Believe it or not we didnāt go to Foster Rhode Island to go cemetery hopping but when in Romeā¦
Historic Cemetery #45 (Also called the Hopkinās Mills Lot)
The first cemetery we came across was adjacent to the Ramshead Trail we wanted to walk down and just a stoneās throw away from a purportedly haunted bridge. So why not wander through the cemetery as well? It was a fairly decently sized cemetery, well maintained, with most of its stones from the mid 1800ās. There wasnāt any particularly interesting stones or monuments about but I did enjoy reading some of the names ā like the last name Willowby (HOW ADORABLE IS THAT?) or the first name Zilpha. Mostly it was just a ton of Hopkins though.
Since itās near a bunch of ruins which were once a bustling little town there are a lot of ghost stories around this cemetery. The specter of Betsey Grayson has made her rounds on the nearby bridge, as well as the ghost of an old man who vanishes alongside the road, and the vision of a small girl picking flowers. Today however was hot and sunny and although I was loving the beauty and serenity of such a wild place I didnāt feel at all uneasy or see anything from beyond the veil. Perhaps that is an adventure best suited for the night.
Historic Cemetery Number 27 (Also called the Hopkins Tucker Lot)
We actually went out to find this cemetery on purpose. You see my navigator and myself were playing āwhose ADD will lead us to the weirdest locationā and so he picked random spots and I drove. I donāt know why he picked this little lot, situated ever so cozily in between a bunch of houses on a narrow dirt road. He was taking it out of a book about hauntings so Iām guessingā¦ itās haunted. That being said I have no idea who by. It was cute, maybe slightly spooky in how decayed it looked. There were only about 30 stones, unremarkable, but nestled sweetly between lovingly built stone walls and a little iron gate.
UPDATE: Having gotten my paws on said book I learned this cemetery is haunted by an old woman, Aunt Lonnie Davis, who lived nearby whose last wishes were that her house be completely demolished after her death – claiming she would come back to haunt anyone who left so much as two boards still nailed together. Legend says out of curiosity someone did indeed leave just two boards nailed together and now she’s seen sitting on the cemetery wall… a cemetery which she is not actually buried in. Strange.
Historic Cemetery 26 ā (Also called the Hopkins-Ide Lot)
This last cemetery was an adventure! I donāt know why we went there but it has to be one of my all time favorites. Getting there was a challenge ā especially in a Prius. The locals were already aware of a Prius driven by someone with vibrantly orange hair circling the area like a vulture going up and down and up and down the same roads. It was just one of those days and finding this last destination was no different. Pretty sure we scared the tar out of a woman walking her baby in a pram who probably thought we were stalking her down a long dirt road with seemingly VERY few houses.
The directions were to āgo down the lane directly across from electric pole 15.ā And with directions like that how could we possibly get lost, right? Wellā¦ it was a very long and very thin dirt road which the Prius was none-too-happy about traversing and was even less happy to be repeatedly turning around in the few driveways we found. The problems started with the electrical poles. My navigator didnāt realize they were numbered ā and being a city dweller who doesnāt make a habit of such excursions, why would he? So I showed him the numbers and we started to count starting with the first pole #5ā¦ We drove quite a ways and found pole #15 sitting alone in the middle of nowhere, nothing but woods to be seen around it. We then got into a discussion about what ālaneā could possibly mean. A roadās a road but what is a lane? Neither of us knew.
So we kept driving, occasionally turning around when we thought weād gone too far only to turn around again. Eventually, after passing the woman and baby three times, (at which point itās a bit awkward to roll down the window and ask, āSo is there a cemetery on this road?ā) we finally came to Crowfoot Farm. They were the first driveway Iād seen in what seemed like miles and they had the pure gumption to have a farm stand way out here selling eggs āon Saturdays and Sundays ā first come, first serve.ā WOW. I used to try to sell eggs on a main road and failed, the fact that they sounded like they were selling out way out here made me immediately love these people. But we werenāt here to see a farm, as fun as that is, we were here looking for a cemetery which as luck would have it was directly across the road from their driveway.
A tiny sign peeked out from the woods reading Historic Cemetery 45 and just beyond there was indeed a lane. Now this ālaneā was actually just a path for occasional cars. It had tire tracks but was mostly weeds and grass, was even narrower than the road (if that was even possible) and more terrifyingly still it was down a small but steep hill. I had nowhere to park aside the road so I was forced to turn the Prius onto this little lane and pray we wouldnāt get stuck. It has all the strength of a great grandmother, especially in reverse, and up hills.
I was obviously nervous about the car but the fact this place was so far out in the middle of nowhere really intrigued me. We couldnāt see the cemetery from the road and didnāt know how far weād have to walk the ālaneā before getting there. Luckily it was only a short jaunt, it was just blocked by trees, and there out in no manās land, almost completely forgotten, was the most beautiful little cemetery Iād ever seen.
Long gone were the well mowed lawns that surrounded the stones, instead ferns and weeds jutted up from a thick pile of dead leaves. The stones were antiquated, and although most were only from the mid 1800ās they were worn and often sunken into the ground. Most were long since illegible. I got the distinct feeling weād stumbled into some special secret realm no one else knew about but believe it or not someone else had been here. Sticking out like a sore thumb there were two brand new wooden benches, just chilling, no memorial tags, no explanation, just a couple benches minding their own business. And it made me fall in love with the place even more.
I was taken in by a couple of stones ā one with a particularly unique Cherubās head, and another that seemed more like a scroll than a stone with so much writing on it. My navigator meanwhile disappeared to the other side and when we came back together he noted the oldest stone he found was from 1805. According to Find A Grave this place had, ā175 burials with 70 inscriptions from 1797 to 1937.ā Most notable to my companion were the many Civil War burials, each still brandishing a flag and a metal marker and some with inscriptions that told stories about dying in battle or in battlefield hospitals hundreds of miles from home. It was sobering.
We quietly wandered off after this with a deep memory and fondness for this place ā well, that is, except for the Prius who was still parked on that little slope, itās little Prius butt sticking almost straight in the air and looking towards the road. I said a little prayer before backing out of that spot and it must have worked because we made it.
