Route 66 in the News
Route 66 Cemeteries in Deplorable State
2008-02-16 12:16:28
SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA - Benjamin Franklin said "Show me your cemeteries, and I will tell you what kind of people you have," which leads one to ask, what does the condition of Route 66's cemeteries say about us? Along California's section of "The Mother Road" the final resting places of those early travelers have been forgotten.
They are a tiny dot on internet maps and AAA guides, a speck that leads travelers to overlook them and focus on other destinations and big cities. Their names were well known 50, 75 years ago: Oro Grande, Ludlow, Amboy, Bagdad, Daggett, Helendale. Destinations and stops for weary travelers looking for food, water, rest and a break from the miles of empty roadway behind them. People lived there and some poor souls died there. As an occasional vehicle or train passes by, some permanent residents have also been passed by, left to vandals, the elements, virtually all but forgotten in Route 66 cemeteries.
The Mother Road's cemeteries lay in a state of disrepair. Located on lonely hillsides, out of sight of the few cars that still travel the legendary road, they are the final resting places for those who came west searching for a better life. Broken gates, dangling barbwire, and tilted wooden crosses are the first signs of our National Trails Highway cemeteries' demise!
For those who found their resting places in roadside towns like Amboy, just outside of town, still within sight of the Roy's sign, lay the remains of several dozen souls. A weather-beaten flag pole and slivers of a tattered American flag stand watch over the graves. Wood and stones are all that remain to mark these resting places; tombstones have long ago succumbed to vandals and thieves, while the wood fence has fallen into disrepair due to the blowing wind, sand and an unforgiving sun. Rows of handmade wooden crosses mark the graves of the town's former residents and visitors. A few have had stone placed in a circle over them; others are simply mounds of dirt and rock marking the grave. But Amboy is but one of many in need of a savior—a community, a government willing to step up and protect their hallowed grounds. The dedication of people like Albert Okura (who owns the Juan Pollo restaurant chain and Amboy) may be able to protect the town's forgotten graveyard. Amboy is one of the best-known stops along The Mother Road, and Mr. Okura is fighting an inspiring battle to restore this unique and historical stop to its former glory.
Travel to Oro Grande and a search will lead you to a quiet hillside, within sight of the town's cement plant. There, residents have fought a valiant battle to preserve the cemetery. Vigilant folks have had to endure hoodlums, cultists, the elements and even battled the cement plant to protect the resting place of loved ones. Wooden crosses and stone circles on top of shifting sand mark the location of Oro Grande's graves; a few vandalized tombstones stand in defiance of the dreadful conditions inflicted on them over the years. Rumors of the cemetery's being haunted have drawn the curious, the intoxicated, the bizarre and a few who have intentionally damaged tombstones. With exposed rebar and pieces of concrete, a cracked and mangled stone cross appears to reach towards the sky, as if pleading to heaven to protect it from further destruction. Promises of water from the plant to care for graves have gone unfulfilled, even though many of those laid to rest here worked at the plant supplying cement for legendary projects like Hoover Dam. And the public cemetery has received no funding or care from San Bernardino County.
Between Oro Grande and Amboy along Route 66 is Ludlow, which continues to cling to existence thanks to its location. But besides stopping for gas, Ludlow does not call travelers to explore it. Abandoned buildings, crumbling adobe and stone walls and an earthquake-damaged store stand in testament to a former life. Beyond the buildings, beyond the tracks, lies Ludlow's cemetery. A variety of stones encircle a few of the gravesites; others are simply marked by a single wood cross, stone or tin can, a piece of wood or debris. Sagebrush and trees have found their way into the cemetery, often overtaking a grave with roots; trash and debris dangle from its branches. Some have markers; few have survived the vandals unscathed; a very few show signs of care: a new headstone, plastic flowers and even a teddy bear sealed in plastic tell of a loved one's visit. How many lay in rest here, thousands of miles from their homes, their families?
Miles of empty road, beautiful scenery and a trip odometer will help guide you to Bagdad, a Route 66 town long vanished. There are no signs, no markers, and no indication for the travelers to announce their arrival in Bagdad, except for a single tree standing in solitude. Beyond the road, the railroad tracks—revealed only to the diligent searcher—lay Bagdad's cemetery. For those who found their resting place in this out-of-the-way patch of desert, isolation has been both a blessing and a curse. For Bagdad, even remoteness and the Penal Code have done little to prevent grave robbers from attempting to dig up the remains of these forgotten souls. Tattered cloth mix with sagebrush in a 4-foot hole where a grave was desecrated, leaving one to ponder in this inhospitable place whether the victim lay there exposed. A few stones, cans and makeshift crosses are all that cling to a dying effort to mark these graves. A passing park ranger or occasional sheriff's patrol car can do little to protect these sites from grave robbers and vandals without other protective measures. To stand in this place, one can't help but feel the fleeting desperation of souls left behind and forgotten.
For Route 66 cemeteries, their existence is also a convenient memory loss for those responsible for their care. Both the State Cemetery and Funeral Bureau and the San Bernardino County Board of Supervisors seem oblivious to these resting places. Even though California's Health and Safety Code places their care, management and supervision under the control of County Government, no time is given, no money is spent to protect and care for Route 66 graveyards. A few cemeteries in San Bernardino County, such as Agua Mansa's battered graves have found protection and care under the control of the County museum. The City of San Bernardino continues to make a good effort at maintaining their Pioneer Memorial Cemetery, battling vandals, hundreds of gophers, time and the elements to preserve one of the city's unique treasures. But Route 66 graveyards have not been so lucky.
The history of pioneer and small town cemeteries throughout the state is checkered. Some, such as one in Sacramento, had been paved over for a street, then a highway, only to be rediscovered during new construction. Like Founders Park in Whittier, others have had their tombstones removed and been turned into Pioneer or Memorial Parks. Children now play and families picnic on top of their ancestors' graves. Not quite what the legislature meant when counties were made responsible for public cemeteries. Still, other cemeteries, like Route 66 graveyards, have been allowed to deteriate, be vandalized, abused and forgotten, few barely surviving as a poignant testament to government priorities.
As the sun sets on miles of empty desert, standing next to a weathered, worn wooden cross, marking a vandalized grave, one is left to ponder the cost to our humanity of allowing these cemeteries to disappear. Is the cost to save them sogreat that we feel ignorance is bliss? Are we so focused on our own lives and our own priorities that we are willing to allow our ancestors' remains to be left to vandals, grave robbers and time?
These questions are left to the readers, concerned citizens and our elected officials to answer. The dead have no voice, except ours. Who will speak for them? And what would Benjamin Franklin say about us?
~by Ron Paschall for MyDesert.com; edited by Route 66 University staff
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