A place in the sun

There's a place for us

Somewhere a place for us

Peace and quiet and open air

Wait for us somewhere

There is open air. There is peace and quiet. 

And it turns out, there has always been a place for Baby Joseph Cipressi.

We just had to find it.

Time to look. Time to care. 

My grandmother nearly died giving birth to her third child, Joseph, and my grandfather couldn't afford a casket or headstone. It was 1938, during the Depression, and he had just been laid off. 

We knew Joseph's was buried somewhere in Eglington Cemetery in Clarksboro, the oldest continuously operating cemetery in the country, a 160-acre swath of about 70,000 souls who include Alvin Milton Day. The World War II vet was a victim of Howard Unruh's mass killing of 13 people in Camden in 1949.  

The oldest stone there dates to 1777. Cremations here included Philadelphia Orchestra conductor Eugene Ormandy; actor Zero Mostel; and, more infamously, Jim Jones, leader of the People's Temple and conductor of the greatest mass suicide in history. (Take comfort: His ashes left Eglington for the only spot that would have him: the Atlantic Ocean.)

There is a boy whose father designed a stone that shows his son rising from the wheelchair that defined his life. Someone built a bedroom out of stone, complete with recliner and humidor. And the tree where a woman trying to catch Pokemon in the cemetery got stuck six years ago remains. 

Eglington is also where my grandmother's parents and several members of her family are buried. As children, we would often accompany her there, and watch as she walked the nearby grounds with a heavy heart, wondering where her lost baby was laid to rest.

On a visit to the cemetery a couple of years ago, I asked, assuming the answer would be no, if there was any record of Joseph. Minutes later, I was holding an index card with his name; date of likely interment, Nov. 5, 1938; and the exact row, N. 

It was in my hand, tangible proof that Grandmom's boy existed, no one knows how briefly. 

But getting there without a stone to look for or the grave's dimensions would be impossible without help. So the fine folks at Eglington told me they would flag the spot, and they were kind enough to also send me a fuzzy map with a blot of green to mark the grave.

And there it was, just steps from the marker for a baby named June who died at nine months old, and  about 60 feet from the mausoleum where my husband's grandparents are buried, a short drive from our  relatives.

There is a place for Joseph. My husband and I marked it with a tiny pot of pansies. 

I called my mother to tell her I was standing at the grave of the baby brother she never knew, who was born and died on the same day 84 years ago.

Now, we will find a suitable stone or other forever marker that we can look for. I'm thinking we should  include the words, "beloved son."

For Grandmom. 

And when that happens, I will bring my mother to the spot. Of peace and quiet and open air. 

Hold my hand, and I'll take you there.

To a somewhere that finally has a name.