35th Annual Tales Tombstones Tell - Self Guided Tour
Welcome, history enthusiasts and curious minds! We're thrilled to invite you on a virtual journey through time with our self-guided tour of the 35th anniversary "Tales Tombstones Tell." This blog series will take you on a captivating exploration of local history, one gravestone at a time. Each post features the script and an accompanying video recording from a different stop on the cemetery walk, allowing you to experience the rich stories and forgotten tales etched in stone. Whether you're a longtime resident or a newcomer to our community, prepare to uncover the fascinating lives, triumphs, and tragedies of those who came before us. Let's embark on this historical adventure together, as we bring the past to life through the whispers of our Oakwood cemetery.
Stranger & Indigent
Interpreters: Beth and Bob
Stop Seven
We wandered, lost and forgotten, shadows cast adrift by a world that had no use for us. On your journey tonight you have now reached the area of the cemetery reserved for the stranger and indigent in Turner. As a bustling railroad town many passed through this community, hitching a ride on a railcar, without a set destination. We were from all corners of the world; they called us hobos, tramps, wearies - names that echoed our rootless existence. During the early days of the community we numbered many, so many so that a one night’s lodging was offered in Turner Town Hall, also used as a jail, but without alternative accommodations it was shelter.
Some of us were skilled workers, our hands bearing the marks of honest labor, ready to trade our expertise for a warm meal or a safe place to sleep. But others, the "wearies," carried a different kind of burden, the weight of a past that haunted their every step, a past that made them shun work and embrace the open road.
Turner, with its bustling railroads and transient population, was a magnet for our kind. We came seeking refuge, a chance to blend in with the shadows, to escape the harsh realities of life. But danger lurked around every corner. The trains, our lifeline and our curse, claimed the lives of many who dared to jump on or off their iron steeds. Other died from illness or violence in the camps.
And when death came, as it inevitably did, there was no one to mourn our passing, no familiar faces to shed tears over our unmarked graves. 46 lots reserved as our final resting place; graves paid for by the township. We were the strangers, the indigent, the forgotten souls laid to rest in these unmarked graves, our stories forever lost to the winds of time.
[Song: See That My Grave’s Kept Green]