Perhaps you can tell something about a town by its graveyard. Our ghost town, population 49, has more dead than living. As a rural ranching and farming community there isn't a lot of money for fancy edifices. Some graves are incomplete but not forgotten.
This is my good friend Geno's grave. He and I shared a pet coyote. He lived a healthy lifestyle and could ride a bicycle 50 miles a day, but liver cancer took him unexpectedly and too soon. We buried him on what would have been our (Farmer Rick and I) wedding day. Farmer Rick and I sang Ave Maria at the grave site. One day I will put a marker up with a bicycle or coyote. Or both.
The wind and animals scatter the fake flowers. Many wash down the creek and end up at our place. They seem to symbolize the impermanence of a human life.
Some people decorate more than others. Anything goes. It shows the diversity of this small populace.
I dedicate this post to my mother whom I buried 34 years ago today, and to Laurie, the former owner of my house here for 31 years. She was buried in this cemetery a couple weeks ago in an unmarked grave decorated only by a cross made of white and purple flowers.
For more images of old churches and graveyards, visit Sunday Stills.