Merrilltown Cemetery

Along the east side of Mopac Expressway in northwest Austin just a hair south of the Williamson County line, there is a peculiar little cemetery. It's peculiar in the sense that while there is a gate, there is no fence; I often found myself driving by it thinking about that, as though they were saying; "we're cool if you walk around in here, but you'd better not even think about driving up in here because there'll be some hell to pay!" (for some reason I always heard this in Slim Pickens' voice).

A quick Google search told me that the small park was known as Merrilltown Cemetery, and it is the only thing remaining of the community of (wait for it) Merrilltown, a small hamlet once large enough to have its own school and rail station but was crushed by the explosive growth in the area and annexed by Austin years ago. I always wanted to take a closer look, and one Sunday we had a fat lot of nothing else to do so I found myself pulling into the parking lot of Calvary Church next door (according to the historical marker, the congregation of which is now responsible for the upkeep). What I found was largely typical of most ghost cemeteries: collapsed headstones, forgotten gravesites, and an abundance of graves occupied by infants (as the child mortality rate as recently as the early Twentieth Century was alarming). However, there were a couple of things that struck me as odd as hell (and not in the creepy old cemetery way; I'm an adult, for Christ's sake).

It was after I got into the cemetery that I realized why there was a gate; there are no driveways or even dirt paths to be found anywhere; a car driven past the gate would tread immediately upon graves (which made sense once I thought about it; Merrilltown dated back to the late Nineteenth Century when the closest thing to a car in Texas was a horse-drawn carriage, which made me feel like kindof a jackass).

Looking from the hill that overlooks the location (nestled in a suburban subdivision) struck me as being a little surreal; most of the graves even from a distance appeared as though they obviously dated back at least a century yet here these people are, resting mere yards away from Burnet Road and Mopac Expressway where the modern world zips past them in our automobiles (if you haven't noticed yet, I have an odd way of thinking. It makes sense in my head; just go with it). Time seems to have stopped in the park, which makes for a very odd yet sad scene.

One of many graves belonging to infants.

Several Benning children.

Another thing that you see when you visit these old, forgotten cemeteries is an abundance of quite obviously homemade headstones and markers, most little more than concrete blocks with the names of the dead scratched in with a nail or chisel.

This got to me a little. When my beloved Aunt Christine died in 2002 there was a time where we weren't certain that we were going to be able to afford a marker for her. I know what it feels like to want to have something showing that this is where someone dear to you are resting and cannot afford to have a stone professionally made. 

These two welded stones show that this situation is not confined to the distant past; the first is undated, but the second is the stone belonging to a woman who died in 1996.

This stone belonging to a couple born in the mid Nineteenth Century did not strike me as particularly odd at first; I quickly assumed that she was merely still alive. However, my rudimentary math skills kicked in, and I realized. "Wait a minute; that would make her almost 140 years old. That can't be right." I was instantly fascinated. What was the story behind the fact that her date of death was left off? Did she remarry, and is buried beside her next husband? Could her children not afford to get the inscription done? Had she simply moved away and is buried

somewhere else? Their story will likely never be known, and that saddens me.

Loe and behold, here are two more stones in which the man's date of death is listed, and his wife's is not. Before this I had never even seen one such stone, yet here were three in a relatively small cemetery. 

I can think of a lot of things I'd want on my headstone. "Big Head" is not one of them.

Captain Merrill, the town's namesake.

"Mrs. Blanche Moore" was only 17 when she died in 1929; Mr. Moore is nowhere to be found.

What appear to be sisters, who died several years apart but are buried together and share a stone.

These handmade stones made me sad.

They were quite literally stepping stones with a single name scratched into them.

A crude yet loving symbol of loss. 

I need a new hobby.

Anyway...

This grave made was the only overgrown one in the park and it belonged to a Korean War vet. That bothered me.

The carving on this one is beautiful.

The oldest grave in Merrilltown Cemetery belongs to 2-year old Julia Merrell. I left shortly after photographing it; it seemed appropriate.

Not Fade Away....

"...I knew I was out of luck, the day the music died..."

~ Don McLean, American Pie (1971)

Buddy immortalized in a Lubbock mural. 

Rock music is everywhere.

Born of fire and spit forth in a volley of angst and energy, it blasted through the 1950's as rebellion personified, stuck a thumb in the face of "the Man" as a generation struggled to find its voice in the Sixties, nearly crumbled under its own excess as a bloated shadow in the Seventies before roaring back in a hail of anger and sexuality in the 1980's. As it enters its seventh decade of existence, it is as powerful and ubiquitous as it was in the early days in Sam Phillips' little studio in Memphis. It is a dynamic restless changeling, altering its visage with cunning and skill, never resting yet never really losing its roots. There is good rock, there is bad rock, and there is everything in between but one thing is certain, as a bat murdering, dove-biting maniac with bad hygiene from Birmingham once said, "you can't kill rock n' roll"....

And few people have had as indelible yet not fully appreciated impact on the foundation of the greatness that is rock music as Charles Hardin Holley.

Born in Lubbock in 1936, Charles "Buddy" Holley had music in his blood from the moment he took his first steps. His older brothers taught him how to play several instruments before he could even drive and he cut his first recording at the age of 12; a rough track of a bluesy take on a Hank Snow tune.

Buddy's life (and the face of music) changed forever in 1955 when he caught an Elvis concert and he began to mimic legend's rockabilly style and in October of that year, he and his schoolyard friends Bob Montgomery and Larry Welborn opened for Presley; by February of 1956, Buddy (who had adopted the misspelled "Holly" due to an error on his first recording contract) along with bassist Joe B. Mauldin and drummer Jerry Allison had signed to Decca Records, and the template for so many rock bands to follow was born: vocals/guitar, bass and drums.                

In September of 1957, "That'll Be The Day" became the group's first Billboard #1, and in August of that year Buddy showed that his music was truly universal when he and the Crickets were the only white act to appear on a tour that included performances at mainly historically black venues after winning over a predominantly black audience at New York's legendary Apollo Theatre; his music spoke in a language that transcended race and geography and as his star rose, he was being noticed by budding musicians abroad, notably a young pair from Liverpool named Paul and John who were just getting through the "skiffle" craze and looking for a new voice. Always thinking forward, Buddy was also a pioneer in the studio; he was among the first artists to double-track his vocals and harmonize with himself creating a distinct vocal sound, and his extensive use of solid-body electric guitars (namely the then-new Fender Stratocaster) helped mold and solidify the early rock sound.

 By the time Holly was killed in that fateful plane crash on February 3, 1959 he had already set in motion a musical revolution that would eventually see the birth of the Beatles, the Rolling Stones, and the Yardbirds. To think that a mere 22 months passed between the recording of the Crickets' first single and Buddy's death is truly remarkable; he accomplished more in those two years than many artists will do in a lifetime, and many are still trying their hardest to be as revolutionary. Few have succeeded.