I ' m William Davis , sixty-five years old , though everyone calls me Bill . I ’ m the caretaker at the West Pilsbury Cemetery , and my first stop every morning is the grave of my wife , Sally . After talking about what ’ s new – these days , nothing much with me – or news I ’ ve heard about her family – they don ’ t stay in touch – and after I report on the weather and doings in town , I go wandering down the hill , rolling back the years , reading my ancestors ’ names from their headstones . My family has been in West Pilsbury since 1843 , when my Welsh ancestors came to work in the weaving mill , since converted into condominiums . There ’ s an East Pilsbury , but it ’ s closer to the thruway and that ’ s where all the chain stores can be found .
I first met Charles about twenty years ago , he was maybe fifteen years old and I was forty-five . He was midway down the hill , studying stones like they were books . I remember thinking , that boy is odd , the first time I saw him . I don ’ t remember when we first spoke , as Charles couldn ’ t stand eye-to-eye contact , but we fell in the habit of hello , how ’ s the weather . Ten years back , when Len Carbo died , the town offered me his job of caretaker at West Pilsbury , and I accepted . Being there every day , Charles got to talking to me in his mumbled voice about different stones . His father was a mason , and he ’ d taught Charles the art of stone cutting .
My little house is across from the cemetery . Sally protested the view when I bought it , but I pointed out that we ’ d never have quieter neighbors ; she was a loving wife until the cancer got her and she joined those on the hill . I made her headstone , but initially I couldn ’ t make more than a bookmark , name and dates . One day Charles joined me at her grave . “ I might could he ’ p you make it prettier ,” he mumbled , looking away . I agreed , figuring if he messed up I could just redo it . He cut some nice curlicues into the edge , added a pair of praying hands and made the letters nicer . I polish the stone once a month , a special labor for her . “ I may not have given you the home you wanted in life , but I ’ ll try to do better from now on .”
About Charles ; he didn ’ t present well . He was a Saturday night bather , a habit inherited from his parents , who thought daily bathing unhealthy . He couldn ’ t quite grow a beard but he wouldn ’ t shave , either . His clothing came from the public bins , where perfectly fine garments can be found , though the pant legs may run long or short or be frayed at the cuffs , and the shirts are often stained . He sometimes washed his clothes , but I ’ m not sure how ‘ cause I ’ ve seen his cottage and he didn ’ t have a washing machine . He brushed his teeth when he bathed , and a dentist would have gone to town on Charles ’ chipped , dark teeth . He cut his own hair , though I offered to help him even it out , and he wore a knit cap pretty much year round , probably for the best . He had his father ’ s tall height , his mother ’ s gentle face . Disliking vegetables , he tried to live off the land but there ’ s no hunting season in this part of the state . He got survivor ’ s benefits from Social Security . I put up a small mailbox at the caretaker ’ s office so he could get his checks and visit the grocery store .
Denied children , I came to think of Charles as a distant son . I remember him as a teen , lanky and quiet , pretty much every day riding his rickety bike along the paths and between the stones , laboring up slopes , whizzing back down , standing with the bike between his legs , reading . Like me , he seemed to want to know everyone . I cautioned him once when he rode among the stones . “ Some folks seem to think their loved one is lying down there , awake , pointing up at you , and cursing ‘ cause you ’ re riding over them . That ’ s ridiculous , but don ’ t ride over any graves if you see folks out here .” That was one of the rare times I was parental to him ; he was respectful and did as he was told . I remember asking him one day , as he popped a wheelie , something boys do to show off to others , “ don ’ t you have any friends ? Someplace happier to be ?” He just shook his head . Some folks are born old , I ’ ve noticed , and I guess he was one of them .
West Pilsbury Cemetery fills ten acres that I mow on a rider , and climbs a hill draped in maple , oak , and some willows ; it ’ s truly beautiful in the fall . The oldest graves , concentrated in the front , the original burying ground , are the most interesting , carved with death heads and angels ’ wings and stern warnings to the living , To dust you return , presuming the dead still have a few things to teach us . Some people left legacies , some full biographies ; ‘ Rev . Joseph Mennan , moved to West Pilsbury May 1 , 1744 , First Minister Congregationalist Church , First selectman , 1789 , Doctor and Patriot ’. Rev . Mennan ’ s is a tall stone , it has to be for all those accomplishments . His wife , ‘ Dear Emily ’, short and square , is next to him . Mr . Daniel Abate , dead since 1874 , ‘ Died saving others in a fire ’ at the age of 19 . ‘ John Farmer , born May 3 1843 , d March 11 1889 , Taken prisoner at the battle of Cold Harbor , Confined in Andersonville Prison , Discharged May 3 1865 ’ still chills my blood . And my great-uncle John Davis ’, a more modest stone , 1875-1934 , ‘ union organizer , IWW Workers unite !’ always makes me smile . What also makes me smile is a stone at the top of the hill for a woman I knew , Edwina Vallen , a harridan who died three years back and all her mourners arrived in one car , none of them her four kids , and whose stone reads ‘ beloved mother ’. I ’ ve gotten to know practically all of them .
As intended , I infer from the size of the stone the wealth of the family , though there are exceptions ; a large heart-shaped slab of red marble with her image , sandblasted , stands for a teen-aged gal , Amy Keilly , killed on Rt . 23 two winters past . Though the stone is expensive , Amy ’ s family is of very modest means . ( I wish they ’ d given me a chance to carve it , but I probably couldn ’ t match it .) It ’ s very sad , a young life frozen forever , a permanent incompletion , and a reminder to me of why most folks come to the cemetery , to extend life by remembering . Some are very devoted to their deceased . I can tell you which cars regularly come through the gates , and where they stop . I can also tell you which ones are gardeners , and which ones leave pastry or photos or other items that won ’ t survive a hard rain .
Charles and I found our opportunities to cut stone by replacing old ones . Sandstone markers in particular need replacing , markers that have faced a hundred or more winters , ten thousand pounding rains , eroded stones that were losing their stories , and always we replaced them with marble , the most beautiful stone .