Last year, I wrote about a grave I found in Sugar Hill, Ga. It turned out to be the final resting place of a victim of an infamous police murder in 1964. It was incredibly random, but this is the kind of experience I’m getting used to.

It happened again this week when I visited Arlington Memorial Park in Sandy Springs, Ga. It’s a huge cemetery with many different sections. Find a Grave lists 120 photo requests for Arlington but I was hoping to find just one.

Arlington’s Menorah Garden section is fairly new and has a modern look. Photo courtesy of Arlington Memorial Park’s website.

The grave I was hunting for was in the Menorah Garden, a Jewish section. I haven’t visited many Jewish cemeteries but this one was different than ones I’m used to seeing. Colorful painted rocks left by family and friends edge many of the graves. It dispells a lot of gloom some cemeteries have. There’s even have a bowl of unpainted rocks that guests are invited to use to leave at the grave they have come to visit.

Visitors to Arlington’s Menorah Garden are encouraged to take a stone to place on the grave they are visiting.

After finding the grave I was looking for, I took some photos of the graves around it to upload to Find a Grave. When I got home, I started uploading the photos. One person didn’t have a memorial page yet so I created one and uploaded the photo. The name Simon Kornblit meant nothing to me. The words “He Made a Difference” caught my attention.

When I did a Google search on his name, immediately a lengthy bio came up for him. Much of what I learned about him is from a profile in the Atlanta Jewish Times.

Simon Kornblit’s name meant nothing to me. Turns out, he lived quite a life.

Simon “Si” Kornblit was born to Jewish parents in Antwerp, Belgium in 1933. His father was a diamond cutter from Poland and his mother came from Russia. Belgium was not exempt from Nazi Germany’s oppressive edicts. In 1940, Si and his family fled Antwerp for America in a freighter ship that was blown up on its way back to Europe. The Kornblits settled in New York City and Si eventually graduated from Stuyvesant High School.

A summer job Si got in the mail room at advertising agency Doyle Dane Bernbach (DDB) turned into a 35-year career. While at DDB, Kornblit attended the School of Commerce and Management at New York University. He took a break from work to serve in the U.S. Army during the Korean War. Ultimately, he became executive vice-president, general manager of the Los Angeles branch of DDB.

One of Si’s most famous ad campaigns was known as the 1970 “Angry Gorilla” ad for American Tourister luggage. It involved a real-life king chimpanzee (not a gorilla) named Oofie trying to destroy one of their suitcases. It proved to be extremely popular and American Tourister sales jumped. The story behind the filming of that first ad is pretty funny.

That’s Si in the middle, waiting for Oofie the king chimpanzee to get mad at the suitcase. Photo courtesy of DDB News.

Si’s wife, Bobbi, said that although her husband was gentle in nature, he was “an original ‘Madman from Madison Avenue.’”

Si and Bobbi moved to Los Angeles to be closer to his movie-making clients, 20th Century Fox and Universal Pictures. He helped oversee the advertising campaign for Fox’s Star Wars. Later, he left DDB and joined Universal. From 1987-1993, Si marketed over 100 films. They include Jurassic Park, Field of Dreams, Fried Green Tomatoes, and Back to the Future. He was also named a voting member of the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences for the Academy Awards for his work.

In 1994, after the Northridge earthquake in California, Si retired and he and Bobbi moved to Atlanta. He helped establish a film institute for continuing education at Kennesaw State University and served as its director from 2001-2003. He lectured on movie marketing to students at the Goizueta School of Business at Emory University, Georgia State, and other colleges. He never stopped sharing his wisdom with those just entering the industry.

Si lectures students at Augusta State University in 2004. Photo courtesy of the Augusta Chronicle.

Si also served on the Board of Governors for the Atlanta Chapter of the National Academy of Television Arts and Sciences as well as the Georgia Film, Video & Music Advisory Commission; co-chaired the Photo Forum at the Atlanta High Museum of Art; and was a member of the executive committee of the Atlanta Jewish Film Festival. In Atlanta, he also continued his three-decade involvement with the March of Dimes. On top of that, he was named a torch bearer for the 1996 Atlanta Olympic Games.

You would think after an incredible career like that, Si would have been happy to rest on his laurels but he didn’t. At age 70, he decided to pursue a long-held dream. Become an actor! And he did just that. After just six weeks of classes, Si secured a talent agent. He landed roles in local community theater productions, independent films and television pilots.

“He had warmth and was real,” said Steve Coulter, an actor, writer and director, who coached him. “Simon was good,” he added. “People asked to work with him.”

Actor Doug Mason was in Days of Vengeance with Si. He said,”We had no idea of the accomplished life that Simon had…until we got to know him visiting at his home for a rehearsal. There we saw a glimpse of how much of a big wig he really was.”

“When you read his bio, which is amazing, I still can’t believe we had the honor to have him in our little no-budget movie. But it was Simon who led us to believe that the honor was all his.”

At the bottom of Si’s gravestone are the words “He Made A Difference”. That’s what really drew me to take a picture of his grave in the first place. Because that’s what I hope to do with my life. That’s what I want people to say about me when I’m gone.

Most of us will never be world-famous film executives. But we can make a difference in the world around us, even in small, daily gestures. As 2014 gets off the ground, I hope we can all work toward that goal. It’s a New year’s resolution worth trying.

Thanks, Si, for the difference you made.

Si and his wife, Bobbi, who is an award-winning author.

In November, I wrote a post about fulfilling my hundredth Find a Grave photo request. That was a big milestone for me! But since I started cemetery hopping in earnest last December, it’s resulted in so much more than that. It’s changed me in ways I was not expecting.

Telling Their Stories

I’m not into the paranormal. My faith is in Jesus Christ, not Ouija boards. Some people visit cemeteries in hopes of making contact with the “other side”. And that’s fine. But it’s not my goal.

However, I have become more willing to believe in the unexplained. I do think some individuals whose graves I have discovered wanted me to find them. They almost tug on my sleeve to get my attention. It isn’t a coincidence that I found slain police officer Ralph K. Davis’ grave amid hundreds of others at Sugar Hill Baptist Church Cemetery. Something about it urged me to find out more.

Slain Gwinnett officers Jessie Gravitt, Ralph King Davis and Jerry Everett. Photos courtesy of Mackie Carson.

When I discovered Ralph was at the center of one of the biggest murder cases in Gwinnet County history, I knew I had to write about it. By sharing the story of Ralph and his brother officers Marvin Jesse Gravitt and Jerry Everett, I educated a new generation about a forgotten slice of history. It’s hard not to feel a jolt when you realize that you frequently, unknowingly, travel a road that was once a murder scene.

The same goes for Adeline Bagley Buice, who while pregnant not only survived arrest by the Union Army and transportation to the North, she spent five years making her way to the only home she had ever known. That kind of spirit is stunning. I’m glad I was able to share her story to a fresh audience.

But my favorite so far has to be children’s author Madge Bigham. I literally had to dig up her gravestone because it was so covered by sod and grass clippings. She was waiting patiently for someone to uncover it.

Madge Bigham’s simple, flat grave marker lay hidden under grass and dirt until I found it.

In discovering Madge, I found a kindred spirit who loved writing as much as I do. Her love for children and her desire to improve their lives in an era when women were supposed to get married and stay quietly at home is impressive.

Since then, I’ve swapped emails with some of Madge’s relatives and learned more about her. When I visit Westview Cemetery, I always stop by her grave (and those of her three siblings) to make sure it’s not getting covered up again. To say hello and assure her she’s not forgotten.

Making New Friends and Reconnecting With Old Ones

I’m an introvert by nature. Talking to people I don’t know is a struggle. By getting into cemetery hopping and writing this blog, I have met or reconnected with some great people.

Sharon Smith Patterson is a perfect example. I didn’t know her well in high school but we met up again this year when she started reading my blog. By accepting her invitation to visit an almost hidden Davis Cemetery, I discovered a wealth of history I’d never known. Thanks to my new hobby, I got to spend some time with Sharon and get to know her better.

Sharon Smith Patterson and I reconnected among the graves of a small rural cemetery.

The same goes for helping my buddy Steve Reagin find his ancestors in Lithonia. We hadn’t seen each other in years but once we started talking, it felt like it had only been a few months.

Steve discovered many of his relatives’ final resting places at Lithonia City Cemetery.

I’ve also made new friends in my community who read my blog. One of them is Jennifer Graham, a fellow “hopper” and talented photographer. It’s great fun to sit and talk with someone else who shares my passion for history and cemeteries.

Jennifer Graham’s picture of little Grace Watson at Bonaventure Cemetery in Savannah, Ga. serves as the logo of her business, White Rabbit Creative Photography.

One thing that’s surprised me is how many people want to talk to me about their own affinity for cemeteries. Martin, the friend who helped me find Westivew Cemetery, is one of them. He and I have talked about how he finds comfort by visiting his mother’s grave. How visiting cemeteries is a positive experience for him. I like knowing that I’m not the only one.

The Sweet Sound of Silence

I’m not outdoorsy. At. All. I have gone real tent camping exactly twice in my life. A cabin is more my comfort zone than a sleeping bag on the ground.

However, now that I spend a good bit of my time under the open sky of a cemetery, my comfort level with the great outdoors has shifted.

I spent a beautiful, sunny day at Greenwood Cemetery this year.

When I’m in a cemetery, especially one out in the country, I enter a different world. No cars honking, no music blaring, nobody talking on cell phones. It’s just me, nature and the dead. The only background noises are the squirrels and birds going on about their business.

With the lack of distractions, I can let myself relax. My anxiety level drops and I find a peace that’s beyond words. I can appreciate God’s handiwork and the lives of those He created, all of them unique.

Finding My Voice

A few years ago when I first considered blogging, I knew I didn’t want to write a “mommy blog.” Many other talented ladies have that covered and do it well. I wanted to write about something unique and quirky. Something different.

With Adventures in Cemetery Hopping, I’ve found my true voice. A platform for my writing, which is something for which I’ve sought for quite a while. It releases something in my soul that makes me feel heard. Not necessarily understood, but heard.

As 2013 ends, I issue you an invitation. If there’s a cemetery you would like me to visit, please let me know. I already have a long list but I’m always happy to add to it. Just contact me at traci.rylands@gmail.com.

So many cemeteries. So little time!

A few weeks ago, I was fulfilling a photo request for Find a Grave at a cemetery not far from my home. I’d been there other times. But on that day, I found something I’ve never seen before. On the side of the base of a grave marker was a box of what looked like human hair.

I still don’t know what the significance of this is but I’d like to find out.

Inside a clear plastic Caboodles makeup box was a bag containing what appeared to be two ponytails of blonde human hair. It didn’t look like fake hair.

Nothing about the grave marker indicates why it’s there. The deceased was 47 when he died in 2006. He’s buried beside his grandparents. That’s all I know. Since then, many people I’ve shown the picture of it to have puzzled over why it’s there and its meaning. But there has to be a special story behind that box.

The most common items left on graves (besides flowers) are stones and rocks. This is primarily a Jewish custom. In the Old Testament, the sons of Jacob and Rachel placed stones over their mother’s grave. This type of “cairn” grave is not common any more but you can see them from time to time.

This stacked stone or “cairn” style grave is rarely seen now. This one is of a Revolutionary War veteran who settled in Georgia after the war.

One reason people place stones on graves is that they believe it keeps the soul down. This theory, with roots in the Talmud, cites that souls con­tinue to dwell for a while in the graves in which they are placed. The grave, called a beit olam (a permanent home), was thought to retain some aspect of the departed soul.

In the last scene of the film Schindler’s List, the Jews saved by Oskar Schindler place stones on his grave to create the shape of a cross. He is buried in a Catholic cemetery in Jerusalem.

Rocks are favored over flowers on Jewish graves because flowers were considered pagan. Mind you, Jews do use flowers on other occasions such as Shabbat and other holidays. But in general, do not leave them on graves. Also, rocks have a more permanent symbolism than flowers, which fade and eventually die.

This practice has gone beyond Jewish custom and is now embraced by people of all faiths. The reason is simple. It’s an easy way to leave a small memento that someone was there to visit the grave, to honor the deceased.

Another common item left on graves is a coin. This practice has its origins in ancient Greek mythology. Kharon (or Charon) was the ferryman of the dead, an underworld demon. He received the shades of the dead from Hermes, who gathered them from the upper world and guided them to the shores of the Akheron, one of the five rivers in Hades.

From there, Kharon took them in his boat to a final resting place in Hades, the land of the dead, on the other side. The fee was a single obolos coin, which was placed in the mouth of a corpse at burial. Those who had not received due burial and were unable to pay their fee would be left to wander the earthly side of the Akheron (some say it is the River Styx and not the Akheron), haunting the upper world as ghosts.

Artist Alexander Litovchenko painted his version of what he thought Kharon looked like ferrying passengers in his boat. Photo courtesy of Wikimedia Commons.

In recent years, someone (whose name is unknown) wrote a primer on what certain coins mean when left on the grave of a person who served in the military. As an example, a nickel left on a grave supposedly means it was left by another serviceman who served with the deceased in boot camp. In my research, I’ve found nothing concrete to confirm these assertions yet.

It is true that military folk do sometimes leave special remembrances at the graves of deceased servicemen. They’re called challenge coins. These tokens identify their bearers as members of particular units and are prized and cherished by those to whom they’ve been given. Any challenge coins found at grave sites are almost always certainly left there by comrades-in-arms of the deceased.

This is an example of a challenge coin. President Barack Obama placed challenge coins on the memorials of the soldiers killed in the 2009 Fort Hood shooting.

After rocks and coins, what people leave on graves runs the gamut from the sad to the funny to the just plain weird (that box of hair qualifies). Statues of angels are popular. Some of you remember that on one of my first “hops”, I found some rubber snakes on a grave that made me jump about 10 feet.

At Oakland Cemetery in Atlanta, visitors leave golf balls at the grave of legendary golfer Bobby Jones. People leave Campbell soup cans on artist Andy Warhol’s grave in homage to his famous painting of…a can of soup. Fans of Elvis leave scores of teddy bears on his grave at Graceland. I wonder if someone’s ever left a peanut butter and banana sandwich there.

One famous example involves the grave of Hollywood icon Marilyn Monroe. Her ex-husband (and baseball legend) Joe DiMaggio set up an account with a local florist to put roses on Marilyn’s grave three times a week for 20 years after her death. He reportedly promised her on their wedding night that if anything were to happen to her he would honor her in some special way.

Marilyn Monroe is buried at Westwood Memorial Park in Hollywood. Last year marked the 50th anniversary of her death.

When I recently visited Kansas City, I wanted to see the grave of jazz legend Charlie Parker. It’s located far outside the city in a very out of the way cemetery. The little ceramic bird (with a real feather in it) left on his gravestone was simple but sweet.

Charlie “Bird” Parker only lived 35 years but he made an indelible mark on the music world.

In the end, it really doesn’t matter what token you leave behind when you visit someone’s grave. If it’s something you feel best expresses how you remember that person, that’s what matters most.

Even if it’s a box of hair.

I dread the Christmas holidays.

Does that make me a bad person? Maybe. But to deny my feelings would be lying and that’s worse.

For some, the holidays are not a time of joyful celebration.

My father died five days after Christmas. This year marks the 10th anniversary of his passing. Some years are easier to handle than others. I’ve found that there’s no way to predict what each one will be like.

Christmas is also hard because my Dad really loved celebrating it. He was one of those people who put up the tree the day after Thanksgiving. He loved Christmas music. He was the narrator in some of our church’s Christmas productions. For a man who could be rather stoic, Christmas transformed him into a joyful, almost lighthearted person.

I know I’m not the only one who misses a loved one during the holidays. I’m no expert but here are some rules that help me get through it.

1. It’s Okay to Admit You Dread Christmas.

As a Christian, admitting that I struggle with feeling happy about the biggest Christian celebration of the year is difficult. For those who don’t understand, it makes no sense to feel sad when I should be happy. Why can’t I put my grief aside and celebrate that God came to the world in the form of a baby to show us His love? I can’t do that some days. That’s just a fact and I am okay with that now.

This is Mom and Dad during one of their first Christmases together.

Give yourself permission to be honest about what you’re feeling. Your friends and family may not understand but they don’t have to. It’s not about them. It’s about taking care of yourself.

2. It’s Okay to Cry.

When I was young, the album Free to Be, You and Me came out. One of the songs was sung by former NFL great, Rosie Greer. It’s Okay to Cry was one of my favorites, especially the line “It’s okay to cry/crying gets the sad out of you.” Simplistic, yes, but easy for a child to understand.

This year, I managed to make it until this past Wednesday before I cried. On the way home from taking my son to school, I burst into tears. I was mourning the fact that Christmas just isn’t the same without Dad. You would think with time that this feeling would change, but it hasn’t. I don’t like crying because I get all snotty (ick) and feel out of control. But it’s a release I need to express the emotions I can’t handle.

Rosie was right. Crying is not a form of weakness. It is a sign of strength to admit you are dealing with personal pain. Your tears mean you feel something deeply and by letting those emotions flow out, you can find some solace.

3. It’s Okay to Go into Survival Mode Until January.

During the holidays, sometimes you have to simply do what you have to do to survive. That doesn’t mean going into a bunker until January 1. But if avoiding a holiday party or foregoing watching “Rudolph the Red Nose Reindeer” on TV helps, then that’s what you do.

If it means having an extra piece of peppermint bark, nobody is going to judge you. And if they do, they can come talk to me. If you’d rather listen to Led Zeppelin (“Immigrant Song” is one of my favorites) instead of 24 hours of Christmas music, so be it.

If getting through December means going underground for a little while, that’s alright. Don’t feel guilty and pretend to feel a joy you don’t.

4. It’s Okay to Be Angry.

Yes, anger can bubble up amid the grief. I get mad at God for taking my father at the age of 65. I’m angry that he’s not here to see my son open his presents or take him to see the Christmas lights. Dad would have loved his grandson dearly and the fact he never got to meet him seems unfair. Yes, I am lucky that I had my father as long as I did. But that doesn’t make the feelings go away.

This was my little guy at the age of two after visiting Santa.

Don’t push that anger away. Stuffing it down inside just makes it worse. Acknowledging your frustration is the first step in making peace with it. Yell at God if you want to. He can take it.

5. It’s Okay to Laugh.

For many years, we had a rather bizarre Christmas tree stand that Dad had fashioned out of an old tether ball tire and a holder he wedged into the center of it. Regardless of whether or not we got a real tree or used our fake one, getting a tree into that stand was a challenge he relished. I learned early to leave the room during this time while the stream of Yosemite Sam-like swearing took place. We still laugh about it now.

This is me with the fake tree (and the infamous stand) in 1973.

Dad loved the movie A Christmas Story . To him, it was a slice of his childhood served up on celluloid. Watching him laugh at the father’s (Darren McGavin) attempts to get the furnace to work or his pride in receiving his “major award” in the form of a naughty lamp are memories I treasure. Watching that movie makes me feel close to Dad again, if only for a few hours.

Laughing while you’re crying is good, too.

“It’s a major award!”

6. It’s Okay to Live in the Moment.

If I look at December as one long, miserable sobfest, it’s going to be just that. Instead, I try to live hour by hour, day by day, with no expectations.

Yes, some of it’s going to stink. But some of it can be good. Singing “Holly Jolly Christmas” with my fake Burl Ives accent is funny to me (and painful to those around me). So is eating the head off a gingerbread man. Or watching Barbara Stanwyck in Christmas in Connecticut for the hundredth time.

By living in the moment, you can celebrate life for what it is. A strange but fascinating collection of unique experiences and emotions. There are flashes of joy amid the sadness.

That’s all I’ve got. Hope it helps.

Merry Christmas, Daddy. I still miss you.

This is from the early 90s when Dad met University of Georgia football legend Herschel Walker.

As my “hopping” adventures continue, I’ve found that many people fall in love with cemeteries during their childhood. It’s always been a part of their lives. For me, it happened in just the last few years. Maybe as the speed at which I approach my own exit from this earth seems to accelerate, visiting these old cemeteries prepares me to meet those who have gone before.

Like me, Jennifer loves cemeteries and enjoys photographing the unique discoveries she finds.

Fellow cemetery enthusiast Jennifer Graham lives near me in Tucker, Ga. She’s had a thing for cemeteries since childhood. She channels that affection into her business, White Rabbit Photography. I asked Jennifer to write about why she loves cemeteries and to share some of her favorite photos.

I’ve always been interested in cemeteries. Their history, beauty, haunting feeling and poignancy. Whether or not you’ve met those buried there, you can appreciate that a life was lived and is remembered in a simple headstone or a grand mausoleum. When you walk by a person’s grave, for that simple moment, perhaps they are remembered whether you call out their name or not.

Jennifer took this photo at Bonaventure Cemetery in Savannah, Ga.

There’s so much history in a cemetery. Yes, there are dates but you can see styles of monuments, inscriptions reflecting the times they lived in, information about the deceased and their family. Bible verses, favorite poems, quotes, cherished moments and much more are remembered.

This one was also taken at Bonaventure Cemetery.

Growing up, my family visited numerous historical sites. My father was in the military and moving states, cities and countries was a regular occurrence. Both of my parents love history, especially my dad, who taught it at different institutions. So we toured and tromped around any and every local site around our area. We visited large and small military graveyards. My fascination with cemeteries began at a young age as a result of these explorations. I couldn’t even tell you at what age because it seems like forever for me.

Aging ironwork at Stone Mountain Cemetery in Stone Mountain, Ga.

I’m pretty intrigued by anything tapophile [cemetery related], burial practices, rites, statuary, time periods, locations, especially those surrounded by modern growth and really most anything. I dearly love the iron work too. Even it can tell you about the period it was produced in.

This headless statue holds a mystery. Nobody at Oakland Cemetery really knows her origins and how she ended up this way. All that is known is that she is supposed to represent the Greek goddess, Hebe.

I have to say, though, that my favorite thing of all is the silence in a cemetery. The total absence of technology. The soothing quiet. Only the dead with their rest and the sound of nature. I like the warmth of the sun and the sound of the wind when it’s chilly. There’s no one living present so no need to make conversation if you are not in the mood to do so. You can conduct your explorations in peace and honor the dead at the same time.

To see more of Jennifer’s work, you can visit her website for White Rabbit Photography.

In 1947, a woman named Frances Gerety coined the phrase “A Diamond is Forever” for DeBeers. She may have been right but for the Victorians, hair was more eternal (and affordable) than glittering gems.

Mourning jewelry, or jewelry worn when one is mourning the loss of a loved one, has been around for centuries. But the Victorians truly embraced it when Queen Victoria took mourning to a new level in the 1800s. In October, I wrote about how the death of her beloved Prince Albert initiated a very detailed code of dress for ladies. The Queen was partial to mourning jewelry, especially if it was made out of jet (which is not a true mineral but actually a very old form of decayed wood).

In the third season of PBS’ popular Downton Abbey, Lady Mary follows the dictates of society by wearing jet jewelry in her time of mourning for her late husband. Photo courtesy of PBS.

The curious practice of making mourning jewelry from human hair became very popular. In other words, jewelry that literally contains hair from the deceased. This might seem incredibly bizarre (and to some, downright creepy), but the act of keeping someone’s hair as a memento of them was quite normal. The hair could be placed in a locket or even in an elaborate piece of jewelry.

It may seem like a strange way to remember someone but it’s actually quite practical since photography was not affordable for most people. Hair has chemical qualities that enable it to last for hundreds, perhaps thousands, of years. (Contrary to popular belief, hair does NOT continue to grow after someone has died.)

This 18th-century locket contains the hair of George and Martha Washington. It was sold at James D. Julia Auctions in August 5, 2009 for $7,475.00.

Of course, not everyone could afford jewel-encrusted lockets like the one pictured above. More often, it was simply a lock of hair stashed behind a painted miniature or inside of a ring. The jewelry’s owner knew it was there but didn’t necessarily flaunt it.

Since photography wasn’t fully utilized at that time, Victorians took to incorporating the hair of the deceased into their mourning jewelry.

However, the Victorians took hair out of the darkness and into the light. Rings, pendants, pictures, wreaths, you name it and they did it.

Located in Independence, Mo. (not far from Kansas City), Leila Cohoon operates the only hair museum in the U.S. to truly feature this art form. She says that often, a family member would collect hair from several generations of relatives and weave the hair into a wreath. More often than not, the wreath included intricate hair-woven flowers and were shaped like a horseshoe, always pointed up to keep luck in the family. Her museum features hundreds of examples of hair art. You can find them up for bid on eBay from time to time as well.

This framed wreath is made out of hair from the ladies listed inside of it. Photo courtesy of Leila’s Hair Museum.

The Northampton Historic Museum and Education Center in Massachusetts has a fantastic virtual exhibit of Victorian hair art. They do a better job at explaining the history behind it than I can.

For mourning accessories, jewelry items made from the hair of a deceased friend or loved one became hugely popular. Pamphlets featuring hairworking patterns assisted Victorians with creating their own hair jewelry, if they so desired. The jewelry designs are surprisingly complex and varied for consisting of such humble material as human hair. The pieces could incorporate jet, gold and diamonds for later stages of mourning or lockets for hair or photographs.

There was also a large market for mass-produced gold fittings that could be personalized with engraving or monograms, so the jewelry items could be commissioned as well. There was some distrust, however, of professional hairworkers; there was a widespread problem of hairworkers neglecting to use the deceased person’s hair. Instead, they would sell “custom-made” pieces actually made from purchased bulk hair.

This is a gentleman’s watch chain made out of human hair. I can’t imagine how many hours it took.

Looking at some of these examples, I have to wonder how on earth this was done. And how long it must have taken. Then it occurred to me that during the Victorian era especially, most gently bred women did not work. And if their children were grown or away at school, they had ample time on their hands. If they truly were in early mourning, they weren’t allowed to go out except to attend church services.

The acorn probably originated as an English hairwork motif since oak is England’s national wood. This brooch features four hair acorn shapes, which are tightly woven and incorporate gold components to support the acorn shape. Photo courtesy of the Historic Northampton Museum and Education Center.

No doubt someone spent several hours creating this intricate brooch. Photo courtesy of Leila’s Hair Museum.

According to artist Sandra Johnson (who uses hair to make jewelry and other items), there are four main techniques involved. They are:

Palette
Palette work is the most versatile of the techniques. It can make pictures and designs both large and small. The hair is used in a “cut and paste” manner to create designs. The third picture on this page is an example of palette work.

Sepia Painting
Sepia painting uses the hair as a painting medium and spread thinly on the background. The sixth picture on this page is an example of palette work.

Tablework
Tablework is created using a table and bobbins with weights. The hair is woven around a form in order to make the shape desired. The fifth picture on the page is an eye-catching example of this style.

Hair Flowers
Hair flowers are created using much longer hair than is needed for the palette or sepia technique. The hair is wound around a rod and secured with a wire making long lengths of looped hair. The hair is then shaped into petals or leaves. When several are wired together a flower can be formed and many very large wreaths were made using the hair of many people. Sometimes a church would make one of all their members, or a family would make one of all the members of the family, these could get very large and ornate. The fourth picture on this page is an example.

Then there are those works of art that aren’t jewelry and defy explanation.

Photo courtesy of Leila’s Hair Museum.

There are actually dozens of Pinterest pages devoted to the art form. Many artists like Sandra have revived the tradition and are selling their pieces online.

In the end, while it does seem a tad freaky, the sentiment behind using hair for mourning jewelry makes sense. If you couldn’t have a photo of your loved one to put in your wallet or purse, wearing one of these pieces of jewelry could make you feel close to your deceased loved one in an intimate way. It would never fade or be destroyed by the ravages of time. As seen in the pictures featured here, many examples survive today.

So maybe the Victorians were onto something after all.

This shadow box with a picture of a girl in mourning is lined with material usually reserved for a coffin. The wreath is made with hair from the girl and the girl’s mother, who had died. Photo by Richard Gwinn.

Did you know that Adventures in Cemetery Hopping has a Facebook page? During the week, I post photos and interesting articles related to cemeteries and other related issues. Please stop by! You can visit it by clicking here.

This week marked a milestone in my cemetery hopping career. I have now fulfilled 101 photo requests for Find a Grave! To me, that’s a pretty big deal. It also marks my first anniversary as a Find a Grave photo volunteer.

In truth, I’ve taken a lot more photographs of graves than 101. That number is actually 5,153. Most are photos of graves that were either undocumented or their memorial did not have a photo.

Today I am featuring some of my more memorable photos. Not all of them are for happy reasons. Some are not even photo requests. I’ve written about a few of them earlier and there are some I’ve never forgotten but tucked away in my mind. I hope you enjoy my trip down Memory Lane.

Adeline Bagley Buice

Adeline Bagley Buice is not a name you’ve probably heard. But you won’t soon forget her.

Adeline was not a photo request. I found her while looking for someone else at Sharon Baptist Church Cemetery in Cumming, Ga. When you read the inscription of her more recent marker (see above), you cannot help but stop in your tracks. I wrote about her earlier this year.

The story of how Adeline walked all the way from Chicago back home to Georgia with her little daughter in tow after the Civil War amazes and inspires me. I would love to know more about what her life was like after she returned and reunited with her probably utterly baffled husband (who thought she was dead).

Rebecca Lynne “Becky” Mowell Arnall

Becky was only 46 when she died. But she touched many lives in that short time.

Becky wasn’t a photo request either. But like Adeline, she was one of a kind. Becky was someone I knew and loved, even though we had lost contact over the years. I met her when I was 9 or 10 when we joined our church. Her father, C.J. Mowell, was the local coroner and a funeral director. She and her siblings lived with C.J. and their mother, Faye, over the funeral home.

Becky had a spark about her that few people have. She could made you laugh and she was always into something. She also had one of the kindest hearts ever. As a child, she made me feel special and loved. Her early death hit many of us hard and it’s still difficult to grasp. A few weeks ago, I finally got to visit her grave at Fayetteville City Cemetery with a friend who also knew her.

God bless you, Becky. We miss you.

Lance Corporal Jerry Vanoid Davis

Lance Corporal Jerry Davis made the ultimate sacrifice for his country. But few will ever remember him.

Jerry was one of my first photo requests and I wrote about him soon after. As I read about him (there wasn’t much), I felt a surprising amount of grief for a young man I had never met. When I discovered that his mother had lost him and his brother (who was not in the military), it felt all the more tragic. To lose one child is a tragedy beyond comprehension. To lose another child in combat is even more difficult to endure.

The Vietnam War (and it was a war, not a “conflict”) was a controversial war. Daily casualty counts were the norm on the evening news. But Jerry’s life was more than a statistic. He was someone’s son and brother. And he was loved.

The KKK Grave

Yes, that IS what you think it is.

I stumbled upon a family monument (three names were on it) during the summer while photographing a church cemetery. I’m not going to reveal the last name of the family or location of the grave out of respect to the family (who probably wishes it had never happened). Above the first name of F. Clark is a symbol that made my blood run cold.

It is the symbol of the Ku Klux Klan.

After getting over my initial shock, I did some research and realized that yes, it WAS what I thought it was. F. Clark worked at a funeral home (of all places) and his death was from drowning in the Chattahoochee River. He was only 21 when he died. I don’t know if his parents were Klan members as well. I hope not.

I do know that many in the South, and if you aren’t aware of it, all over the country, were active in the Ku Klux Klan. Some still are. Heck, they were still having meetings on top of Stone Mountain in the early 70s. But to see a blatant symbol of hate in a cemetery shocked me. How could anyone have stood quietly by and allowed this to happen? I don’t know. I only hope I never see that symbol again.

The Little House

This little house stood out among the other graves. I wonder if the person who it was for built homes.

I found the Little House (as I call it) a few months before I became a full fledged cemetery hopper but I wrote about it back in June. It was resting amid the tall grass of Old Greencastle Cemetery in Dayton, Ohio.

There’s no name on it so the identity of the deceased is unknown. It isn’t grand or ornate. But its simplicity caught my eye and it’s now one of my favorites. I’ve never seen anything quite like it before or since.

Carrie Turner

Carrie’s life is still shrouded in mystery. But when I found her grave, it opened up new doors for her family, who had been searching for her for years.

Carrie was a photo request in a round about way. I had taken a picture of her grave marker in Fellowship Baptist Church Cemetery in June as part of my work to photograph as many graves there as possible. Problem was, while I added a memorial for her, I forgot to add the photo of her grave.

A few months later, I saw a photo request for Carrie on Find a Grave and realized my error. I claimed the request and in a few minutes had posted the picture.

What followed as a result I wrote about in August. By some twist of fate or a push from God (I think it was the latter), I took a photo of someone’s long-lost grandmother’s grave. Janet Turner and her family had been looking for her over many years. They still aren’t sure what happened to her grandfather after Carrie died and he was forced to place their children in Georgia Baptist Children’s Home. So a lot of mystery still remains. I hope to have an update on Carrie some day.

This first year of cemetery hopping has been a journey that took many unexpected twists and turns. I’ve learned a lot and I’ve “met” people who led some amazing lives. Some of the cemeteries I’ve explored will stay in my memory forever. Overall, the efforts I’ve put into it (and this blog) have been well worth it.

What will the next year bring?

Sunset sky over Fayetteville City Cemetery.

Grave robbing is nothing new. Movies have been made about it and countless scary stories told around campfires include many a corpse. At one time, in the late 1700s into the 1800s, the theft of dead bodies from cemeteries was very real and quite profitable. Medical school attendance was going through the roof and they needed cadavers for students to practice on.

Celebrity grave robbing is different. It usually involves a ransom demanded in exchange for the return of the stolen corpse. Still, those that undertake it probably already have a screw lose to begin with. Here are the stories of three infamous grave robberies: one that actually happened, one that almost did and one that is questionable to this day.

Charlie Chaplin

A Dog’s Life was made in 1918. Charlie Chaplin wrote, director, produced and acted in the film. His brother, Sydney, had a small role.

Born in April 1889 in London, England, Charlie Chaplin had parents in the theatrical profession. His career as a vaudeville comedian brought him to the United States in 1910. His film career took off in 1914 when he joined Keystone Studios. He developed his trademark “Little Tramp” persona over those early years. With D.W. Griffith, Mary Pickford, and Douglas Fairbanks, he founded United Artists (which is still around today) in 1919. His eight films with UA made him a film icon, with titles like The Kid, City Lights and Modern Times.

Chaplin was living in Switzerland with his fourth wife, Oona, when he died in December 1977. He was buried in Corsier Cemetery (near Lake Geneva) in a 300-lb. oak coffin. In March 1978, it was dug up and removed from the cemetery. The two thieves contacted Oona and demanded an eye-opening ransom of 40,000 pounds (the American equivalent is about $64,500) for the return of his coffin. Oona refused to pay it, saying, “Charlie would have thought it rather ridiculous.”

Charlie Chaplin’s grave is located in Corsier, Switzerland. Photo courtesy of Wikimedia Commons.

Local police set up phony pay-off meetings that proved a failure when the robbers didn’t show up. At the same time, the police and the suspects were both persistent, so the two parties continued to communicate in hopes of resolving the standoff. In May, the police tapped the Chaplins’ phone. They also assigned officers to watch as many as 200 phone booths throughout the area.

When the thieves called this time, the call was traced to two auto mechanics, Roman Wardas of Poland, and Gantscho Ganev, of Bulgaria. The two were arrested. Upon interrogation, they led police to Chaplin’s body, which they had buried in a nearby cornfield. The two were political refugees who were inspired by a similar scheme they read about in an Italian newspaper. Wardas, the brains of the two, got four and a half years of hard labor while Ganev received an 18-month suspended sentence.

The Chaplins reburied Charlie in the Corsier Cemetery. But this time, they sealed his coffin in thick concrete so any future thieves would be deterred from repeating the crime. Fortunately, his grave has remained undisturbed ever since.

Abraham Lincoln

Abraham Lincoln’s body was never stolen but there was definitely a plot afoot to do so. Lincoln’s demise was unique in many ways. Not only was he assassinated, he was the first U.S. president to be embalmed to preserve his body. The train carrying his body to his hometown of Springfield, Ill., made several stops along the way, in which Lincoln’s body lay in state. So the use of embalming was paramount to keeping Lincoln, uhm, camera ready.

Lincoln’s body was conveyed by train across several states. Lincoln was observed, mourned, and honored in Washington, D.C., Maryland, Pennsylvania, New York, Ohio, Indiana, and Illinois.

Lincoln was buried in Oak Ridge Cemetery, a rural cemetery located about two miles outside of Springfield, Ill. No night watchman patrolled the area around the president’s tomb. The only thing standing between Lincoln’s body and any would-be grave robbers was a single padlock on the tomb’s chamber door.

He lay there undisturbed until November 7, 1876. That’s when a group of four counterfeiters broke into the cemetery with the intention of stealing Abraham Lincoln’s body from his sarcophagus. They planned to take the body, hide it in the sand dunes of Northern Indiana, hold it for $200,000 ransom, and demand the release of one of their gang from prison.

Lincoln’s Tomb at Oak Ridge Cemetery was not where many in Washington thought he should be buried. Mary Todd Lincoln fought hard to have her husband’s wishes fulfilled and succeeded.

Their plans fell apart when a paid police informant who had infiltrated the crew ratted on them. When the men broke into the cemetery that night, police and Secret Service agents (who were only charged with investigating counterfeiters at the time, not guarding the body of the President) were waiting for them. Due to an errant gunshot going off before the trap was sprung, the crooks got away, but were arrested a few days later.

Jack Hughes was a sketchy character known for counterfeiting nickles.

Terrence Mullen was a saloon keeper. He and Hughes hired a man who they thought was a grave robber. It would be a decision they would soon regret.

After the attempted robbery, Lincoln’s remains were reburied in the same mausoleum at Oak Ridge. This time they were hidden in a shallow grave in the basement of the tomb. This fact was known only by a handful of people for decades. Lincoln remained there until 1901, when eldest son Robert Todd Lincoln had his father’s remains placed inside a steel cage, lowered 10 feet into the ground, and covered in concrete for safe keeping. It’s been there ever since.

Elvis Presley

This last grave robbery never really happened. In August 1977, two weeks after Elvis’ death (which some still dispute), FBI informant Ronnie Adkins told police he had infiltrated a group that planned to steal Elvis Presley’s 900-pound, steel-lined, copper-plated coffin and hold his remains for ransom.

For two months after he died, Elvis’ body rested inside this crypt at Forest Lawn Cemetery. It has been empty since he and his mother were moved to Graceland. In 2012, the crypt was slated to be auctioned, but Elvis fans caused such an uproar that it never took place.

While police staked out the grave at Forest Hills Cemetery in Memphis, they caught three men (Raymond Green, Eugene Nelson, and Ronnie Adkins) snooping around Presley’s mausoleum. How the three were going to get through the two concrete slabs and a solid sheet of marble that covered the coffin is unknown. No tools or explosives were ever found. That doesn’t even take into account how they planned to remove the coffin without a forklift. Until further evidence about the plot could be uncovered, police charged the men with criminal trespassing and kept them in jail.

The story Adkins gave police turned out to be full of holes. He said the men were going to be paid $40,000 each by an unknown criminal mastermind who planned to ransom the body for $10 million. But he couldn’t tell police how the men intended to get their reward or how to contact this anonymous kingpin once the deed had been done. With no actual crime being committed (other than the men being in the cemetery after dark), and the evidence against the men being so weak, all charges were eventually dropped.

Elvis’ grave is between those of his parents, Gladys and Vernon. Photo courtesy of Wikimedia Commons.

As a result of the “almost attempted” grave robbery, the Presley estate asked to move the bodies of Elvis and his mother to Graceland where they could be monitored 24 hours a day by staff security and closed-circuit TV cameras. Their request was granted.

Former FBI agent Ivian C. Smith said that the “almost” grave robbery was concocted by Elvis’ estate as a way to get the Presleys buried on the property because before the “near theft”, the Memphis Shelby County Board of Adjustment had refused to grant them a variance to bury Elvis at Graceland. Smith, former head of the FBI’s Arkansas office, says Adkins told him years later that former Shelby County sheriff’s deputy Billy Talley set up the hoax.

But as we all know, Elvis isn’t really underground. He’s at Walmart at 2 a.m. buying peanut butter and bananas, right?

Photo courtesy of People of Walmart.

Sometimes you have to dig deep to find something special.

John Bayne, a kind reader of my blog, recently contacted me about a project he’s working on about Westview Cemetery. I wrote about Westview a few months ago. He had a list of famous people buried at Westview whose graves he hoped to photograph. As you can imagine, I was more than willing to help with that. In the course of that work this week, I discovered Madge Bigham.

You’ve probably never heard of her. I had not until John gave me her name. No picture of her has survived. But in the early years of the 1900s, Madge Alford Bigham was a famous children’s author. She also founded the West End Kindergarten, one of the first of its kind in Atlanta. Her career, for a woman, was beyond her time. But today, she is largely forgotten or unknown.

Overheard in Fairyland was one of Madge Bigham’s many popular children’s books.

Madge’s grave was last on my list for the day and all I knew was that she was in Section 16, which contains taller stone monuments. You can even see some of the names from the road. But I couldn’t see a Bigham among them as I began to “hop” down the rows. An hour later, as I reached the front end of the section, I was tired, cranky and ready to leave. But my foot scraped an indentation in the grass. Not willing to give up on Madge, I got on my knees and began brushing and pulling away dead grass and weeds with my bare hands.

Hidden under the grass, I found the narrow, flat gravestone for Madge’s sister, Eugenia Bigham. Beside her were Madge, sister Kate, and brother James. All of them were totally covered with a mesh of grass clippings from multiple mowings that had grown over them. Had I not stopped, I would have walked right over them.

Madge Bigham’s simple, flat grave marker lay hidden under grass and dirt until I found it this week. She and her siblings were hidden from sight.

Something told me there was much more to Madge than her simple grave marker. Later, I got on the Internet and started learning about an amazing woman who stepped outside society’s confines to teach children and share her imaginative stories with them. What I learned about her is mostly thanks to the efforts of Atlantan Tommy Jones’ blog, tomirtonics.com. What you read about Madge here came mostly from his research.

Madge was the daughter of Methodist minister Rev. Robert William Bigham. When his first wife, Charlotte, died in 1871, Rev. Bigham was left to care for his eight young children. He remarried and the Bighams had at least four more children. Rev. Bigham wrote a number of children’s books himself, the most famous being Vinny Leal’s Trip to the Golden Shore.

Madge was born in LaGrange, Ga. in 1874, and attended the Female Academy there. She continued her studies at the Lucy Cobb Institute in Athens. In 1896, she graduated from the Georgia Woman’s College (then in Covington). By 1902, she was principal of the Atlanta Free Kindergarten, located on Fort Street east of downtown.

The first kindergarten in the United States was formed in 1856. Established in 1895, the Atlanta Free Kindergarten Association was part of an international movement that began in Europe in the 1840s. The Association’s president in the early years, Nellie Peters Black, was an advocate for free kindergartens and hospitals, enforcement of child labor laws, as well as for the admission of women to the University of Georgia and the Georgia Bar.

The Bad Little Rabbit was just one of Madge Bigham’s books that young children clamored to have read to them.

Madge’s brother, James Whitaker Bigham, purchased a home on 124 (now 503) Peeples Street in Atlanta’s West End. James, along with his spinster sisters Kate, Madge and Eugenie, never married. The four siblings moved into the house and probably by 1911, they had added an addition in the back for Madge to open the West End Kindergarten. The house was near the Wren’s Nest, home of prominent author Joel Chandler Harris (who wrote the Brer Rabbit stories).

By that time, Madge was already following in her father’s footsteps to become a noted author. Her first book, Stories of Mother Goose Village, was published in 1906. More books were to follow, including Sonny Elephant, Fanciful Flower Tales, and The Bad Little Rabbit.

Sonny Elephant is a story about a baby elephant and his adventures. It is probably her most remembered book and was reprinted several times.

Celestine Sibley wrote about one of Madge’s stories in her syndicated newspaper column in 1970. “The Story of How Apples Got Stars Within” comes from Overheard in Fairy Land. In the tale, a little apple tree loved the evenings when she could gaze at the canopy of stars stretched overhead. Her wish to have just one star of her own was overheard by the Fairy Queen, who promised the little tree that if she worked hard to grow straight and tall, she would get her stars one day.

The little tree did just that and grew tall, eventually blooming with beautiful pink blossoms. When the blossoms were gone, little brown seeds took their place. That’s when the Fairy Queen returned to grant that wish. The tree, now big, had forgotten about it and told the Fairy:

“That was a foolish wish of mine. But if stars you have to give, give them, I pray you, to my baby seeds.” So that is why, when you cut your apple through the center of the circle side, you find brown baby seeds nestled in a five-pointed star.

When the Great Depression hit in the 1930s, Madge was forced to close her beloved West End Kindergarten. Her other unmarried siblings died as the years went by and she found herself caring for the house with her brother Ernest’s widow, Mary, and their children. Madge died on August 11, 1957.

This is thought to be the condition the house was in when Dr. Hammonds bought it in the late 70s. He died shortly after he finished restoring it. Photo courtesy of Tommy H. Jones.

Eventually, the house (which was in such bad shape it had been condemned) was purchased by Dr. Otis Thrash Hammonds and completely renovated. After the doctor’s death from leukemia in 1983, the house sat vacant until Fulton County purchased it. Today, it is the Hammonds House Museum and features Dr. Hammonds extensive African-American art collection. The sounds of children have returned to the house where Madge taught her students.

Today, the Hammonds House Museum contains an impressive collection of African-American art. Much of it was collected by Dr. Hammonds over the course of his life. He died in 1983.

Unlike Joel Chandler Harris, Madge Bigham’s name slid into obscurity. Occasionally, her books show up on eBay or in a rare book collector’s shop. Like her grave, her amazing life has become obscured in a modern era in which stories about heavily merchandised animated characters have upstaged happy little apple trees. I hope one day she gets the recognition she truly deserves.

Don’t worry, Madge. I’ll be back to make sure you keep seeing those stars at night.

Photo courtesy of Waldorf Homeschoolers.

In the mid 90s, I visited my friend (and fellow Church Chick) Megan in Washington, D.C. The U.S. Holocaust Museum had not been open very long so we went to see it. That day changed my life.

At the beginning of the tour, each guest was given a passport of a real person who lived during the Holocaust and was sent to a concentration camp. It briefly described their life and what happened to them. When I opened mine, I was stunned.

The name inside my passport was Hana Mueller. My niece’s name is Hannah. And my maiden name is Muller. That’s when the Holocaust truly became real to me.

Born in Prague (now part of the Czech Republic) in 1922, Hana was reading John Steinbeck’s The Grapes of Wrath in her apartment when she was taken by the Nazis. Despite enduring months in two different concentration camps, Hana was freed when her work crew was abandoned by the SS as liberators approached in May 1945. To watch videos from 1990 of Hana talking about her experiences, you can visit the museum’s website.

Hana Mueller was reading a book by Steinbeck when she was taken by the Nazis. Steinbeck has always been one of my favorite authors.

My father’s roots are in Germany. The Mullers came from the town of Konz in the Rheinland, in the Southwest. My great-great grandfather, John Henry Muller, arrived in the United States in 1866. He was a carpenter and a Catholic. But despite the fact Hana was from Prague and a Jew, I thought that girl could have been me.

This picture from his newspaper obituary is the only photo I have of my great-great grandfather, John Henry Muller. He came to the U.S. in 1866 and worked as a carpenter up until his death in 1926.

Ever since then, my interest to learn as much as possible about the Holocaust has been almost obsessive. I’ve read countless memoirs written by Holocaust survivors and seen over a hundred hours of documentaries. I’ve read The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich all the way through. It’s a subject I never tire of learning more about.

When I heard Atlanta had a cemetery with a Holocaust Memorial, I knew I had to visit it. That’s when I discovered Greenwood Cemetery, located off Cascade Road in Southwest Atlanta.

Greenwood Cemetery opened in 1907. Its diversity is worth noting. Hundreds of graves are for Jews who made Atlanta their home. I had never seen Jewish headstones up close before, except at Oakland Cemetery. There’s also an entire section for those of the Greek Orthodox faith, complete with a small chapel. A very small area belongs to the Chinese, perhaps 20 graves in all.

Row upon row of Jewish graves at Greenwood Cemetery. Usually, the front inscription is written in English and the Hebrew version is written on the back.

But what truly separates Greenwood Cemetery from others is its Holocaust memorial. Built in 1965, the “Memorial to The Six Million” is a small granite open-air structure. The funds to build it came from a group of 100 Holocaust survivors living in Atlanta. In 2008, the Memorial was added to the National Register of Historic Places. It is the only Holocaust memorial in Georgia to have that distinction.

The Memorial for the Six Million is small but impressive. You can see the six white “candles” above the top edge.

What catches your eye immediately are the six 19-foot tall pillars in the middle of it. They represent the estimated six million Jews who perished as a result of the atrocities of the Holocaust. During special ceremonies at the Memorial, these “candles” are lit as an act of remembrance for those who died.

Inside, on the walls, are plaques inscribed with the names of hundreds of people (with surviving family members and descendants that reside in Atlanta) who died in the concentration camps scattered across Europe. Entire families are listed, their lives snuffed out by the Nazi regime. The pillars are anchored by a large, black base that resembles a casket.

This metal plaque is inscribed in both English and Hebrew. “For these I weep…” is from Lamentations 1:16 of the Old Testament.

On the day I visited Greenwood and the Memorial, it was a stunningly beautiful sunny day with a hint of fall in the air. Nobody else was around as I quietly entered. It is a place of reverence and remembrance. As I scanned the names on the wall, it was like being back at the Holocaust Museum in D.C. The huge number of six million becomes much more personal when you see the actual names of people who died.

Entire families perished in the Nazi concentration camps and ghettos. Many came from Poland, which surrendered to Hitler in September 1939.

Also within the memorial is an urn containing human ashes brought from the concentration camp at Dachau.

There is a bit of controversy attached to the Memorial. Outside of it are buried four bars of soap that are purported to have been made by Nazis from the fat of Jewish Holocaust victims. A Jewish soldier who was part of a U.S. force that liberated a concentration camp brought them home after the war. They were forgotten until his wife found them in their Dekalb County basement in 1970. They are stamped “RIF”.

Historians say the initials stand for Reich Industrial Fat. But when the bars were found, the “I” was widely interpreted as a “J,” and some people thought the initials stood for the German translation of Pure Jewish Fat.

After the bars were discovered, the couple called a local rabbi who consulted with Jewish scholars and planned a burial at Greenwood. The bars remain buried there, although I could not find the flat stone marker where they are located.

This is a picture of the memorial stone where four bars of soap purported to be made from the remains of Jews killed in the Holocaust are buried. Historians do not believe that the Nazis ever did this. Photo courtesy of Anneke Moerenhout.

In 2000, a Jewish architect from Atlanta named Ben Hirsch (his parents and two siblings died in concentration camps) wrote a book that included his belief that the Nazis did indeed make soap from Jewish victims. Hirsch’s uncle’s unpublished writings describe how he was forced to work in the concentration camp crematories and saw it himself.

Most historians contend that while the atrocities enacted by the Nazis were horrific, there is no substantial proof that this soap making actually took place. Because of this sentiment, the U.S. Holocaust Museum barred a book signing for Hirsch there.

Regardless of who is right or wrong, the Memorial for the Six Million at Greenwood Cemetery is a sacred place that sends the message it creators originally hoped to get across. Such a tragedy must never be repeated. That’s why remembering it is so critical.

We must never forget.

This is the skirt Hana Mueller wore as a concentration camp prisoner. It is on display at the U.S. Holocaust Museum in Washington, D.C.