I'd venture to say that I view cemeteries a bit differently than most people.

I used to play in one as a kid. A cemetery is also where my father died.

And it is where I got a heathy perspective of why I am so fortunate.

After my dad Fred sold his share in Wyatt Hardware to his older brother Perishing he went to work as superintendent of the Lincoln Public Cemetery District.

It consists of three cemeteries  — Lincoln, Sheridan and Manzanita.

It was when he worked for the cemetery district that I spent the most time hanging out with my dad. It was always on a Saturday.

Part of his duties was to check on the cemeteries on the weekend to make sure there were no water well issues or other problems.

Since Manzanita was a true rural cemetery — no grass or ground cover — the only time it was routinely checked was during his Saturday visits unless there was a burial.

As an 8-year-old, I got to tag along.

It was a great time. I got to ride in a red 1963 Chevy C60 dump truck.  

It took an effort to climb into the cab. But once in you sat high above practically everything else on the road. And since Ralph Nader was still a young whippersnapper seat belt use wasn't yet mandatory.

That meant not only could I feel every bounce on the narrow washboard country roads north of Lincoln as we headed to Manzanita Cemetery but I'd occasionally bounce up as we crossed paved over culverts and bridges spanning creeks.

The cemetery itself was in a cluster of oaks on a gently rolling hill.

The hard soil dominated by clay had more than its fair share of manzanita bushes and trees along with a liberal sprinkling of scrub and valley oaks.

While dad tended to his duties I was free to wander about and play.

The only steadfast rule was not to be disrespectful and walk across graves.

I spent countless hours playing in the portion of the cemetery yet to be used for graves, walking on the concrete and granite coping of various family plot groupings, and reading the names on headstones.

Many names were familiar. Not only were they of relatives but relatives of neighbors, school acquaintances, and people whose surnames I recognized from around town.

My cemetery excursions with dad were short lived.

Eighteen months after he went to work for the cemetery district, Dad was using a riding lawnmower to cut the thick, mosquito infested grass of Lincoln Cemetery that borders the Auburn Ravine. It was there that he suffered a fatal heart attack, collapsing, ironically within 20 feet of where his mother Millie Wyatt was buried.

Dad wanted to be buried at Manzanita Cemetery as did my mom. A week or so after the funeral, the permanent headstone was put in place. I did not like it for it also had my mother's name on it, "Verna Aldene Wyatt," along with her birthdate but no death date.

It is not something you want to see as a 9-year-old that just lost one parent. Mom, though, explained it as simply being pragmatic. It was much cheaper to tend to the gravestone now instead of later.

It would be another 41 years before the death date was carved into the granite.

My mom's mother Edna Towle passed away a year later.

It was during my mom's weekly then monthly visits to Manzanita Cemetery that I learned a lot about my mom and her family history.

The reason mom preferred to be buried there was simple.
From where she was eventually laid to rest you could see a 1,100-foot peak off on the northeast horizon across the Bear River in what was then the Spenceville Wildfire Area in Nevada County. At the base of that in an area that today looks like an overgrown hollow in West Virginia is where mom and seven siblings were raised on a working ranch.

During visits to the cemetery mom would talk about relatives that went before.

Among them some of the earliest American settlers of California including one who was part of the three rescue parties that set out from Camp Far West to rescue the survivors of the Donner Party.

She also shared the stories of others who were buried at Manzanita and weren't related to her. It was a rich, interwoven history of people — pioneers, prospectors,  farmers, ranchers, and neighbors — who were part of a large community of families that had established Lincoln and the surrounding countryside.

I also learned of who wasn't buried there.

The great-grand uncle who swindled his brothers in a pioneer lumber company leaving them flat broke while he made his way to San Francisco. He perished in the aftermath of the Great Quake of 1906 not from the temblor or fire but from greed.

He was among those in the Nob Hill area who rushed in after the fire had passed to retrieve cash they had locked in their home safes. He had opened the safe without it cooling down and he — along with a small fortune of cash — became the victim of the super-heat charged air inside the safe coming into contact with outside air.

I also learned that my mom's father had abandoned his family at the depths of the Great Depression on the ranch leaving his wife with eight kids to raise.

I also came to understand that people live in  the hearts of those that they touch after they die. What is left at cemeteries are just the vessels.

The last time I visited Manzanita Cemetery was four years ago this month with my sister Mary.

The countryside was still virtually the same save for a few farmhouses with upgraded sidings and new outbuildings.

The other constant is life. It continues and it builds on those that went before.

And that is what people will understand if they venture out to East Union Cemetery on Saturday, Sept,. 17, from 1 to 4 p.m. for a planned event to mark the cemetery’s 150th anniversary not just as an institution but as vault of those that built community history.

This column is the opinion of editor, Dennis Wyatt, and does not necessarily represent the opinions of The Bulletin or 209 Multimedia. He can be reached at dwyatt@mantecabulletin.com