Upon a Lonely Hill: The Cemeteries of Johnson County, Tennessee

By Jeffrey L. Carrier

On a warm July day in 1979, a sixteen-year-old named Jeffrey Carrier visited the old Donnelly Cemetery in Johnson County, Tennessee, a rural county in the northeast corner of the state. He was there for more than an hour, wandering from stone to stone, writing down every name, date and epitaph. It was the beginning of a project that took him six years to complete, and when it was done, he had visited 282 cemeteries in the county and recorded more than 10,000 names. The information was published in 1985 and has been aiding genealogists and historians ever since. The original edition was a limited printing, and most of those copies have fallen apart and are no longer extant. Except for another limited printing in 2012, the book has mostly been unavailable for use. This professionally-printed edition changes that, as the information is now available to everyone, everywhere who can trace their family roots back to Johnson County, Tennessee or who has an interest in cemeteries.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Mar 29, 2023
• ISBN: 9798823004701

Jeffrey L. Carrier

Jeffrey L. Carrier was born in 1963 and grew up in Mountain City, Tennessee. A 1981 graduate of Johnson County High School, he attended Carson-Newman College for two years and graduated with a degree in English from Northern Michigan University in Marquette, in 1985. After briefly pursuing a graduate degree in film history at NYU, in New York City, he continued to live in that city for ten years, working for the advertising agency of Ogilvy & Mather. He was also an account executive at a stock photography agency for several years and has been an on-line retailer since 2002, specializing in film memorabilia. He is the author of four previous books: Upon a Lonely Hill: The Cemeteries of Johnson County, Tennessee, 1985; Jennifer Jones: A Bio-Bibliography, 1990; Tallulah Bankhead: A Bio-Bibliography, 1991; and At the Corner of Guilt and Delight, Growing Up Gay in a Small, Southern Town, 2022. He also assisted silent film actress Patsy Ruth Miller in the writing of her memoir, published in 1988. He currently lives in Columbus, Ohio.

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Upon

a Lonely

Hill

The Cemeteries of

Johnson County, Tennessee

Jeffrey L. Carrier

AuthorHouse™

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.authorhouse.com

Phone: [phone]

© 2023 Jeffrey L. Carrier. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted

by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 03/28/2023

ISBN: 979-8-8230-0469-5 (sc)

ISBN: 979-8-8230-0470-1 (e)

Cover design by Stephan Smith

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and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed

since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do

not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Preface

The Cemeteries

Jeffrey L. Carrier writing down information from tombstones

in the Mountain View Cemetery, July 1984.

Preface

Ouch! I exclaimed, as I tried to extract myself from a thicket of hawthorns. I had been climbing up a steep hill when I lost my balance and fell backwards.

When I noticed the specks of blood where thorns had pierced the skin of my arm, I wanted to turn around and go back down the hill. I was not sure that visiting the cemetery at the top of the hill was worth the effort. It was still a considerable distance to the top, and it looked like an area of rough climbing was ahead. I was tempted to give up.

The date was October 29, 1979. It was late in the afternoon, an afternoon very warm for autumn, making it an ideal day for cemetery hunting, a hobby I had begun just a few months earlier. Actually, it was more than a hobby; It was a difficult project.

On July 2 of that year, I had spent more than an hour in the old Donnelly Cemetery on North Church Street, just beyond the city limits of Mountain City, Tennessee. In my hand was a stack of index cards and as I stopped at each grave stone, I wrote down the name, date and epitaph.  Later at home, I alphabetized the cards, pulled my father’s old manual typewriter out of the closet and typed up the information. I was determined to make a record of every tombstone in every cemetery in the county. It was my father’s idea.

He was not only a preacher but also an amateur historian, and he had discovered how important old cemeteries are as records of people who were long gone. In 1975, when he was writing his master’s thesis about the history of Baptists in Upper East Tennessee, he spent a lot of time researching the early years of the Mountain City First Baptist Church, where he was pastor. It had been founded in 1794 and the first meeting house was on the north fork of Roan Creek at the foot of Rainbow Mountain. Dad found references in old records to a cemetery next to the church and he was determined to find it.

He finally located an elderly man who lived near the site of that first church building who remembered seeing tombstones.

I’ll be glad to take you to the spot, he told my father. I haven’t been over there in a long time, but the stones are still standing and you can even read some of the names.

It was on a Saturday morning when my father went looking for the old cemetery. He took me along and even though I was just a kid, I was well aware of my father’s excitement. He was especially hoping to find the grave of the church’s first pastor, James Tompkins.

The old man met us in front of his small house and led us on foot across the road and into a field. He used a cane made out of an old hickory limb, but maintained a steady pace as we traipsed through the tall weeds still damp with the morning dew. We passed a thick grove of trees and then he suddenly stopped. A large swath of the field had been scraped and scarred by the sharp blade of a bulldozer, which was still parked at the edge of the woods. The land was obviously being prepared for a house.

The stones were right over there, the old man said, pointing his cane toward one edge of the bulldozed area. I’m positive they were right there, two short rows of them."

There was no sign of them, and my father’s disappointment weighed heavily on him. As we walked slowly back to the car, his head was bowed and he did not speak. How could that happen? he kept saying as we drove home. How could someone destroy those graves?

A few years later, in the summer of 1979, no doubt still smarting over the destruction of that ancient cemetery, he told me that the older grave yards in the county would one day disappear and if no one made a record of the names, that information would be lost forever.

I think it would be a good thing for you to do, he said. Go to every cemetery you can find and write down everything... every name, every date and even the epitaphs. You will be making a valuable contribution to the history of this county. And this is the perfect time for you to do it, while you are young and have the time and energy.

Perhaps my father was worried that I had reached an age where I might get into trouble and wanted to keep me occupied. I had just turned sixteen, and spending hours in cemeteries is not something teenagers like to do, but for some strange reason, the project did appeal to me.

Beginning on that summer day in 1979, I spent the next six years visiting the cemeteries and grave yards of Johnson County, Tennessee. And on a chilly day in March of 1985, when I finished gathering information from several graves in the Forge Creek area of the county, I had been to several hundred burial sites and recorded almost ten thousand names. A fascinating project had come to an end.

During the first couple of years, not many people knew what I was doing. I was a little embarrassed to talk about the hours I was spending among the departed. If someone asked about weekend plans, I’d offer some quip about working on a book. It has numerous plots, I’d say with a smile. And everyone dies at the end!

The first time I received any attention was in June of 1981 when a reporter from the Johnson City Press Chronicle named Paul Mays called me. He had heard that a teenager was making a record of cemeteries and was curious. Is that true? he asked. When I admitted that it was, he drove two hours to our house and interviewed me. I was thrilled! I didn’t ask how he had learned of my unusual pastime, but I suspect my father was responsible.

When the article appeared, the phone rang off the hook, with people asking when the information would be available and to let me know about old and forgotten cemeteries behind barns, on hilltops and in woodland clearings. So many gravestones would have been missed if not for those phone calls.

Perhaps feeling a little annoyed because I had not let her know first, Gladys McCloud, who wrote a column for our local paper, interviewed me for a feature article that appeared a month later.

Jeff isn’t interested in becoming a grave digger, Mrs. McCloud wrote, but he does spend a lot of time in cemeteries. And he isn’t looking for ghosts. He’s making a census of the dead, which does sound like a morbid hobby.

The older people in the community were very supportive, and I was even invited to become a member of the local historical society, but I did get a lot of kidding from friends my own age. I always knew you were weird, laughed one of my schoolmates, but you are even weirder than I thought!

I spent many hours among the tombstones. Some cemeteries were large and still in use, the grounds well-tended while others were small and forgotten, many at the head of hollers or in thick forests, the gravestones neglected and obscured by vines and weeds. I even discovered some graves that were all alone. I searched for those old cemeteries in all seasons, sometimes on hot days and occasionally on cold winter afternoons with flurries of snow in the air. I didn’t mind the cold and learned that rubbing a little snow in the grooves of the oldest stones made them easier to read.

I did prefer to do my cemetery hunting in the summer, when the weather was warm. 1981 was an especially busy summer for seeking out old cemeteries, and when I look over the records for that project, I see that I visited nineteen graveyards during that summer. Most of them are a blur in my memory, but I vividly remember two of them.

One cemetery was just outside of Mountain City in Doe Valley. I could see the gravestones from the highway, grouped together on a small hill next to a stand of tall white pines. The cemetery was obviously on private land, so I stopped at a house near the bottom of the hill and knocked on the door. It was opened by an elderly man who squinted at me and spoke in a quivering voice. When I asked about the cemetery on the hill, he offered to take me there.

I haven’t seen those graves in a long time, he told me. My mother and father are up there, and a brother and sister who died when they were small. I’d like to visit them one last time before I die.

He clutched my right arm with a shaky hand as we slowly made our way through a field and along a fence of rusted barbed wire, finally reaching a rickety gate, which he unlatched. We followed a narrow path that led upward along the side of the hill until it reached the grove of pine trees. In a small clearing that was open on one side, toward the highway down below, were two rows of old tombstones, battered by decades of rain and snow and sun. Some were leaning, struggling to remain upright. I jotted down the names as he stood silently for a moment at each grave, honoring the memory of his loved ones. We did not speak, but I thought I saw a tear finding its way through a deep winkle in his face.

When we made it back to his house, he reached out with both hands and grabbed one of mine, shaking it firmly. Thank you, young man, he said. I feel at peace now.

A month or so later, I saw his obituary in the local paper.

I was at the other end of the county a few days later, near the North Carolina line, searching for an old cemetery that was supposed to be above an abandoned house on a hill at the edge of a forest. After a few wrong turns, I finally found it by turning off the paved road and onto a narrow, graveled lane barely wide enough for my two-door Ford Mustang. A mile or so further on, I spotted the forlorn house with its broken windows, roof of rusted tin and vine-covered walls. I could see the cemetery on the hill, overgrown with weeds and saplings. I had to walk through a field to get there and the grass was waist-high, but onward I went until I reached the old graveyard. It was very quiet, the only sound being two crows in the distance squawking angrily at each other. I had to tamp down the high weeds and push back the branches of small trees to get a good look at the stones. They were very old but still fairly easy to read. When the task was complete, I headed back down the hill toward the road where my car was parked, pushing my way through the tall grass and hoping I would not encounter a slithering snake. Heaving a great sigh, I finally stepped out of the weeds and onto the gravels... but wait... what are those dark spots on my jeans? Dozens of small brown ticks were slowly crawling up both legs, and I discovered several more on one side of my shirt! With a loud shriek of terror, I ripped off the shirt and took off my jeans as quickly as I could. I also removed my socks and shoes. Barefoot and wearing only a pair of Fruit-of-the-Looms, I jumped into my car and sped off, leaving a pile of crumpled, tick-infested clothed in the middle of the road! Driving home as quickly as possible, I was hoping and praying that I could make it home without being stopped. By sheer luck, I made it, and slipped silently into the house.

I did have a few other unpleasant experiences; I once disturbed a yellow jacket nest and had to endure their painful stings as I fled. I did not return to that cemetery until later in the fall, when the bees were sleeping deep in their earthen nest. I also encountered snakes, mostly harmless black snakes who regarded me curiously as I walked by, but once I did see a copperhead, which I chased away by striking it with a rock. I did not think about wild animals, but I did once have to sneak past an angry bull as I looked for an old family cemetery in a cow field.

The oldest cemeteries were often a collection of sinkholes, rectangular in shape and sometimes quite deep. The old wooden coffins were not enclosed within a concrete vault as they are today, and had rotted over the decades, the ground sinking as the top of the coffins collapsed. Many of the gravestones had toppled into the holes and I had to crawl down into the deep crevices to read the names. Most of those graves were in isolated cemeteries, far from any road, and I had visions of myself getting trapped in one of those old sunken grave sites and never being found, my bones mixing with the remains of the original occupant.

I learned to appreciate so much about life by visiting the graves of the dead. I was moved whenever I’d find the grave of a child, and there were so many of them. Child mortality was a serious problem in centuries past and there was nothing more tragic than finding a row of small stones marking the resting places of children from the same family. It’s hard to imagine the numbing grief of parents who had to watch their children die, one after the other.

Spending so much time in cemeteries also gave me a philosophical attitude about death. In each cemetery I found the graves of the rich and the poor, often side by side. Death is the great equalizer and people who may have been enemies in life are resting near each other in death. The

My exploration of the county cemeteries also helped my father fill in a missing branch of his family tree. He knew that the first wife of David Alvin Carrier, his great uncle, was from Johnson County and had died young, but he did not know her name or where she had been buried. One afternoon when I was pushing away the weeds from some badly worn stones in a very old cemetery near Dug Hill Road in the community of Cracker’s Neck, I saw the name Carrier. There she was, my father’s great aunt. Sarah H., daughter of A.S. and C.M. Snyder, had died on December 7, 1912 at the age of 36. And next to her was the grave of a child, Sallie, daughter of D.A. and S.H. Carrier, who was born on November 5, 1912 and died on October 15, 1914, before she was two years old. My father knew that his great uncle and aunt had three sons, but he did not know they also had a daughter, and that Sarah had died only a month after the little girl was born.

The stones of my distant relatives were simple, with only the names and dates listed, but so many others from that era were etched with flowery epitaphs. One of them made a great impression on me. Our mournful years fly quickly past. Our joyful days and hours are few. We must all slumber here at last. O may our God our hearts renew.

There were also others that moved me.

Tis hard to break the tender cord when love has bound the heart. Tis hard, so hard, to speak the words, we must forever part.

As a fair maid, we shall again behold her, clothed in celestial grace. With all the beauties of her soul expanded, standing before her father’s face.

One by one earth’s ties are broken, as we see our love decay. One by one our hopes grow brighter, as we near the shining shore. For we know across the river, wait the loved ones gone before.

And my favorite: Remember friends as you pass by, as you are now, so once was I. As I am now, you soon shall be. Prepare for death and follow me.

After I walked out of that cemetery in March of 1985 and typed the final name on the final page, I was faced with the chore of getting that enormous amount of information into print.  I thought I had found every tombstone in the county, but I have discovered that I did miss at least one cemetery and perhaps others as well. When my father saw the bundle of pages, he said, you’ve done well, my son.

Perhaps I could have submitted the information to a publisher of academic material, but I decided to have it printed myself. My father was not a rich man, and I was a 22-year-old with an anemic bank account, so I had to look for a printer who could produce the book cheaply, as I could not afford good quality paper or a firm binding. I wanted a photo of a cemetery on the cover, but that was too expensive, so I sketched some old tombstones instead.

I chose Upon a Lonely Hill as the title, and it was ready for distribution by the middle of October of 1985. Despite the inexpensive production, it was a very handsome book, which pleased me enormously. Only 1,000 copies were printed, and I had not even finished paying off the bill by the time the print shop closed a few years later. All the copies were eventually sold and I have been grateful for the many comments I have received over the years from people who have found the book helpful as they research their family history. I doubt there are many copies from that original printing still extant, as the pages started coming loose almost immediately. Fortunately, there was a limited re-printing in 2012, with a much sturdier binding.

As I held the first copy in my hand, I thought back to that October day in 1979 when I was tired and scratched by thorns and almost gave up. Fortunately, I didn’t. After taking a few minutes to catch my breath and remove a couple of thorns from my skin, I climbed to the top of that hill. By the time I reached the cemetery, the sun was sinking toward the western horizon, casting deep shadows under the tall white pines and the autumn-tinted beeches and oaks.

It was the kind of graveyard seen in horror movies. The stones were making a valiant effort to stand upright, many of them leaning in various directions. The tombstones were ornate, carved out of fine marble, unlike the simple stones I had found in most other cemeteries. And the graves were contained within a very old and rusted wrought iron fence, with tall pointed posts like upended spears. The forest had invaded the cemetery, with large trees growing next to the graves, their gnarled roots wrapping around many of the stones. An occasional breeze would bring down a shower of red and yellow leaves, creating a very mysterious scene, and a bird was making a mournful sound somewhere close by.

I managed to climb over the fence and start writing down the information. Other than a few stones with names like Hutchinson and Greever and Johnson, the most common name was Wagner. I quickly figured out that it was the family of Matthias M. Wagner and his wife Mary. I also located a few of their children who had died in the late 1800s. Judging by the quality of the stones and the poetic epitaphs, it was obvious that the Wagners were a family of considerable means.

Every time I visited a cemetery, I always stood in silence for a little while, paying respect to all those who were laid to rest there, and as I was spending the last few minutes in that cemetery thinking about the Wagner family and wondering about their lives, a sudden wind whipped along the ground, picking up the freshly-fallen leaves and pushing them against one end of the fence. When the gust had passed and an eerie calm settled in, I noticed that the wind had uncovered a stone that had fallen over and was lying face-down against the hard ground. I had not seen it before as it was hidden under a thick layer of leaves. I turned it over and rubbed off the dirt. The writing slowly became visible.

Sacred to the memory of James F. Wagner, fourth son and sixth child of M.M. and M.S. Wagner. Born Friday, June 30, 1837. Died Friday, April 13, 1855. Aged 17 years, 9 months, 14 days. Vita amatus, et letho lamentatus.

I had to smile a little, as it seemed to me that Matthias and Mary Wagner were pleased that I was there, visiting their resting places, and didn’t want me to miss the grave of their son who had died so young.

I often think about that old cemetery and wonder if a sudden wind stirs the autumn leaves, uncovering the names of those buried there so long ago.

~ ~ ~

This new edition of Upon a Lonely Hill is an exact re-print of the original, with a new cover design. There are a few blank pages in the back, to be used for additions and corrections, which can be sent to the publisher for use in new editions.

The Cemeteries

ACRE LAWN CEMETERY

Star Gap Road

Laurel Bloomery, Tn.

Sept. 30, 1980

J.M. Arnold

1851-1923

James W.

Son of M.M. and S.L. Arnold

Dec. 6, 1897-Oct. 24, 1902

In Memory of Ottie

Son of M.M. and S.L. Arnold

Feb. 2, 1904-Dec. 16, 1907

Age 1 year 9 months 25 days

Asleep in Jesus

Alpha Ashley

1850-1926

David Ashley

Sept. 30, 1837-Sept. 2, 1897

Nancy Ashley

Apr. 13, 1839-Jan. 31, 1903

Father and Mother

Austin F.

Son of Austin and Kathryn Bolden

July 17, 1963-June 19, 1966

Margaret

Daughter of A.J. and Freddie Bolden

Mar. 2, 1945-Dec. 8, 1948

David W. Bridges

Dec. 14, 1849-Mar. 17, 1884

A devoted husband and father

Harry F. Bryant

1920-1977

Pauline M. Bryant

1912-

William P. Craven

1871-1910

N. Alice Craven

1873-1967

Beyond the Sunset

Wesley Crocker

Nov. 7, 1907 - 1980

Marjorie

Dec. 19, 1910-Oct. 26, 1978

David H. Cunningham

W. Virginia

CPL CO G 309 Infantry

World War I

Sept. 9, 1985-Apr. 23, 1969

L.A. Cunningham

1852-1942

M. Lonzo Davis

1865

Callie J.

1867-1953

John M. Doffek

Michigan

PVT CO D 168 Infantry

World War II PH

1895-1967

Stella

1899-19

Charles

Son of Mr. and Mrs. J.D. Dollar

Jan. 7, 1911-July 4, 1916

A sunbeam from the world has vanished. How soon fades the tender flower.

Mary E. Flinchum

Oct. 13, 1894-Oct. 4, 1972

David Gentry

Feb. 15, 1829-June 8, 1876

Elizabeth Gentry, his wife

Nov. 20, 1831-June 29, 1890

Gone but not forgotten

Edna E.

Daughter of C.S. and Lillie M. Gentry

Jan. 18, 1904-Sept. 14, 1905

Gone but not forgotten

Edwin Sophia Henry Ivalee Gentry

In Memory of Jessie R. Gentry

July 4, 1882-Sept. 26, 1890

Joseph A. Gentry

Oct. 18, 1865-May 3, 1939

Mattie Ashley Gentry

1872-1941

Luemma Gentry

May 25, 1847-Dec. 17, 1873

He gave thee, he took thee, and he will restore thee

Our darling baby

Mack N.

Son of J.D. and Mary Gentry

Oct. 31, 1923-Mar. 26, 1933

Asleep in Jesus

Mary J., wife of B.J. Gentry

Sept. ––, –––– - Nov. 22, 1899

Polly Gentry

1832-1912

Shirley Francis Gentry

Nov. 13, 1935-Mar. 8, 1936

A little bud of love to bloom with God above

Bruce W. Greer

Pennsylvania

TEC 5 BTRY B

105 AAA AW BIV

World War II

July 30, 1913-Apr. 17, 1964

PH and OLC

Charles E. Greer

1923-1951

Oren A. Greer

Oct. 23, 1881-Nov. 5, 1947

We will meet again

Laura Alice Greer

May 6, 1890-Mar. 14, 1973

We will meet again

Bert S. Hawkins

1887-1956

Charles N. Hawkins

1870-1955

Margaret Donnelly Hawkins

1871-1959

Clarence C. Hawkins

1905-1954

Frank F. Hawkins

1900-1968

Harry Welch Hawkins

Oct. 23, 1909-July 9, 1979

In memory of

Infant of L.H. and E.M. Hawkins

born and died Oct. 20, 1874

Infant daughter of

C.N. and M.L. Hawkins

born and died Dec. 3, 1907

James Hawkins

May 3, 1879-Aug. 15, 1892

James Richard Hawkins

1918-1961

In Memory of

James W. Hawkins

Dec. 8, 1851-July 10, 1854

James W. Hawkins

1895-1957

Flora Pleasant

1896-19

Julia H. Hawkins

Nov. 25, 1877-May 3, 1963

Landon H. Hawkins

July 29, 1840-July 26, 1915

Member of the 13th Tenn. Calv. 1861-1865

The lost to sight to memory dear.

Emma L. Keys

Wife of Landon H. Hawkins

Nov. 2, 1844-Mar. 20, 1923

Thy trials ended thy rest is won.

R. Bruce Hawkins

Apr. 14, 1889

Minnie F.

Sept. 24, 1891-Nov. 2, 1977

R.D. Hawkins

May 27, 1856-Nov. 29, 1905

Mary A. Hawkins

Aug. 11, 1850-Dec. 9, 1890

Richard W. Hawkins

died –––––

aged about 77 years

Elizabeth

wife of R.W. Hawkins

Mar. 13, 1816-Nov. 22, 1894

Rodrick D. Hawkins

1902-1965

Ross Hawkins

Dec. 17, 1892-Nov. 2, 1918

He died for his country

Samuel Scott Hawkins

1897-1928

Sophronia Haseltin

Daughter of L.H. and E.L. Hawkins

Apr. 17, 1873-June 2, 1899

Valarah E. Hawkins

July 6, 1886-Oct. 2, 1925

She believed and sleeps in Jesus.

Willard B.

Son of R.B. and M.B. Hawkins

May 28, 1914-Dec. 31, 1915

Sweetly sleeping

Linda Maye Hicks

Apr. 25, 1943-Oct. 30, 1958

In loving memory of our darling daughter and sister.

Emanuel Jenkins

Mar. 14, 1847-Jun. 19, 1909

Nancy Jenkins

Dec. 2, 1852-Jan. 7, 1913

Infant son of J.W. and Sallie J. Keys

born Oct. 11, 1892

Mother

Elizabeth, wife of H. C. Maxwell

1839-1896

Gone but not forgotten

Frank Maxwell

1903-1967

Ella M.

1903-1978

George W. Maxwell

Nov. 4, 1861-Mar. 9, 1935

Lucinda A.

Mar. 20, 1861-Feb. 22, 1944

H.C. Maxwell

1843-1929

Gone but not forgotten

Infant daughter born

June 18, 1877

Infant daughter born

July 15, 1878

Infant daughter born

May 29, 1876

Infant son born

Apr. 10, 1875

Lillie, born Mar. 8, 1886

died Nov. 28, 1891

Children of G.W. and L. Maxwell

John H. Maxwell

1889-1954

In my father’s house are many mansions

A.J. Miller

Nov. 22, 1848-Apr. 27, 1921

How desolate our home bereft of thee

Rena J.

wife of A.J. Miller

Mar. 5, 1850-Oct. 7, 1930

Gone but not forgotten

L. Lester

Son of W.L. and V.H. Miller

Oct. 7, 1889-Dec. 10, 1889

Rosa Alice

Daughter of A.J. and Rena J. Miller

June 13, 1875-Oct. 19, 1898

Aged 23 years 4 months 6 days

She’s missed at home

Oma Lee

Daughter of O.H. and Hilda Mooney

1943-1944

John R. Morefield

Sept. 3, 1863

Margaret E.

Oct. 7, 1863-Mar. 4, 1948

William Morefield

May 1, 1861-Sept. 19, 1915

Emma

Sept. 8, 1864-Apr. 27, 1952

In Memory of

Ada Morrison

daughter of W.S. and A. E. Morrison

Dec. 19, 1891-Dec. 2, 1912

In heaven there is one angel more.

Dana N. Morrison

1898-1980

Infant daughter of

W.S. and A.E. Morrison

Feb. 10, 1905

From mother’s arms to the arm’s of Jesus.

Lena H. Morrison

1903-1973

In my father’s house are many mansions

Robert Burley

Son of W.S. and A.E. Morrison

Nov. 26, 1900-Mar. 13, 1920

Gone but not forgotten

Son

Thomas Morrison, Jr.

June 30, 1936-Dec. 25, 1952

William S. Morrison

1867-1944

Alice E.

1871-1945

Charlie

Son of I.N. and T.R. Moser

Feb. 16, 1909-Feb. 19, 1909

Johnnie P.

Son of I.N. and T.R. Moser

May 3,