Buried History

For a time, the association's predictions held true. Memorial Day celebrations to honor hundreds of war casualties featured brass bands marching down Lake Street, twenty-one-gun salutes at the stroke of noon, and patriots with their children and picnic baskets swathed in red, white and blue bunting. But over time, those who remembered civil war veterans grew old and died. New wars came along; new train-lines drained prosperity away from the surrounding Lake Street neighborhood; the cemetery was relegated to the city Street Department; and the brass band moved to jauntier climes.

Today, the graveyard shifts lazily as diesel buses grind past Lake Street's single story shop-fronts. A hulking factory grinds bituminous rock nearby and a steady stream of cars pull in and out of the liquor store parking lot across the street. Slowly, the notable names etched on the granite markers fade into oblivion as rabbits make their homes among the skeletons of former statesmen.

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