Jeremiah Gorm founded the Vindicator in Hapsburg, Virginia in 1888 to cover "people, events, and things that matter," as the masthead proclaimed. In the hotly contested presidential election that year, Virginia was evenly divided. Gorm reported on flagrant voter fraud in New York and Indiana, but his readers had moved on.

Over a century later, Walter Nickles is the editor and publisher. A veteran of small-town newspapers, he calls himself a dying breed, a shoe-leather reporter. A rumpled, middle-aged man, he dresses the part in fedora, suspenders, and brogues. He writes much of the copy, does the layout, and sells advertising. At board and council meetings, political rallies, and funerals, anywhere two or three are gathered together, he is a familiar figure, notebook and pencil at the ready. Jimmy Kidd is the cub reporter and photographer. Louisa Abernethy Jones writes the lifestyle column called Tittle-Tattle.

National politics gave way to local concerns. The weekly newspaper settled into a routine of farm prices, school athletics, social notes, and natural disasters. It prints offbeat stories from wire services and letters to the editor, which arrive in a steady stream. The most popular feature is the obituaries page. Here are some recent items from the Vindicator's pages, reported exactly as they happened.


Lost Cat

On Thursday, while a pizza delivery person stood at the open door of an apartment at the Sylvan Arms, a small, furry animal dashed downstairs and vanished into the night. Rita Flange is concerned. Over the roar of an automatic dishwasher and audience cheers on a television game show, she had this to say.

"Callie is a mature female calico cat, affectionate but skittish. She has lived indoors all her life, which is about ten years, and is probably frightened, so if you see her, please don't shout and rush toward her with outstretched arms, as if you are going to grab her. Instead, offer her a treat in the palm of your hand, and hold still for a full minute. She might sit and stare at you. If that happens, try turning away and looking over your shoulder to arouse interest. She loves that game. She might sneak up on you from behind and pounce."

Mrs. Flange raises her hands to demonstrate.

"Callie has had all her shots and is spayed, but she has claws, so watch out. She is well fed, finicky about dry food, and very good about using the litter box. She is on medication, which means her behavior might deteriorate as the pills wear off. She is very quiet, and the calico acts like camouflage. She can lie on the carpet right under your nose and be invisible. We miss Callie terribly. If you find her, or catch a glimpse, please call or text us."

"That furball?" rumbles a male voice from within the apartment. "You can keep it."

"Flange pretends he doesn't care if we never see Callie again, but don't you believe it. He has a funny sense of humor that he uses to mask his true feelings.

"Callie's toys and bowl and plush bed are all waiting for her to return safe and sound to a home where she is loved. She was probably curious about the mysterious place outside the door. Now that she's had her adventure, she will remember us fondly and want to tell us all about it."


Gender Barrier

Vito Plunkett, of Vito's Barber Shop on Main Street, recently hired an assistant, a young stylist whose previous experience was in a beauty salon. A graduate of Hapsburg High School and the Blue Ridge Academy of Hair, Amber Gates is trained in all aspects of hair cutting, beard trimming, and shaving, as well as advanced techniques of coloring, waving, and hairpiece fitting. She is twenty-four years old, single, and unapologetically female.

"I can't help it. I was born this way."

Not all of Vito's regular customers are happy with the new addition to the staff. Grumbling was audible on the street among a group of older men with gray hair, thinning, or none at all on top. When asked if they were shy of a lady barber, they vigorously denied the possibility, and questioned the existence of such a person.

"Ain't natural," said one.

"If it's not against the law, it should be," said another.

"Wouldn't trust her with anything sharp near my neck," said a third.

A man dressed in farm clothes and boots entered the shop. Shaggy locks hung over his ears. He caught sight of Amber standing beside her vacant barber chair. He stopped abruptly, and without taking off his ball cap or commenting on the weather, turned on his heel and stalked out.

Denny Hammer, a retired welder who wears his thick gray hair in a brush cut, watched from a row of vinyl chairs along the wall.

"What's he afraid of?" Hammer asked. "Never saw him before, no idea who he is, probably wandered in from out of town. I'm waiting on Vito, because I'm a creature of habit, and Vito has been cutting my hair for forty-plus years. As far as I'm concerned, he can keep on until one of us drops dead."

"Customer loyalty is good," Vito says, "but change is inevitable. There aren't enough males who want to go into barbering. Those who train and qualify on the state exam tend to be flighty. I hire a man, break him in, and introduce the young blade to my clientele. Within a few months, he's gone to greener pastures."

"I promised Vito to stay as long as he wants me," Amber says.

Can she adapt to her new setting?

"I'm a talkative person, and I'm interested in all kinds of subjects, but Vito explained the difference between a salon and a barber shop. Not all men prefer social interaction while getting their hair cut. If they want to watch sports on TV, or read a magazine, or stare at their feet, that's fine with me, so long as they keep their head still."


Lapse In Service

People like to complain about the mail, but during the past year they had good reason. Home delivery was irregular. Letters languished for a month or more in some remote storage facility. A visit to the post office meant waiting in line for long minutes, only to be told your package was too heavy, or badly wrapped, or addressed to a place that did not exist. Kyle, a postal patron who did not wish to give their last name, recently unloaded.

"A whole week would pass with no mail, and then it would come in a bunch, mangled and torn. I subscribe to a lot of magazines. By the time an issue made it to my box, it was out of date, and the cover looked like it was run over by a truck. Credit cards and utilities charged me late fees, because they did not receive payment. I always pay my bills on time, so I made a phone call and talked to a person who was probably wearing a headset in some vast windowless warren of cubicles in Mumbai or Kolkata. I said I never received a bill. Sanjay was polite and sorry for any inconvenience, but the automated billing system apparently does not take into account a flawless payment record, not to mention an excellent credit rating."

Kyle confides in a hushed tone.

"Now, I'm not a nut case who believes in conspiracy theories, but I heard a rumor the mail was deliberately held up. One of the political parties, I won't say which, hates voting by mail, so they trashed the one government service we all love and rely on, in a last-ditch effort to delay counting ballots."

Terry Stamp, the manager of the Hapsburg Post Office, admits to a "lapse in service," which she calls "entirely regrettable." Citing the ban on federal civil servants commenting on or taking part in politics, she declines to go into particulars. Guardedly, she says:

"The United States Postal Service is proud of its long tradition, and we continue to upgrade the products and services we offer to the public. It's true we had a backlog, but that has been cleared. Thanks to intervention by elected officials, we were able to hire more staff and reinstate normal routes and schedules. Remember, we are at the mercy of federal funding, and demand for mail services chronically exceeds the budget. I'm not making excuses, just stating the facts. If anyone has a grievance, I encourage them to write a letter to their congressperson."


Sweet Ride

At a recent meeting of the Quidnunc County School Board, a parent lodged a complaint against a bus driver. Karen Mountjoy, who lives on Azimuth Lane, stood to address the board.

"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. I am a stay-at-home mom with a darling six-year-old daughter, Kimberly, who is in the first grade. Every afternoon, I arrange my household chores so I can go meet the school bus when it drops off the children. The street where we live is perfectly safe, but little children easily get distracted, and they don't always walk straight home from the bus stop. I feel it is prudent to exercise parental oversight during the formative years.

"One day, as Kimberly stepped down from the bus, she didn't shout ‘Hello, Mommy!' with a big smile, the way she normally does. She had a preoccupied look on her face. I wondered if another child bullied her, or she was thinking about an interesting fact she learned in school. Then I saw her jaw working, like she had something in her mouth. I watched for a pink bubble, but nothing.

"I took Kimberly's hand in mine, and she didn't say a word. We walked home, and instead of prattling the whole way, she was deathly quiet. I couldn't stand it, so I kneeled and pried her lips apart. Lo and behold, my little girl's teeth were stuck together with caramel."

It turns out the bus driver had a problem with noise, which children have a tendency to make. He handed out candy like hush money. Mrs. Mountjoy resumed.

"Now, I provide a healthy diet, and I want Kimberly to get in the habit of eating fruit and nuts, even trail mix, instead of artificial snacks loaded with sugar and fat. I am not a radical nutrition freak. Nor am I an overly protective mother who warns her innocent child against taking candy from strangers. I do question the practice of bribery."

The board learned that other parents had dietary concerns, and sugar is high on the list. The school lunch program has come under fire for allegedly serving "fast food," "not enough fresh," and "too much canned and processed junk."

Lonnie Wood was the bus driver with the bag of candy slung beside the steering wheel. An older man, rather heavy, with a sweet tooth himself, Mr. Wood was present. He exchanged places with Mrs. Mountjoy.

"I drove a semi for nigh on thirty years. Alone in the truck cab, I used to listen to CB radio or a talking book. A heart condition forced me to cut back my hours. I took this part-time job with the county. But a shipment of boxes is not the same as a busload of screaming kids. You can imagine the stress."

The board suggested earplugs to deaden the noise. They noted that bus drivers are in short supply, and Mr. Wood has an excellent record on the road. They issued an "admonishment," which carries no financial penalty, and no change in bus routes. Mrs. Mountjoy compared this action to "a slap on the wrist." Perhaps in jest, a board member muttered:

"It sounds to me like a sweet ride."


Heat Wave

August is traditionally hot in Hapsburg. Thermometers soar into the nineties, and humidity makes the air feel thick, like a wet blanket. Flowers wilt, dogs pant, and birds disappear. The weather forecast is ominous and monotonous, day after day of pitiless sun, with a heat index that flirts with three digits.

"When it rains," says Vernita Swank, "it comes down all at once in a storm of thunder and lightning. Then the sun returns, and it's just as hot as before."

A recent heat wave made everyone grumble, as if in outrage at a personal affront. Streets were deserted at midday, as people sought shade and shelter from the heat. They ventured out at sunset to walk and breathe and greet one another with wan gestures.

"I felt like a prisoner in my own house," says Irene Hammer, who admits she is fortunate to have air conditioning.

"Southern women don't sweat," Blair Wolfram explains, "we glisten. That's why it's so important to drink plenty of water and wear loose clothing that flutters. If you do it right, you create your own breeze as you sashay."

Hapsburg opened a "cooling station" in the elementary school, for the relief of senior citizens and those who lack access to air conditioning. Bud Howitzer, who lives in an apartment with an oscillating electric fan, visited briefly and groused.

"It's cooler here with the high ceilings, but the furniture is small. Try sitting at one of these little desks with your knees in your stomach. Besides, I never liked school."

People retreated underground. Churches opened their basement recreation space to anyone, regardless of religious affiliation. Paraclete Catholic was a popular spot to cool off, as a refugee brought his guitar. Wesley Grubb entertained the crowd with old-style picking, folk songs, and some original tunes.

"I'm a Methodist, but when you're hot, you're hot. The window unit in the little shack I rent can't cope with weather like this. Music won't drop the temperature or dry you off. But it helps you forget you're cooking in your own juice."


Urban Forestry

Floyd Puffenbarger stepped on the front porch on a crisp autumn morning, to check the weather and see if the birdfeeder needed refilling. He saw three strangers in cargo shorts, work boots, and black T-shirts digging a hole in the lawn. Beside the hole lay a small deciduous tree, its roots wrapped in a burlap ball, with three wooden stakes and a hank of cotton rope.

"The tree had spiky balls like Christmas tree ornaments from outer space," he recalled. A lifelong resident of Hapsburg, Puffenbarger did not recognize any of the three. And what was printed on the black T-shirts?

"I hate to jump to conclusions," he said, "or rush into the fray without a clear idea of the pros and cons. I'm a deliberate man. So I watched without saying anything."

Intent on their task, the diggers spoke to each other in low murmurs and grunts. They did not notice him standing a few feet away. He was so engrossed in the scene unfolding before his eyes, he forgot to drink from the mug he was holding, and the coffee got cold.

"Now, if there's one thing I hate, it's cold coffee," Puffenbarger said. Unaware of the passage of time, he raised the mug to his lips, took in a mouthful, and spat it over the porch rail. The sound got the attention of the diggers, who looked up in surprise.

"What do you think you're doing?" he asked.

"Planting a new tree," said a woman in her thirties, evidently the ringleader. In good physical shape, she wore a ball cap like her accomplices, two young men who could have been her sons.

"Who are you?"

"We're volunteers for the Tree Huggers of Virginia. I am Gale Coles from the Peoples Bank. These two are Sean and Troy."

The young men leaned on their shovels. Like Gale Coles, they were fit and muscular. But Puffenbarger realized they did not resemble her, and were too old to be her sons. A gay couple? The situation might escalate, and three against one was bad odds. Floyd summoned his wife, Mavis, who joined him on the porch.

"Who told you to plant a tree in our yard?" Mavis asked.

"THOVA sent us," Gale replied.

"What on earth is THOVA?"

"It's an acronym."

"Floyd, what do you know about this?"

Gale jumped in. "THOVA promotes the maintenance and increase of leaf canopy on city streets, part of the campaign for urban forestry. At no cost to the homeowner, it provides plant material, labor, and a one-year checkup on the health of the tree."

"If we want a tree, we'll buy it and plant it ourselves," Mavis said.

"Is this 705 Oak Street?" Gale consulted a spreadsheet on her mobile device.

"Chestnut," Mavis said.

The two young men exchanged a significant look, as if to say, I told you.

"These streets named for trees all look alike," Gale said.

"They do not," Mavis said. "Now fill in that hole, replace the sod, and make it look like you never set foot on our property."

"Are you sure?" Gale wheedled. "Sweet gum is a native species."

"I wouldn't plant it there," Mavis said with asperity. "Come to think of it, I wouldn't plant a sweet gum anywhere."


Merger Mooted

Since hitting a peak around 1960, membership in mainstream Christian churches has steadily declined. Huddled under soaring arches and stained glass windows, in grand structures that are costly to maintain, the faithful are old now, bowed under the weight of years. As children, they went to Sunday school in the education wing built next door in the postwar boom. Irene Hammer remembers:

"The crush on holidays, the parking problems, the stifling air, the endless announcements, the rumble of the organ, the voice from the pulpit that echoed inside your skull. So what if Sunday service was boring? A little suffering made you a better person."

The education wing is empty now. Religious fervor in Hapsburg may be as strong as it ever was, but a number of people in the pews find it hard to pay the bills, let alone increase their pledge. Who will replace them to carry on the tradition? In big cities, churches have disbanded and sold their buildings. Will it happen here?

Two local congregations have faced the music. Brickfront United Methodist Church and Ebenezer Chapel AME are pondering the first tentative step toward a merger. Rev. Abner Wright of Ebenezer says:

"Given our history, you might call it a reunification. The African Methodist Episcopal Church was founded in 1816 in Philadelphia as a split from the Methodists over racial discrimination. After the Civil War, local residents started the Ebenezer Chapel for ex-slaves and colored people. It developed as an important center for John Henry Town, the black community of Hapsburg. Here we are 150 years later, still meeting in separate corners, weak and divided. Some of us think we could be stronger together."

Pastor Ed Zwieback of Brickfront agrees, up to a point. He notes that segregation in the South is no longer a matter of law, and black people have made social and economic progress. But old attitudes persist.

"Racism is alive and well in Virginia. That should come as news to no one. But Christians have a sacred obligation to overcome injustice. What better way than to share worship of the Almighty? No one should see this as a hostile takeover."

At this early stage, it is unclear which congregation will absorb the other. Possibly, they will reconstitute under a new name.

What to do with a surplus church? The newly formed Quidnunc Islamic Center is raising funds and scouting property. Islam is the fastest-growing religion in the world. Stained glass and sculpture pose an issue, but QIC pledges to respect historic architecture. Will Methodist turn into Mosque?

"The deal is far from done," Wright says. "We are talking. And praying for guidance."


Farmers Market

The weekly farmers market on Saturday morning provides town dwellers a way to buy fresh produce, support local growers, and meet the people who raise and catch the food. Held on the vacant site of the Hotel Shenandoah, and run by the property owner, the market touts itself as an alternative to bland, prepackaged, factory fare. Yet prices are higher than in a supermarket, local growers come from far afield, and much of what is offered for sale is hardly fresh produce.

Rosemary Wicker manages the farmers market. In overalls and headscarf, she is brusque.

"Free enterprise means just that. Sellers pay rent for a stall, and they follow guidelines on trash and hours of operation. So long as it's clean and meets FDA standards, they can sell whatever they want. Nobody says you have to buy it."

Cecelia Gross, who serves on the town council that licenses special use of private property, defends the market.

"What started as a bunch of tailgate displays and bushel baskets of squash, string beans, carrots, tomatoes, lettuce, and corn has evolved over the years. You see heirloom varieties, farm-raised fish, freshly slaughtered meat, and fancy baked goods. People come for ethic foods and specialties that grocery stores don't stock. They also come for the social occasion, to chat over coffee and a blueberry scone, meet friends and neighbors, and catch up on gossip. Some people shop for gifts. There's always a birthday or a holiday on the horizon."

Handicrafts, artwork, and decorative housewares have proliferated to the point of crowding out the vegetables, according to Luke Burnside, a bona fide farmer. Dressed in jeans and rubber boots stained with mud, he presides over leafy bunches of radishes, beets, and potatoes with real dirt on them. He hunches his shoulders and frowns.

"Look around and what do you see? Birdhouses made from old license plates, wooden toys, hand-woven scarves, leather belts and bags, and things made from beads. Maybe they're made in Virginia, but you sure can't eat them."

Denny Hammer stands behind a display of his metal sculpture, small whimsical animals and robots, and flashes a toothy smile.

"I'm a retired welder. Can you tell? This is old junk that I found and cleaned up and welded together. I'm the type of man who needs to keep busy. Ask my wife, Irene."

The arrival of a food truck, however, has offended farmer and crafter alike. They object to the pervasive smell of frying grease, the noise of the generator, and the drain of customers to an outside business.

"It belongs at the county fair," Burnside says.

"Or the big city," Hammer agrees.


Nannie Good

In honor of the artist's ninety-fifth birthday, the Historical Society mounted an exhibit of paintings and drawings by Nannie Good. The organizer, a married granddaughter with children of her own, Lucinda Good Rawling said:

"A retrospective normally comes at the decade mark. We missed Nannie's ninetieth because of that incident at the Shady Grove Rest Home. Her doctor can't promise she will make it to one hundred, so we wanted give her a big show while she's still here to appreciate it."

Frail, white-haired, and sharp as a tack, the artist attended the opening but made no public comment. She stood briefly on her own two feet, while Mrs. Rawling and others hovered, ready to catch the tottering figure. Margaret Howe welcomed the crowd, many of whom came from Shady Grove with the aid of wheelchairs, walkers, and inhalers.

"I don't need to introduce our featured artist, because many of you have known her forever. What you might not know is her early history. Nannie Foster was born in Quidnunc County and grew up on a farm. Like all farm children, she did chores. Nannie pulled weeds, gathered sticks, and herded a flock of sheep. This may account for the little shepherdess who shows up in her landscapes.

"After working as a home helper for various families, she married Lester Good, a hired hand employed at the same farm. They rented land, then snagged a few acres of their own with a tumbledown barn and a frame house heated by fireplaces. Eventually, indoor plumbing and electricity were installed. They had seven children, most of whom reproduced. At last count, Nannie has twenty-three living descendants.

"As a farm wife and mother, Nannie had precious little free time. Without television or books, she amused the toddlers by drawing and painting pictures on wrapping paper, used envelopes, and junk mail. She sewed and embroidered, often working figures into clothes for the family. Few of those survive today, worn out and washed repeatedly. Years later, when Nannie had time to sit still for a minute, her hands were too cramped to manage a needle and thread. She fell back on painting and became the person we know today, a feisty old lady with a brush in her hand and a twinkle in her eye."

Surrounded by family and friends, the artist raised a gnarled hand to acknowledge their applause. Mrs. Rawling unfolded a girl's apron embroidered with flowers, birds, and insects. Hidden in a drawer, the colors were still bright, and the fabric untorn. Good was surprised to see it after so many years. She nodded in approval as Mrs. Rawling spoke.

"Nannie Good is what art critics call a primitive or folk artist. Her subjects are scenes of country life in days gone by—barefoot boys in overalls, girls in gingham dresses, barns and farmyards, busy chickens and lazy dogs, pastures and orchards, herds of dairy cattle, a sunflower drooping over a picket fence. The style is simple, without perspective or proportion. There are no shadows in Nannie Good's world.

"Yet not all is sweetness and light. In this canvas, for example, you can see a cat tearing a wing off a sparrow. At the edge of the blue sky over here, you see a mass of storm clouds. And this little boy is unhappy, with his bare red bottom and the birch rod flung on the ground at his feet. I would call Nannie a realist unfettered by rules, even the law of gravity."


Library Book Sale

The annual used book sale to benefit the Public Library attracts a swarm of eager buyers from near and far. This year, to accommodate thousands of books and visitors, the sale was moved to a vacant mill floor in the defunct Hapsburg Iron Works. Folding tables and pine shelves occupied the bare space lit by banks of windows. The old mill is not heated or cooled. Given the crush of people and the mild October weather, windows were propped open for a breath of fresh air. Now and then a small bird flew in one side and out the other.

Milton Deckle, who owns the Book Nook off Main Street, closed his shop for the week to organize the sale and supervise volunteers. In return for coordinating the event, Deckle was allowed first pick.

"The shop is small and already full, so I take only a few dozen books. When it began, the sale had books removed from the library collection to make room for new titles. No one checked the books out for years, or they were duplicates, or outdated guides and reference books. The event has grown tremendously in size since then. Most of what's here was donated by residents for the sale."

Except for literary tourists, the shoppers are the same people who donated the books. Given the recycle aspect, do some of the same books turn up year after year?

"It's possible," Deckle admits. "As you can see, there are no recent titles. Almost everything is decades old, probably read more than once. Hapsburg is too small to support a chain bookstore like Barnes & Noble, so we depend on what filters in from the outside world. And local taste is conservative. Nineteenth-century novels are popular, Shakespeare and the Romantic poets, and big names from the twentieth century."

If fiction is the main draw, other tables are loaded with books on cooking, gardening, hiking, horseback riding, nature, pets, quilting, social science, and travel. Deckle notes trends.

"Military history and the Civil War are less popular than they used to be. Agricultural titles, like how to raise chickens, diseases of cattle, grafting fruit trees, those have nearly disappeared. One category that's still strong is religion and spirituality."

Deckle gestures to a large table thronged with quiet browsers weighed down by shopping bags. In hushed tones, they debate theological points.

"People in the Shenandoah are biblically literate, and they love to read commentaries. You often hear them quote chapter and verse. No one tries to convert anyone, because they already belong to a church. It's a competitive sport."


Variegated Guttersnipe

On a lovely spring afternoon, as Floyd Puffenbarger ate an apple on his front porch, a white pickup parked on the street about fifty yards away. Two men emerged wearing polo shirts. An embroidered logo on the chest resembled a map of Virginia. One man had a clipboard, the other a flashlight. Puffenbarger swallowed the mouthful of apple he was chewing.

"I am Harlan Cozener, an inspector from the state agricultural extension. We are looking for infestations of the Variegated Guttersnipe, an invasive species of beetle. Have you seen one?"

Clipped to the clipboard was a color photograph at blown-up scale. The beetle had a mottled shell, with patches of red, white, and yellow.

"I have not seen one," Puffenbarger said.

"We couldn't help but notice the large ailanthus in your backyard."

"Ailanthus is an invasive species."

"Yes, we know. It is often a host for the beetle."

"And it isn't in my backyard. It's on the property line, mostly next door."

"Your yard has better access. Can we walk in for a closer look?"

"Knock yourselves out." Puffenbarger took another bite of apple and followed the two inspectors. They examined the ailanthus, which was tall and graceful. Poison ivy grew up the trunk, a furred vine with glossy leaves.

"Ailanthus suckers sprout in my backyard all summer," Puffenbarger said. "I yank them, but the roots are extensive. The sucker sap has a pungent smell that's hard to wash off. Like wild onions. I yank those too, but it's a losing battle. Is there a bug that eats poison ivy?"

"Not that I know of," Cozener said. "Goats will eat anything."

The flashlight was no help in broad daylight. The inspectors did not find any beetles, eggs, cocoons, patches of withered bark, or misshapen leaves. Disappointed, on the way out they gave Puffenbarger a flyer about exotic pests. The flyer asked him to be on the lookout for the Blue-Nosed Gopher, Chinese Fire Drill, Hen's Teeth, Horsefeathers, Spotted Dick, and Variegated Guttersnipe.

"Thank you for your cooperation," Cozener said.

Puffenbarger dropped his apple core behind an azalea.


Perpetual Care

Rose Hill Cemetery occupies a low ridge south of town along Quicquid Creek. Once a pasture, the thin stony soil was good for little else. In the early twentieth century, as churchyards like St. Giles Episcopal and Lane Presbyterian filled up, a private group of investors bought several acres, laid out burial plots on winding paths, planted roses, pines, and evergreen clumps, and opened the first nondenominational cemetery in Hapsburg.

With its up-to-date plan inspired by garden suburbs of the period, Rose Hill offered a range of options—full sun, partial shade, family compounds for up to a dozen, individual plots – and a guaranteed landscape maintenance program called "perpetual care." A hundred years later, the paths wind through a varied panorama of gnarled old roses, brooding pines, and impenetrable thickets. What had been a barren ridge is now a picturesque spot, ideal for lonely walks and quiet contemplation.

Burial customs continue to change, however, and attitudes toward the dead evolve. Since most of the original layout is developed, Rose Hill has announced a new addition for a new generation. The resident manager Darryl Gross, a state-licensed cemetarian, leads a party on a tour of the Meadow.

"As you see, it's low-lying ground, actually in the flood plain of the creek. We decided to limit the Meadow to cremation burials, which are more popular, and to keep it all-natural. No headstones, no fences, no paved roads, and no artificial flowers allowed. Grave markers will be small and flush with the grass. This makes the job of mowing easier, and it preserves the natural beauty of the land. That's important to people today. When they visit a deceased loved one, or when they choose a final resting place for themselves, they want to support the environment, like always."


Title image "Newsworthy" Copyright © The Summerset Review 2023.