Illumination Writes

Originally Published July 18, 2022

2024 Author’s Note: This is a piece that I created for a creative non-fiction class in my college days. It’s one of the few pieces out of that class I am actually proud of and I hope you enjoy reading it.

Before this tiny plot of land was a playground for children, it was a graveyard. I heard someone say in my childhood that graveyards began on the edge of towns, and the towns grew bigger around them, where they were inevitably swallowed up and forgotten. Children who play here now don’t even notice the graves—or they do and just don’t understand what they are. I didn’t notice them until I was older when I found it more interesting to walk in the grass than to play on the plastic equipment.

In 2012, the Pioneer Park playground fell victim to arson. News photos surrounding the incident showed the two castle towers of the wooden park structure ablaze—like a royal castle burning down. I was too young to remember the fire, only knowing that a park we used to go to we couldn’t anymore. Our community saw it as a tragedy. It was like the park had died, and something new and foreign was put in place. By the time the playground was resurrected, I considered myself far too old to play there. So, I carved my own path on the grounds, making sure to visit each one of the eight graves that were on the property. The graves remained even though the place of my childhood turned to ashes.

The first headstone appears underneath a tree, next to the parking lot. In the fall it is covered by leaves making it easy to ignore if you aren’t looking for it. Seeing it today, I realize that I am almost a year older than the man buried here. I wish he had gotten more time. Most of the headstones are all lying flat on the ground, inside the earth, only a few stand upright, further away from the playground and the view of young children. The old stones must have been removed from their upright position and encased in cement in the earth to preserve them, or to hide them from view.

Near the seating area, facing the swing set that I once loved, there lie a small row of graves. All are the children of an L.L. and M.J. Lewis, two sons and a daughter, buried next to each other from oldest to youngest. The first, Benjamin, was born in 1866; the second, Robert, was born in 1868; and the third, Ellen, was born in 1873. They all died in the summer of 1878. Robert was the first of his siblings to pass away, dying on July 28th. Ellen died on the 1st of August, and Benjamin followed her on the 5th. All three children died within 8 days. A woman by the name of Martha Landers wrote about the children and claimed that the children died of diphtheria, a bacterial infection that affects the throat and lungs. Landers speculated that bacteria may have come from the water source of the city at the time. What a terrible way to go.

One more child is also buried here, of no relation to the others. The headstone reads “Little Vicky,” she died in 1872. The stone is old enough now to show runs from nearly a century and a half of rain, and the slab has been somehow pushed off-center. She was less than a year old when she died—only a baby. I remember being told that I was lucky to be alive in the time that I am, in the age of modernity. Today I think about miscarriages and millions of babies whose lives are taken before they crown from the womb. That is the most heartbreaking death of all—the death of one who barely lived. The Lewis children did not get a chance to grow old, marry, and have children of their own. They are children who had no chance to experience playgrounds or swing sets. They will never watch it burn down and see a new one set up in its place by the time they are too big to go down a slide. Children today, play on the rebuilt playground and aren’t worried about an end to their joy—nor do they recognize the history they are playing around.

Parents from the 1800s might not have cared about playgrounds, but they must have cared about their children. I am young and do not have children, but it is my heart’s greatest desire to have them. It must have been a nightmare for L.L. and M.J. Lewis to watch all three of their children succumb to a toxic death from bacteria in the water that was meant to keep them alive. That kind of death is a tragic hell, with flames much worse than what consumed the playground. How much would they have wanted to push their children on the swing set I grew up loving? How much would they want to hear their laughter growing louder as they soared higher and higher?

Maybe that is why this little cemetery was turned into a park. Maybe it was to remind us of the pioneers who stewarded this land long before any of us were alive—and what they lost. Maybe the park is for the children of the past who never lived long enough to play. A swing set was erected so siblings could connect with those they never knew. I walk past each grave, of both young and old, and remember them. I want to remember the Lewis children, remember their parents, and how they made a new life for themselves after their children’s deaths. Much like this park, that was rebuilt, the Lewis family rebuilt themselves. Landers added in her writing that the parents moved away from Oregon after the loss of their children and a battle with Native Americans. They started over; the Lewis couple went on to have six more children. They were true pioneers.

Pioneer. The only thing that is consistent about this place is its name and those buried here. It is also the only thing consistent with humanity. We rebuild in the face of tragedy. We remember, we preserve history, and we rebuild. We keep moving forward because that is the only thing humans can do in the face of loss. We must. We will remember that sometimes children don’t always make it. We will remember the power of fire, and the steadfastness of stone. We will remember that there was a time before any of this was here, and there will be a time after. These graves may remain here until the end of time, eventually being swallowed up by the earth. Maybe in another century, the playground will be swallowed up with them. I walk the grass path that I have made a habit, and I will remember. Pioneering never changes. We rebuild on top of the ashes of tragedy.