Sunday Pastries With the Dead 7

The ruins of an 1837-era church in New Jersey.

The old cemetery beside the overgrown shell of a church is loud—and I’m not just referring to its residents. Only a thin strip of trees separates the graveyard from the blur and roar of passing vehicles on what was once known as the Brunswick-Easton Turnpike, now Interstate 78 (in fact, the church and the Turnpike were built the same year). The interred—many of whom hail from this part of New Jersey’s most prominent founding families—are not particularly pleased by the ‘round-the-clock ruckus.

But while the actual traffic is a scourge, they do enjoy the foot traffic ushered by their resting place’s conspicuousness. In the thirty minutes I spent wandering among the headstones, four different groups of people spotted the ruins from the highway and stopped to investigate. I had the distinct feeling that some of the spirits were actually preening over their guests, as if the cemetery was an extension of their fancy front parlors. This is a place of ruffles and ribbons and pinkies up; my ears veritably rang with the thrum of gossip.

The church was abandoned in 1906, hence its current state. I visited on a day that threatened rain, which made for a delightfully moody backdrop to all the crumbling stones and twisting vines. It’s a spot rich with high gothic romance and I valiantly resisted the urge to blast Kate Bush and go full Catherine and Heathcliff.

I did take a self-portrait, though—the setting just begged for memorialization. The Instagram caption will give you an idea of my inspiration for the image.

The stand-out among the headstone symbols here are the excellent examples of draped urns—clearly a hallmark of the Van Syckel family’s monuments. Mirroring Greek urns that contained the ashes of the deceased, they stand for death and mourning; the added shroud marks the veil between life and death.

There’s also a gorgeously ornate stone bearing carved roses, which were popularly used on women’s graves—they represent love and beauty. The center column has a broken top, which nods to the fact that the interred’s life was cut short (Mary was just 23 when she died). It also bears a shield design, as does the right-most headstone. This is called “Civil War Type,” though after the war it was popularized for use beyond only soldiers.

There are two grave markers I pored over—Catharine’s utterly stunning stone features an angel surrounded by a smattering of flowers and birds (which stand for the resurrection of the soul). I can make out roses (love, beauty), daffodils (deep regard), lilies (the soul regaining purity and innocence), oak leaves and acorns (faith, power, endurance, strength), ivy leaves (immortality), and evening primrose (eternal memory). Frank’s angel is flanked below by what looks to me to be two large oak leaves (as the most widespread hardwood tree in the U.S.A., it’s a popular choice for American memorials).

For the Historical Name Game, there’s a stately entry in Silvanis Fine, a cryptic monicker in Louisa Graves, and—beside her—one miss Lucy Ficklin, sobering not only in that her headstone narrowly escaped destruction-by-falling-tree but also in that her death date is my birth date.

I was utterly charmed by this location—the church’s remains are deeply romantic, and the residents rail against modernity with their endearing propriety. Despite the dilapidated surroundings, I felt flush with a transportive sense of pride and grandeur.