“It looks so peaceful,” wife Beverly remarked one cloudy afternoon this week when we trundled from the end of a lane leading into Humboldt’s Mount Hope Cemetery.
A few minutes earlier Beverly asked to take a drive, she having been self-quarantined in the house for several days. My usual inclination for an outing is to head to the river. Humboldt doesn’t have many scenic drives, and the frothing waters of the Neosho are about as picturesque as it gets on short notice.
As we drove deeper into the 40-acre cemetery we reasoned it was a good time to take a look at our future resting places. Along about the time my granddad, Sherman Oliphant, died in 1964 the family purchased eight lots; four are occupied by my parents and grandparents. The lots are on the north side, just south of a huge quarry turned private lake that once supplied raw material for Humboldt Brick and Tile. Perhaps that has existential meaning. My granddad worked at the brick plant during the Great Depression. His wages were meager, less than a dollar a day, but enough to keep our dignity.
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