I walked through the brush, trying to spot a gravestone. I wanted to see them still covered up. I knew they were there, somewhere, but couldn't see any but the ones that were already cleared. Deb was nearby on the other side of trees. She had walked there before but I had asked to go there with her before I had to be back for an afternoon meeting. It was beautiful out there and stories just begged to be told. There were three little markers for a still-born baby and two other other young ones next to it. Nearby, was the grave of the mother who died at the young age of 27 just years before 1900. Another gravestone marked the site of the body for a four year old boy. They had died at all ages but there were some, I'm sure, heartbreaking stories among them. As if death is anything but.
We then came across Fred and Eloise Just, the couple who are restoring this old cemetery, bush by bush, marker by marker. Fred's family is buried here as are many he knew having grown up in the area. It is his way of honoring of those who have walked this way before us clearing the way for him. Now he is clearing the way in turn so people can remember them. For being at a conference on mentoring and eldering, it was a poetic reminder to honor those who have had a hand in shaping us into the people we are and honoring their memory. I'm looking forward to coming back one day and seeing such memory in full bloom. What a beautiful thing.