Dream Bigger
A visit to a quiet place
Cemeteries are contemplative places, and therapeutic, too. Whatever blues have overtaken you can be cured by the reminder that all things pass, particularly us. But municipal cemeteries also tell you something about the values and priorities of the town in which they’re found.
I realized, as my days in Stephenville wane, that I hadn’t yet visited the city cemetery. I went yesterday. I’ve grown to like Stephenville, and the people who live there, so there was some risk in this. Suppose the cemetery was weedy and unkempt? Would my warm feelings diminish? I shouldn’t have worried, though. The cemetery was shady, well-trimmed and restful.
There were numerous Confederate battle flags stuck into the ground next to the graves of men who, judging by their dates of birth and death, must have been Rebel veterans. It made me wonder if Texas had recently celebrated Confederate Memorial Day (which is held on different dates across the South), but when I checked I found it’s observed in January here. Make of this display of flags what you will. 
I have Confederate ancestors, but I also think the South was on the wrong side of history. The flag neither inspires me, nor offends me. I assign benign motives to someone who puts one on a grave, but malignant motives to anyone who makes a big deal of displaying it in public. It’s the difference between a quiet tribute and a provocative statement. I’ve been in Stephenville a month, and seen the Confederate battle flag only in the cemetery. That strikes me as a good thing.
Less morally ambiguous was the double row of veterans’ graves. It was at the front of the cemetery, in the place of honor near the road. I studied each grave. There were about 70 of them, of which 63 mentioned a specific war: World War I, World War II, Korea or Vietnam. None of the markers said specifically that somebody had died in action, but the dates of death said it instead. I counted 13 young men from Stephenville who didn’t come home from World War II, and four who didn’t return from Korea.
As I walked between the graves, it occurred to me that Americans don’t celebrate martyrdom in the way that past cultures have, and as some still do. The row of white crosses above the graves of Stephenville’s military men speak to sacrifice and regret. Not glory. I was also gratified, as the father of a young Marine who has twice been to Iraq, not to see any recent graves.
There would have been nothing therapeutic in that. Only a twinge of foreboding.
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