A tour of Oaklawn Cemetery will open a vault of mystery, scandal and romance stories.
By DONG-PHUONG NGUYEN
Published October 30, 2004
TAMPA - Homeless people wander aimlessly, red-tailed hawks swoop overhead. Nearby, commuters climb into public buses, chugging through life's everyday mundane tasks.
This activity surrounds a decrepit cemetery with cracked markers and moss-draped oaks, a graveyard that appears to have been left behind by the city that grew up around it.
But this cemetery on the northern edge of downtown is a historic jewel. Under old cedar trees and heartfelt inscriptions lie 13 mayors, veterans of seven wars and victims of five yellow fever epidemics. There's also the master and the slave he loved, side-by-side in death.
These ghosts of Tampa's past will be paid a visit Sunday by actor and cultural historian Maureen Patrick, who will lead a Gothic Graveyard Walk of Oaklawn Cemetery for residents eager to learn more about the city's history.
Patrick will be dressed in 19th century mourning attire as the character of Miss Prudence Fipwhistle, a composite character.
"Graveyards are an under-exploited, cultural resource," said Patrick, who gave a private tour last week, wearing black from head to toe. "They carry immense historical importance."
Patrick clasped a handkerchief made of fine white linen, edged with a woven black border. In the 19th century, the handkerchief was the only touch of white in mourning attire. A diamond solitaire brooch clipped to her dress symbolized the lost treasure of the dearly departed.
The long-departed in Oaklawn are from all walks of life. The graveyard was founded on April 1, 1850, by county commissioners as Tampa's first public burial ground, intended for rich, poor, free and slave alike.
There are more than 1,000 graves in Oaklawn, a cemetery declared historic in 1976. It ranks seventh in the nation in the number of Confederate soldiers' graves, despite the fact that the area did not play a significant part in the conflict, Patrick said.
And a predominant number of graves in Oaklawn are those of children younger than 10. The infant and child mortality rate a century ago was so high, parents expected to lose children.
The death of a child was considered an easy transition to heaven. One marker has an ornamental lamb lying on top of it. Another carries a popular inscription that perhaps was purchased from the Sears & Roebuck catalog, which offered a variety of gravestones, complete with epitaph ideas.
"Our bud has fled its early bower, And burst to bloom in paradise," says the gravestone for little Mary, daughter of RB and Mary E. Thomas, a child who lived two months and 15 days, dying in 1857.
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Thirteen former mayors are buried here, including Tampa's first mayor, Judge Joseph B. Lancaster - sort of. A similar marker was erected in Jacksonville, where Lancaster spent summers.
So no one knows under which stone his body lies. "Short of digging him up . . ." Patrick said, as dead leaves clicked against the sidewalk after they found themselves trapped in the sweeping net of her lace gown.
James C. Magbee, who donated much of the land for the cemetery, is also interred here. His gravestone says he was Tampa's first lawyer, a Florida legislator, a circuit judge and an editor and publisher.
He was also considered a scalawag. He was a Democrat during the Civil War but changed parties to side with Union forces.
And he was known to be overly fond of the bottle. He drank so much, he would pass out in the streets of downtown Tampa, which, back then, was a cow town of unpaved roads. Cattle and hogs roamed the streets.
One night, he went on one of his benders and passed out. A crowd gathered and poured molasses and sprinkled cornmeal over his form. During the night, hogs ate his clothes off. He woke up cold and naked.
"So judge, I salute you," Patrick said, saluting Magbee's gravestone. "I know you love it when I tell the story, so I tell it with regularity!"
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Perhaps one of the more touching epitaphs appears on a marker with a weeping willow tree etched in its stone.
"Here lies William Ashley and Nancy Ashley, Master and Servant. Faithful to each other in that relation in life, in death they are not separated.
"Stranger, consider and be wiser, in the grave all human distinction, of race or caste, mingle together in one common dust.
"To commemorate their fidelity to each other, this stone was erected by their Executor, John Jackson (1873)."
William Ashley, a clerk in Mayor John Jackson's office, never married because he could not legally marry Nancy, his slave. After he died, she died of a broken heart, Patrick said.
"Here they are," she said. "The beautiful inscription speaks volumes not only about the abstract principle of love, but how the courage of one person can stand up to the conventions of age."
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A mass grave with just one marker pays tribute to the Tampa residents who died of yellow fever. Of the five epidemics, the last one, in 1887, was the worst. There were 3,000 residents in Tampa at the time. Yellow fever wiped out a third of the population.
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The fee to bury the dead in Oaklawn was once 21/2 cents a square foot per burial plot, on top of a $5 interment charge. Today, only descendants of those already buried in Oaklawn may be laid to rest there, Patrick said, although many of the living are choosing to be buried in newer cemeteries.
The most recent burial at Oaklawn was this past summer.
Julius Jeff Gordon, a longtime Tampa resident, devoted the last years of his life to genealogy research and caretaking. He picked up litter and was a tireless supporter of Oaklawn. He made what is to date, the most comprehensive genealogical study of the descendants of Oaklawn Cemetery.
