A stop last Saturday at Wolfe Cemetery in Georgetown.

We took a low-intensity road trip last Saturday.

A Saturday morning outing to Hemlock Cliffs, with an unexpected side order of unsolved murder.

On the way back, I'd yet to become aware of the locally famous story of William Dessie Messamore. This didn't come until later in the evening, when there was time to research. I can't recall ever hearing this tale, but it's possible my dad and his friends might have regaled me with it when I was a kid. 

For the return trip, we decided to stop by Wolfe Cemetery on the western edge of Georgetown for a visit with my parents, who are buried there. They always were adamant about having a simple veteran's grave marker, nothing elaborate or ostentatious. 

Diana and I always agreed with this course, and found the graveside scene on Saturday to be peaceful and appropriate. 

I wasn't up for a scientific survey, but most of the grave markers at Wolfe Cemetery are on the conservative side. This is in keeping with my recollections of the townspeople. Some are more expressive, and there's nothing wrong with that. After all, you can't take it with you.

Cemeteries always make me think. Will our lives and work be remembered? I'm not sure it matters. Thirty-five years ago, I walked along the Appian Way while visiting Rome. 

Crumbling 2,000-year-old memorials bore the names of tremendously important people who've been forgotten for almost as long. Gazing at them, lost in reverie, I soon realized the significance of the here and now -- namely, autos zooming past my vantage point on the narrow one-lane road. I opted for life, and repaired to the nearest bar for sustenance.

I may have known what my parents' grave at Wolfe Cemetery would look like, given I'd seen it previously. But I didn't know my reaction would be one of peacefulness and equanimity. We can't live forever, and their resting place seems, well, right. Maybe it's time for my wife and I to have that chat, too.