I grew up in the foothills of the Appalachian Mountains. The particular “foothill” on which we lived had an ugly name, branded with such because of the knowledge that an old slave cemetery was located somewhere thereupon. Nobody knew where, exactly, just that it was up there. Fortunately the mountain has developed a newer, more benign name in recent years, I am told. I hope so. It really is a lovely spot, and deserves better.
A few years back, some loggers clearing a section of forest for cattle rediscovered the cemetery. When I learned of it I enlisted a couple of friends and we made the strenuous hike up to see it, braving chiggers and the possibility of rattlesnakes. I remember the feeling I got when we stumbled upon the first markers. Somber, and a little sad. Crude stones, most not even graced with epitaphs. A few dozen of them. I found myself wondering about those people, their names, their life stories. Then we found the first piece of blue glass, from a shattered bottle. Such bottles were believed to ward away evil spirits. It reminded us of the superstitions these people would have shared. But why put “ghost bottles” in this particular cemetery?
