William & Lucretia Moreland Etched in Stone

My feet were thoroughly soaked  from the last cemetery we had explored. It was late afternoon and the battery in my camera was dead but I was eager to make the next stop. The rain had quit but the droplets still dotted the windshield. Continuing on I descended the narrow two-lane country road. The sign at the last intersection read 'Bramble Rd' nevertheless I was still in unfamiliar territory. I was not lost per se, just temporarily disoriented. For example, I knew I was in Eastern Ohio, within the arc of Leesville Lake, in the region known as Palermo. I had driven west from Massachusetts the week before and traveled through country I had never seen. I negotiated varying landscapes with relative ease, enjoyed the scenic diversity, and hit all my planned destinations. I was sure I would figure out my current predicament.

My brother and father were following just behind in another SUV. I flipped on my blinker for their benefit and quickly turned off the pavement onto a narrow single lane dirt track. It looked like a private drive. I continued up around a corner and out of sight. Less than a 1/4 mile later I pulled to a stop at a highpoint near intersecting farm roads. The stones dotted a clearing that sloped down and away to the south. This must be it. Mt. Tabor Cemetery. There was no sign, no arch over a formal entry, no shuttered church to anchor the stones. Nothing to indicate I was in the right place. Yet I knew this was the spot. Mt. Tabor Cemetery. It was a small plot. Two hundred headstones, maybe two-fifty, arranged among last years thatch and this springs greenery. A dense band of trees, almost a thicket,  surrounded the grounds on all sides providing a natural barrier. The entrance was a simple cattle-gate.

It was several minutes before my brother and father pulled up. "What took you so long," I asked. "How did you know this was it," they responded referring to the road. "A sign at the bottom on the opposite side of the road said 'Dublin Rd," I chided. They still looked a bit confused but joined me at the gate and we walked in together. We were here to pay tribute to our common ancestors William and Lucretia. Two individuals who gave us life, though we never new them, or they us. They have been interred on this hilltop since 1861 and 1882 respectively. Though My brother and father had known of them for decades, I had only become aware of them within the last few years. This was a first visit for all of us.

We were looking for a monument. A rectangular column, chiseled at the top, set on larger square bases. We moved among the stones heading down the slope to the southwest. Many were too eroded to make out names or details. I wondered if we were too late. Could the weather have eroded the inscription on William & Lucretia's marker beyond our ability to make it out? Jean Scarlott had snapped legible images of the monument sometime in the recent past and Ed Burton posted them online in 2007. We were six years beyond that. And then suddenly, almost as if by surprise, there it was. In the southwest quarter, near the bottom of the slope, sitting just off the treeline furthest from the road.

William's inscription was etched into the south face of the stone. Lucretia's in the north face. Both clearly legible. A metal marker in the shape of a star inscribed '1812' was perched in the ground at it's base. They lie here, their bones beneath our feet. You did not escape us. We found you. We acknowledge you.

We stood in silence. We touched the stone. We traced the inscription with our fingers. A fitting marker signifying the end of their journey together, a testament of their life, and an anchor-stone for the many generations hereafter.

William Moreland, Died Dec 31, 1861, Aged 71Y. & 10M.

Lucrecia Moreland, Died Mar 22, 1882, Aged 86Y. 11M. 1D.