Ye that Dwell in Dust...

At the old Cross Creek Churchyard, which has several graves dating back to the 1780s and perhaps even further, one marker reads, “Awake and sing, ye that dwell in dust, for thy dew is as the dew of herbs.  -Isaiah 26:19.”  I was intrigued by the thought, dating from a more religious age than our own.  The verse from Isaiah takes some unpacking, so it’s a good thing this is my area of expertise... A “death dew” was the cold sweat that was said to come upon a person’s face just before death, signaling the end.  But the dew that falls on grass (“herbs”) is a sign of sunrise and morning.  So if your death dew is the mist that falls on grass, then it is a sign of rebirth and a new day.  Death is real but brief, for it heralds new life.  An Easterlike thought for this season.  Speaking of which, a family chore called me out into the sad reaches of lower Ohio, despite the quarantine.  I had to take my mother to a doctor's appointment, and she's living in the pretty part of Ohio with my youngest brother.  That's to say, the hilly part south of the ugly urban sprawl.  The drive out there was winding and almost mysterious.  Dilapidated little towns, once quaint, tidy farms, ornate old farmhouses in varying states of disrepair, sprawling under majestic trees, bare for the season.  While out there, I went looking for the grave of one Sara Parks Hickman Rowley.  But because it’s in another state I have to put it in my online annex.  Click on her name if poking around cemeteries is your thing.