So Mike and I took a walk last Saturday (the 12th) at Whatcom Falls Park. Connected to this park is a ridiculously huge and very old cemetery. The cemetery dates back pretty much to when the city started to exist. We apparently share an affinity for walking around looking at people's gravestones; not out of disrespect. We admire longevity, honor veterans and stand a while in silence by the graves of children. In fact, I feel great respect for the dead and find it fascinating trying to reconstruct their lives from the tiny bits of information I'm given. In this particular cemetery, if you go to the older parts, you tend to come across quite a few that say "PIONEER" in big letters and others that signify that the deceased was in the Civil War. The Civil War.
In our wanderings, we came across the headstone of one Mr. T.A. Kirkham. Mr. Kirkham was a Union sharpshooter from Wisconsin. The dates on the stone read 1836-1933. Let's take a second on that one.
Think for a minute about the quality of medical care when our Mr. Kirkham was around. Not so great. In 1830, about one third of Americans could expect to live to age 60. Penicillin wasn't used (at least among the masses) until after Kirkham died. In addition, he fought in 27 battles including Gettysburg and only suffered a wound to the ear. Somehow, this man lived to be 97 years old. How even.
Upon seeing Kirkham's headstone, we both did a double take. Enlisted to fight in the Civil War at age 25 and lived to be 97?? Damn. Since then I've sort of become obsessed with him; I looked up the cemetery records to find out his full first name, and spent a while going through what Google offered me about Kirkham and his family. His great-granddaughter is 76, or was when one particular web page about him was posted.
You know how sometimes you'll come across a question asking who you'd like to have lunch with, regardless of whether they're alive or not? Thomas Andrew Kirkham is at the top of my list. He isn't famous or anything, but he has attached himself like a barnacle to my brain and I can't shake it. I wish I could talk to him. I obviously know nothing about his personality, and you don't shoot your own countrymen without coming away changed, but you also come away with stories. Incredible stories of war and coming to the West in 1910, when Washington was still a little toddler of a state.
There are so many stories in cemeteries. Some funny, some wonderful, some terrible, all fascinating. Mike and I talked a little about it and how people may tend to consider an affinity for graveyards a bit morbid and creepy, but we decided it really isn't. Especially in the older sections. We're visiting people who haven't been visited in who knows how long, appreciating stories that, outside of families, haven't been shared in years. Always quietly, always with respect, and always able to smile at people like T.A. Kirkham and comment that they were clearly doing something right.
That's all for now. I may write another post about the cemetery, but it's a bit somber for this one and would make it ridiculously long. And now to wrench myself from the internet and go actually do things, like a group meeting for a project and an orchestra concert for which we are frankly not quite ready.
P.S. My sister got engaged, so that's really fucking awesome. I get a big brother =D
I would walk a thousand miles / just to talk to you for a while /.../ I would build a bridge to the other side / Just so I could spend a little time with you. -Bridge to the Other Side, Oliver Boyd & the Remembralls
