I had not updated this post since I wrote it in 2013 until one of my readers photographed cemeteries as public art. My pictures looked bad. So I reprocessed the originals and reloaded them. It’s amazing how much I’ve learned about both photography and writing in nearly ten years.
The third-person writing in this post throws me off a bit but I don’t want to redo all ten episodes right now. My intention at the time was to model my writing after the Accidental Tourist by Anne Tyler. It fell far from the mark, but we had a great vacation – accidentally.
Chapter Seven: Jumbled Vacation Journal
“I had no problem writing in my journal when I used a mechanical pencil,” I grumbled to Vince. “So I couldn’t find my pencil, and I quit writing. I didn’t write anything yesterday, or maybe it was day three. What have we been doing since we got here? I remember the Trees of Mystery. I’ve lost track.”
Since he had nothing better to do for the moment, no lawn to mow, no sprinklers to fix, no chores of any kind, Vince sat down with me and we started sorting through the hundreds of pictures in all of our cameras.
“OK, that’s enough for now,” he said ten minutes later, jumping off the kitchen bench seat across from me. “You’d better hurry if you are going with me. Do you want to go? I want to leave here by 6:15 this morning so I can get to the car dealer by 6:45.” Vince took a breath.
“Yes, I want to go,” I said.
Vince continued. “The dealer opens at 7:30, and maybe somebody will come to work early. I want to be the first one there. Then I’ll take you to Starbucks and you can use the Internet there. You haven’t written anything in your journal for five days! What happened? You can stay here if you want to work on your journal.”
“No, I never know what I’m going to miss if I don’t go!”
“You know it’s getting late. You’re burning daylight,” he said.
By 6:15, as planned, we were on the road in our rental car, winding our way north on Highway 101 from Klamath, California twenty miles to Crescent City, California to see what might be wrong with the truck. While we waited in the parking lot of the GMC dealer, Vince alternated between pacing the lot and checking his emails on his cell phone. It was nice to have cellular service.
Anyone listening or looking at Vince would know he was a human pressure cooker. At five feet four inches tall, his 139-pound muscular build and tense shoulders told the tale that he never stopped moving. Business people loved him. He carried himself like a mover and a shaker. His demeanor stated, “I am here to get this done.”
By the time we checked on the truck, daylight was well on its way, and it was beautiful. The bright blue sky and 75-degree temperatures couldn’t have been lovelier. The truck was set up to get it’s new alternator in less than a week, we were off again. There was so much to see in Eureka.
Arriving in Eureka the first on the agenda was lunch. Vince had not eaten much since 5:00 a.m., and he wanted man food. That meant burgers. We chose Surfside Burgers on Highway 101, the main street, 5th Street, as it ran through downtown Eureka. We enjoyed eating our burgers stuffed with 1/2 inch chunks of bacon smothered with two kinds of cheeses, a tomato slice and lettuce on top. It was cool enough to eat at a bistro set on the sidewalk.
Next Stop – The Ferndale Cemetery
As we ate, Vince poured through the tourist map he had picked up at the Eureka KOA. Want to check out Ferndale Cemetery? It dates back to 1868, just after the Civil War ended.”
Blue sky and my camera around my neck, I was on my way to the car.
“A cemetery? hmmm. It looks like it is in the dead center of town.” As we drove south to Ferndale, I looked at the information on my phone. “It says here that Ferndale was a glade of giant six-foot tall ferns before the first American settlers came in 1852.”
Vince pulled over and parked after driving around the town.
“That explains the name. I don’t see any now. This cemetery is supposed to be the most famous cemetery in California,” Vince said. “I heard that a plane crashed in the cemetery recently. Search and rescue workers recovered 100 bodies and it says here on my phone that they expect that number to climb as digging continues.”
“Ha ha, that’s a good one. Wow, this cemetery has huge plots. Unlike my journal, which has no plot. Look how big the markers are!”
“Look at the inscription on this one. Did you hear that woman over there that said she found someone here born in 1799? I wonder if it’s correct.”
“Why would you say that, Vince? Almost all the markers around here are from the 1800s. Maybe they had filled it up with these gynormous crypts by 1900.”
“You’ve heard the story about grave markers in this cemetery, haven’t you, Marsha?”
“To be honest, I don’t visit many graves.”
"I have it on good authority that two local teens were walking home after a party, probably around Halloween, and decided to take a shortcut through the this cemetery. As they walked they heard a tap-tap-tapping noise coming from the misty shadows. They hid behind one of the crypt close to the tapping when they saw an old man with a hammer and chisel, chipping away at one of the headstones.
'Stop that!', one of them said his words coming out in a scratchy screech.
'Yeah,' the other teen said gathering courage when nothing happened. 'You scared us half to death. .. we thought you were a ghost! What are you doing working here so late at night?'
'Those fools!', the old man grumbled. 'They misspelled my name!'"
“Good thing we are here during the day.”
I moved on taking pictures of cracks in the walls, and lopsided headstones, dates, and moss on rocks. Vince took the dog and walked up the steep incline to the top of the cemetery.
I found the stairway to heaven.
“The view is great. Just point your camera out this way. See how you can get the ocean in the view?” Vince was excited even though he wasn’t taking the pictures.
I huffed a little as I hurried the rest of the way up the steep incline to the top of the hill overlooking Ferndale.
“It says in this brochure that the first industries were fishing for eels, salmon and sturgeon, while collecting shell fish and growing tobacco,” I said.
I aligned myself, pointed, and snapped the picture.
“That was a perfect shot, honey. Thanks.”
As we left the cemetery, I struck up a conversation with a gentleman placing flowers. It didn’t take long until we were engaged in a heated conversation about whether or not Southern Oregon and Northern California should become the 52nd state of the Union.
“This area was all set to become the state of Jefferson before World War II,” he informed me. These trees need to be managed, and the government just won’t let us do it. Ferndale is dying. There’s no industry here,” his ranting continued.
“Marsha, sweetie, we need to be going.” Vince saved me and we headed toward the rental car.
“Ferndale is amazing. I love this place! It looks like it is still 1852 around here. Let’s take our time and take some pictures of the buildings,” I said.
I hadn’t needed to try hard. Vince loved the architecture as well.
Although, architecture was his first love, and he knew he would have been good at it, other priorities had called louder than college. We both loved studying the style of buildings in Ferndale.
Quickly the day slipped by, and we headed back to our temporary home base in Klamath at the Golden Bear RV Park.
Bonus Surprise
As we drove, Vince spotted a herd of elk bathing in the river and pulled over. I jumped out of the car with about 20 other onlookers and captured the amazing views with my digital camera. Vince snapped a few shots with his cell phone.
“There is another herd about 10 miles up the road,” said a driver coming from the south.
When we reached that spot, the elk crossed the highway as if it were a meadow in their private forest. Cars on both sides of the road stopped in the road, and everyone got out to take close-up pictures of the racked celebrities. The elk seemed used to it, stopping to pose as they crossed the street, or lay in the grass having a leafy picnic. The effect was magical. Drivers became instant friends as they marveled at the large herd of animals. Vince sat in the car worried that I would be trampled.
Eventually, a few cars inched forward around the herd, and soon the spell was broken, and we headed down the road thankful for our accidental vacation adventures.
Marsha Ingrao - Always Write 
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