Saturday, November 15, 2014

Nathaniel Lea Johnston: A Bloody Yanceyville Tragedy

Nathaniel Johnston's weathered marker in the Yanceyville Presbyterian Church graveyard doesn't particularly stand out amongst the others. You can surmise based on the style that's he's been in the ground for awhile but there's no indication to the casual observer that Johnston died in a particularly cold-blooded fashion. What's even more interesting is that the man responsible for his death is buried not far away in the same graveyard.

But before we get to the April 1882 afternoon when Johnston was shot in the middle of a busy Yanceyville street, let's look at some of the particulars of his life.

Nat was born on January 20, 1840 to Thomas Donoho Johnston and Adaline Williamson Johnston. His father was the President of the Bank of Yanceyville, once considered Yanceyville's wealthiest resident. Nat most likely grew up in Clarendon Hall, the elaborate home his father built in 1842. He had a number of siblings, one whose name appeared here in an earlier post. His sister Rebecca's son died from laudanum poisoning in 1895, but that was years after Nat's death.

Nat's family was well-connected in the Yanceyville and Danville areas. His uncle was Col. George Williamson and his brother-in-law was W.N.Shelton, a man whom I've also researched. Despite his family's standing in the community there is little information specifically about Nat's childhood, schooling, or adult life. Often I stumble upon something in the society pages of old newspapers, details which at the time might seem trivial, but those little tidbits often give us an idea of how the person lived day-to-day.

Sunday, October 26, 2014

A Return to Old City Cemetery

Before stopping by Spring Hill my first destination in Lynchburg last weekend was Old City Cemetery. Longtime readers here probably recall some of my previous excursions to OCC, which I consider to be one of Virginia's loveliest burial grounds.

Here are other entries about or including images and/or stories from this particular cemetery:
Agnes and Lizzie Langley: The Madams of Buzzards Roost
Old City Cemetery's Scatter Garden for Pets & The Feline Tour Guide 
Tombstone Tuesday: Eliza Jones Morris
Tablet Tombstone Shapes of the 18th and 19th Centuries
Diana Cemetery Pictures from the Past



Sunday, October 19, 2014

October at Lynchburg's Spring Hill Cemetery

Yesterday I revisited Lynchburg's Old City Cemetery and stopped by nearby Spring Hill Cemetery. Established in 1855, Spring Hill was the city's first burial ground designed in the rural cemetery style. Celebrated landscape architect John Nottman, responsible for the design of Richmond's Hollywood Cemetery, plotted Spring Hill's beautiful grounds. You'll notice in the photos below the many examples of Victorian symbolism throughout the tombstones.I wish I'd had more time to explore, but I was running out of daylight and already exhausted from my first haunting. (My fatigue is obvious in these photos.)


Monday, October 13, 2014

The Manzanar Internment Camp-Frances Misaye Fujino

This is the shared marker for Frances Misaye Fujino and her parents, Koheiji Fujino and Yoshi Kobayashi Fujino. Yoshi's birth and death dates aren't on the stone so I'm not sure whether or not she is actually buried  in Los Angeles' Evergreen Memorial Park and Mausoleum. Since I took this photo in October 2013 I've researched Frances' story on and off, halted by dead ends (no pun intended). Her story was particularly interesting and tragic because she and her family lived at the Manzanar relocation camp during World War II. While information pertaining to her cause of death has eluded me, we know that Frances died at Manzanar on December 1, 1942 at age 23. 

Friday, September 5, 2014

The Hensler Vault: San Francisco's Weirdest Bedroom (1900)

The November 18, 1900 issue of The San Francisco Call ran a fairly lengthy feature about a homeless California transplant who'd been arrested for trespassing after living for two months in Calvary Cemetery. Thomas James, formerly a Montana dry goods clerk, relocated to San Francisco less than two years prior to his arrest. Unable to find work the "pale, cadaverous" unfortunate ran out of money and sought refuge in a most unusual place: the Hensler family mausoleum. Homeless people taking cemeterial shelter concerned those in charge of maintaining municipal burial grounds: "The managers at Calvary don't want homeless citizens, hoboes, or lunatics to begin to begin the fashion of taking up residences in well-ventilated and spacious family vaults. The peace and dignity of the dead must be preserved."

What I found so interesting about this piece was that it almost read like a tour of a celebrity's residence in an interior design magazine, but with a sad and slightly macabre twist. (I also got a kick out of the graphics that the Call printed with James' story.)

James only spent his nights in the mausoleum, leaving the cemetery during daylight hours to do whatever it was that occupied his time. James had no fear of eating and sleeping amongst the corpses sealed in coffins. "Afraid? What of? Those dead people couldn't be any deader than they were, and they were so dead they couldn't budge. Dead people are all right; they're the only kind I ever met that'll let you alone."

The article details the interior of the Hensler vault, which from the outside appeared to be one of the finest tombs on the grounds but the interior was falling into a state of disrepair because "the dead owners apparently left no funds to keep it up."

He considered his crepuscular bedroom quite comfortable, decorated with a battle-themed lithograph, an image of McKinley hung on a wall, and instead of a "Home Sweet Home" type of banner, he had cleaned a tablet to reveal the word "peace" leaving "rest in" covered by mold and dirt. Flower urns served as food storage and  his dinner table was broken tomb slab which once concealed a coffin. Neither the exposed coffins nor the fear of ghosts spoiled his hearty appetite. James was able to cook and heat water for coffee with a makeshift stove fashioned from a five gallon oil can. He noted that he only cooked at night so as not to attract the attention of the living. "Graveyards are not much frequented at night, except by spooks and spooneys. And as James pertinently observed, 'spooks mind their own business and spooneys don't see anybody except themselves.'" (Speaking of spooneys, if you fancy reading about graveyard trysts, I've got you covered.)

Due to the length of the feature I won't transcribe it completely, but I will share a few of my favorite parts.
"Imagine a vault about ten feet square, the walls, ceiling, and floor of the cold gray stone, unbroken by any device save where a heavy grilled iron door protestingly admits stray, chilly beams of light. Around the lower sides are four inscribed tablets, almost illegible for mold, where the dusty remains of people have been sealed for nearly half a century. On the floor are two moldy coffins, which, for some reason, have long since been removed from their crypts."

"Over the moldy floor are scattered dust and crumpled leaves that been blown helter-skelter into the silent, creepy place. The lock on the heavy iron door is broken and has been replaced by a piece of common rope. So James did not have to force his entrance. Looking through this grilled iron door is a prospect of close-cropped shrubbery and patches of green, spotted with everlasting tombstones, monoliths, and mausoleums."

"So at nightfall, when, according to the poet, churchyards yawn and graves give up their dead, Thomas James flung wide the portal of his palazzio on Rosebud avenue west, Calvary Cemetery, lit up his coal oil stove full blast, cocked his heels on the nearest coffin and feasted right royally on the choicest handouts of the season. A candle stuck in a beer bottle supplied the light. The citizens' wives of the cemetery ward must have been generous with their 'handouts.' The feast of bread, bits of cold meat and scraps of pie being over James used to sweep clear a space among the debris of food and there, by the light of the flickering tallow dip, amuse himself with games of solitaire. The envious grave tenants roundabout might have longingly inclined to him him in his pastime, but James, as behooved one living in such exclusive society, never designed to notice them, but played his trumps to suit his own fastidious taste."

James probably could've maintained his secret residence longer than two months, but a police officer happened upon a suspicious scene near the Hensler vault.

"The extraordinary sight of a week's wash hung outside a vault occupied by people long since dead simply dynamited the attention of an unobtrusive policeman. Besides the flagrant rags flapping in the gleeful air were in a quarter of the cemetery assigned exclusively to the purse-proud rich and the most obtuse passerby knew no vault tenant in that aristocratic section would be guilty of doing his own wash."

As if ghosts existed, the rich ones would still be able to employ servants to tend to their laundry.

James made a few good points about the benefits of living in the crypt: "Nobody bothered me while I was taking it easy in among them coffins. There wasn't any landlord kicking for his rent and any plumbers to pay when the roof leaked."