Paw-paw had a fascination with graveyards. He was a retired social studies teacher and loved an autumn afternoon full of strolling through the rows of graves, deciphering the information present on every stone, and searching for the long gone relatives of our genealogy. Small and tucked away graveyards, ones only reachable by those who knew their location and wouldn’t mind a small walk on a dirt road to get there, were Paw-paw’s absolute favorites. These places of grieving instantly became fascinating adventures waiting to happen when Paw-paw visited.

I watched the fast lanes of the highway slowly morph into less and less touched parts of Illinois. We were on our way to Nashville… Nashville, Illinois that is. The calming hum of the minivan engines and the never ending stretch of foliage outside made my eyes feel heavy. I leaned my head back against the headrest.

“Would anyone like some beef jerky?” Paw-paw enquired from the driver’s seat.

“Sure!” my cousin Ellen said from the seat next to me.

Sitting in the passenger seat Grandma Margie passed the bag back to my brother, Jonathan, sitting in the middle row. He opened the bag, took out a piece of jerky and handed the bag back a row to Ellen. The old, Barney-the-dinosaur-purple colored minivan was packed full. The grandparents sat up in the front of the car with enough snacks and activities to last weeks even though this was a simple day trip. Both Paw-paw and Grandma Margie lived by the philosophy that grandchildren were meant to be spoiled. None of us minded that one bit.

In the middle row sat my 4 year old brother, Jon, in the right van seat, and my 5 year old cousin Caroline in the left. Both were slouched down in their car seats, barely able to keep from succumbing to sleep and the deep lullaby of the road. The big siblings got the back row. Ellen, Caroline’s big sister, sat next to me. She was 10 at the time, 4 years older than me, and I looked up to her like she was the sun, moon and the stars.

We had already visited two graveyards that day. Both medium-sized with black iron gates. We marched and skipped down the rows of orderly stones as Paw-paw pointed out those marking relatives. Sometimes we would stop in front of certain stones for a very long time. Mist would form in Paw-paw’s eyes as he explained who this person was and spin us stories of the times he had spent with them. We were four young kids, energetic from being imprisoned in a car, but whenever this happened we all fell silent. The car turned onto an old dirt road.

“We are getting close now!” Paw-paw told us.

This was the final graveyard of our trip. I watched out the window as we moved further and further from civilization. Finally we reached an old house with yellow paint. The house looked very cozy and welcoming with a nice wrap-around porch with large rocking chairs. Just to the right of the house stood an old barn. As all the grandchildren filed out of the car, looking around for the black gate of a graveyard, a man walked out of the barn and up to Paw-paw.

“Hi y’all. What can I do for ya?”

As this middle aged man started talking to Paw-paw, an old yellow cat raced over to us. A bell on his neck jingled as his feet raced. We all crowded around the cat, petting him and listening to his soft purr. After a while the friendly man strolled back to the barn, and the yellow cat followed him away.

“The graveyard is just over this way,” said Paw-paw as he pointed to a small overgrown trail to the left of the house.

We all gathered and walked single-file through the narrow trail. It was absolutely breathtaking. The mix of autumn colored leaves filled the branches of the trees, and the sun shone brightly through them like stained glass, illuminating their vivid color. There was just a small covering of dead leaves along the path that crunched as we walked silently along, listening to the forest sing its song.

All too soon, we arrived at the graveyard. There were no more than thirty or so gravestones scattered about in this small clearing of forest. The stones didn’t seem to be arranged in any order. There were a sprinkle of newer, shinier granite gravestones, but many of them were very old and worn from years of weathering. We all stood there for a moment, taking in the beautiful surroundings. How could a place so engulfed with death seem so alive?

We all stood at the edge of the graveyard, admiring the pristine beauty. Breaking the stillness, I slowly walked up to a very old gravestone. It was a simple dark grey stone with two names unreadable after years of rain and wind. Two years stood below each name, separated by a little line. The treasured date of birth, the inescapable date of death. The realization swept over me. One day I would end here.

One day Paw-paw, Grandma Margie, Ellen, Caroline, and Jon would end here. We would all end here. Probably not this specific graveyard, but one like it. We would have only the companions that rested next to us and the occasional visitor looking for long-lost relatives. We would all have the day of death under our names, but what really mattered were the days before that- the line in between the date of birth and the date of death on the gravestone. That little line, full of car trips and beef jerky. That little line, full of purring cats and yellow houses. That little line, full of tears by gravestones and adventures in graveyards.