles to be with him. We missed rush hour traffic in Atlanta, as we continued to our home on the Carolina coast where Sophie the Norwegian Forest cat awaited our return.
We continued to search Highway 21 south until we saw a sign indicating Monroe County, then retraced our trail to Oak Hill at the intersection of Highways 21 and 10. Claudette pulled the car up close to the fairly modern brick post office. I thought a rural postmaster would know where the cemetery was. But, alas, an absentee postmaster could tell me nothing. I quickly crossed the highway to the store. It was the other building at the intersection. It looked as if it could have been a refugee from the war, and I mean the Confederate War. It had those screened doors advertising Merita Bread and tufts of cotton stuck in the holes in the screens to keep out the flies. As I entered I noticed the sun streaming through the windows making the dust particles in the air sparkle like diamonds. The display racks were ancient. The interior was like a movie set out of a period film or maybe "Oh, Brother, Where Art Thou"
As I walked over the uneven heart pine floor I was met by a young woman. She was rather tall and slim and was dressed in tattered jeans, flip-flops, and a 'Bama t-shirt. A spider tattoo on summer-tanned skin peeked out from under her left shirt sleeve. Rings adorned almost every finger, including thumbs, and she wore bracelets. Her brown hair was pulled back from her face in a ponytail, and hoop earrings hung from her earlobes. The pixie-like face was a bit over made up, and there were crow's feet at the corners of her big brown eyes. "What canna do fer ya?" she said in that slow honey dripping voice only cultivated by females below the Mason-Dixon Line.
"I'm looking for this cemetery, the Old Hamburg Cemetery," I said.
"Er...I donno, we better ask Charlie," she said, turning around and walking toward the rear of the store.
A man in an apron appeared from behind a meat counter. The blood smeared apron covered jeans and a blue chambray shirt. His head was round and reminded me of an eight ball as the sun bounced off it. His eyes twinkled behind wire-rimed bifocals as he smiled and said, "Afternoon."
"This is Charlie. He's been 'round here a long time," Miss Make-up Queen of Highway 21 said.
"I'm trying to find the old Hamburg Cemetery," I said.
"It's right down da road dare," he said, wiping his hand on his apron and then gesturing to his left.
"Not far?" I asked.
"Oh, no. Jus' a coupla miles. Atta you pass da Allentown road, you'll be dare. Day say you can see it from da road."
"Just a couple of miles, after the Allentown road and we'll see it?" I repeated his directions.
"Dat's right. Day say you can see it from da road," he added.
"'Preciate it!" I said, and returned to Claudette waiting in front of the post office.
"We are good to go," I exclaimed. "We have directions!"
We traveled north on Highway 21 looking for landmarks. Soon we passed a road marked with a sign saying "Allentown Road". "Slow down, " I said, "We're getting close!" We continued moving along at a snail's pace, thirty miles per hour. "Look carefully," I advised the driver.
"There is nothing to see, but trees," she retorted.
"I know we've gone more than a couple of miles," I said with some reservation.
"Yes, and seen nothing," she said with a sigh.
"Looks like this road is joining a major highway. We missed it. Let's turn around and give it another look," I said.
"Okay," she said with resignation in her voice. Her enthusiasm was waning.
"This gives me a chance to look where you looked before," I said, thinking maybe I'd find it.
"What about that dirt road ahead?" she asked, slowing the Acura.
"Why not. Let's check it out. There was something about a dirt road in the internet description of the place," I said, thinking maybe things were getting better.
"And there was something about a plywood sign saying Hamburg Cemetery too, but I haven't seen it," Claudette answered, as she maneuvered car onto the red dirt road. (Just like in the Brooks and Dunn song.) She slowed as we crossed over a cattle guard. "Wasn't it supposed to be in a pasture?" she asked.
"I don't remember," I said, as we began a climb up a small ridge. "Could this be the ridge?" I thought. From the top of the ridge we could see the crooked red dirt road leading into a grove of cottonwoods. A herd of about twenty-five Charolais cattle were fairly close by.
"I think we should turn around and get out of this pasture," I said.
"Maybe we should go a little further," she persisted.
"That big Charolais bull seems to have taken an interest in us," I spoke with a sense of urgency.
"But the cemetery could be close by..." she said in an almost inaudible voice.
"Remember how hard that bull hit the fence at the bullfight in Madrid? We felt the splinters in our faces!" I reminded her.
"Okay, okay! I'll turn around," she relented.
"I know how much you like this car," was her sharp retort.
Soon we were back on the main road and looking for that ridge with the tombstones on it. There were no more dirt roads or angry Charolais bulls. No plywood signs. Our search for the Old Hamburg Cemetery and the final resting place of John Young was an exercise in futility. The disc jockey on the radio played: The Rough Side of the Mountain by the Reverend F. C. Barnes. Later that day we had better success finding the graves of a number of Claudette's ancestors in Cullman, AL, so all was not lost.
We overnighted in Anniston, AL, where my father had been an M.P. at Ft. McClellan during WWII, and a city to which my mother had hitchhiked over four hundred miles to be with him. We missed rush hour traffic in Atlanta, as we continued to our home on the Carolina coast where Sophie the Norwegian Forest cat awaited our return.
I think It's a good post. I been there looking fo graveyards and couldn't find them
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