By Lauren Green
My grandmother once casually mentioned how her own grandparents were buried in a cemetery overlooking Machpelah. Having spent my first twenty-one years there, I am well acquainted with that small town. Like the backdrop of an old-time ghost story, it’s made up of several hilly acres spread out over two parcels of land. The two halves are connected by a rickety wooden bridge built over a narrow road leading in and out of town. One side is very old, filled with rows of sculpted tombstones patina-ed with age. It’s beautiful, but sadly feels somewhat forgotten. The newer side is where the action is. Here, on any given day, you’ll see people tending to graves; weeding, planting and remembering those who are no longer here.
I was surprised to learn that my grandmother’s grandparents were buried in this particular cemetery, as she had roots deeper in the hills of a neighboring county. Feeling an urge to fact-check her memory and curious to see the gravesite for ourselves, my brother and I set out to find it. Following our grandmother’s fuzzy directions — “I think it’s on the back row; the one with the peony bushes, near the little white house, not far from the big tree” — we finally found it, just as she had described. There, in the middle of the oldest section of the newer side of the cemetery, stood a time-weathered monument inscribed with the names of my great-great-grandparents. Cemeteries have always fascinated me for the way they subtly reveal periods of historical significance. (Those terrible influenza years!) Even more revealing are the epitaphs: “Here lies John Smith…and Wife.” But it’s the chiseled carvings on and around the monuments that are the most telling, conjuring assumptions about the deceased or the time in which they lived and died. Angels, lambs, crosses — and trees, chopped off mid-trunk to symbolize a life cut short, which I find especially moving. Any loss of life is sorrowful, but one cut short? That feels especially heavy. So, when I discover such trees, I take notice.
Back when our kids were small, we decided to cut down a tree in our backyard. It was sickly and had been planted much too close to our fence. While the chainsaws buzzed, I found our then-8-year-old daughter in front of a second-story window with a tear-stained face, watching the workers cut it down, limb by limb. Later, the experience inspired her to write a song.
I also take a tree’s death especially hard. Not long ago, my husband and I were walking our dog through a green space in our neighborhood when we heard a loud, “crack!” just after passing through a wooded area near the creek. The sound grew louder and louder until it abruptly ended after a resounding thud. Running back to where we had been moments before, we found a massive tree, uprooted and lying on its side. The trunk extended across the full width of the creek — a young explorer’s dream, but I felt only heartbreak.
The truth is, no tree lives forever. No telling how old that tree was before it fell into the creek. Or how long that cemetery tree has stood in my hometown, continuing to shade my great-great-grandparents’ grave. Someday, it will be gone too. As tight as I want to cling to their majestic canopies and precious shade, we must hold even the mighty trees loosely in our proverbial palms. But don’t compose a farewell epitaph (or song) just yet.
This year, Southlake turns seventy. In celebration, the city has launched an initiative to plant 2,026 trees in 2026 — a nod to the adage that elders of great societies plant trees they never sit under, but provide shade for future generations.On the surface, Southlake is replacing lost trees with new ones. But looking deeper, the city is doing the hard work, investing in a future landscape that many of us will no longer be here to enjoy.
In the spirit of such future investments, I’ve been looking ahead too. When I die, I want a portion of my ashes scattered around Machpelah Cemetery — a reunion, of sorts, with those who went before me. And if there are any to spare, please spread them around the base of a beautiful tree; one whose shade will serve as a monument for the generations who come after me.