(One of these is really in Washington, D.C. Did you notice?)
In A World Without Us, the author examines exactly how natural processes would undo humanity’s efforts if we all disappeared tomorrow. Anyone could guess, for example, that cities would crumble, but this author tells us how the decay would likely happen as pumping stations fail, roofs go unrepaired, and foundations erode. As water seeps in everywhere, the soil, seeds, and animals will follow, and flowers will bloom in the ruins as surely as they did for a millennium in the Colosseum in Rome.
We spent Earth Day 2017 in a place where something like this has happened on a very small scale for all the wrong reasons. During the era of segregation, East End Cemetery in Richmond was once the go-to burial spot for Richmond’s black middle class and most prominent citizens alike. But unlike nearby cemeteries for whites, it did not receive funding from public sources and did not have provision for perpetual care. The result was decades of active burial from 1897 to the mid-20th century, a period of tapering care into the ’80s and, finally, decades of complete neglect. (A fuller version is told nicely here.) As the weeds and English ivy thrived, the cemetery disappeared into the earth. Tombstones submerged under the soil, and interlopers found the rambling brush to be a good place to dump tires and other trash.
Our work on Earth Day was to do our small part to reclaim the cemetery as the sacred resting place it is. We walked a couple of hundred yards past graves uncovered by volunteers during the past several years to a patch of weeds and vines for our morning’s work. As we stepped over the fallen trees and through the thick underbrush, the ground beneath our feet was uneven, cresting and falling like arrested waves. The depressions occur where holes were once dug and then filled in with loose soil that compacted over time. This was how we knew there were graves somewhere under our feet.
We spent a strenuous three hours there doing meticulous manual labor. We pulled and cut vines as thick as a motorcycle’s handlebars off the side of a tree in order to save it. We dug engraved marble slabs out of the dirt, cleaned them with water and a brush, and set them up for the sun and rain to whiten into grave markers again. We filled wheelbarrows and wagons with ivy that we wheeled halfway back to the access road and dumped into an industrial-sized dumpster the county has begun emptying at, I think, no charge — one of the few forms of public support the clean-up project receives. Otherwise, we were the keepers of de Tocqueville’s vision of America in our inclination to form voluntary associations to get things done. It was small recompense for the shameful legacy of inequality this place embodies.
In our shift that day, the two dozen or so volunteers cleared an area about the same size as the footprint of the small house where I now live. This is how the cemetery here is slowly being reclaimed, in patches and hours that add up to acres and years. “Uncovering History” the organizers call the effort, and that’s exactly what it is.
[Info on volunteering here.]
But the city was still lovely for my late March visit.
Shipped in from Cinémathèque Français in Paris, this machine offered a pre-film cinematic experience dating to the 17th century. A once-in-a-lifetime show for me.
When you look at it this way, our national politics is a bit leftist, in that it moves ever more money to the left, eh?
“My very photogenic mother died in a freak accident (picnic, lightning) when I was three.” —Nabokov
February offered up a distressingly summer-like Sunday, which seemed like the perfect opportunity to finally check out a bug-free Great Dismal Swamp National Wildlife Refuge.
It was both beautiful and forbidding, and part of the beauty was its refusal to yield any comfort to us. We were on its turf and happy to be just visitors with a car waiting nearby. For reasons I don’t bother to think about, I had T.S. Eliot’s famous “Wasteland” in mind, specifically the tarot section:
Madame Sosostris, famous clairvoyante,
Had a bad cold, nevertheless
Is known to be the wisest woman in Europe,
With a wicked pack of cards. Here, said she,
Is your card, the drowned Phoenician Sailor,
(Those are pearls that were his eyes. Look!)
Here is Belladonna, the Lady of the Rocks,
The lady of situations.
Here is the man with three staves, and here the Wheel,
And here is the one-eyed merchant, and this card,
Which is blank, is something he carries on his back,
Which I am forbidden to see. I do not find
The Hanged Man. Fear death by water.
I see crowds of people, walking round in a ring.
Thank you. If you see dear Mrs. Equitone,
Tell her I bring the horoscope myself:
One must be so careful these days.
Indeed, one must.