The cemetery, a third of an acre on a forested embankment, sits along the old dirt road that connects the back of the golf course with Lamington Road, which passes white-fenced horse farms and hilltop estates. A plaque on an iron fence identifies it as the Lamington Black Cemetery. “There are 97 identified graves here: 36 with names and 61 unknown, including former slaves and free blacks, who were members of the Lamington Presbyterian Church,” the marker says. “Remains of five Civil War veterans who fought heroically for the Union lie here.” Yellow “Posted” signs by the burial yard make it feel off limits, but it’s not.
The piece made me smile. Sullivan is drawn to overlooked, disregarded places: see, for example, his great The Meadowlands (1998). It also reminded me of another wonderful “cemetery” Talk story he wrote many years ago called “Bowles at Rest” (The New Yorker, December 11, 2000). In that piece, he describes the burial of the ashes of the writer Paul Bowles at Lakemont Cemetery, Glenora, New York:
McPhillips stood before them and lowered the cannister of ashes into the ground. People asked whether they could touch it. “Uh, yes, O.K.,” he said. He held out another box, which he’d brought from Tangier. “If anyone has anything they’d like to place in it – well, they can,” he said. “I brought some earth from Morocco and a tape of his music.” Into the box went a coin and some flowers. Next, Chadwick produced a big black plastic bucket full of dirt. McPhillips offered everyone a chance with the shovel, and each person, taking it, spoke: “I wish we had known you, Paul.” “I love you very much and I was happy to be your friend.” “Pablo, I love you.” The woman who referred to Bowles as Pablo photographed the hole while a man videotaped her photographing the hole. And then the ceremony was over, and McPhillips headed briskly back toward the car.
Sullivan is one of The New Yorker’s best Talk writers. I enjoy his work immensely.
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