*Today marks the sad anniversary of young George Yeamin's death. On this day every year, Siobhan and I cover his grave with red roses. This year, we decided to post a tribute to him, as well. (originally posted 4/ 27/13, but it seems more appropriate for today.)
le George, croga cara duuinn...
(for George, our brave friend...)
Siobhan and I often visit our young friend, George, who resides in a neighboring town. Though long gone now, George is a true kindred spirit; his Celtic roots, his passion for horses, and his circus ties surely make him so. We take him roses, red and gold…and fragrant stems of rosemary. (Rich Red and Old Gold, the time-honored colors of the circus; Rosemary is for remembrance.)
George was a circus equestrian by trade—an orphan from Scotland, a long way from home. He was widely considered an accomplished rider, and was pleasing in both manner and appearance...
In the fall of 1827, with much excitement and fanfare, the circus came to town. Here beneath the big top, in front of a cheering crowd, young George fell to his death. His fellow performers were devastated. With heavy hearts, they buried George in the town cemetery; and when the circus packed up to go, tearfully they left him…
The
circus moved on--but for many years after his death, George’s friends
would visit him whenever their travels brought them near. Time-weathered and faded, you can still read the names and messages they carved on his tombstone...
I
smile to think what a picture they must have made, these friends as
they came to visit …the exotic acrobats and proud lion tamers, boldly
walking through the tall iron gates…the bright parade of clowns and
jugglers strolling among the stark tombstones... the ringing sounds of
the equestrians’ boots and spurs, tapping on the flagstone paths…and at
the rear of the small procession, the sweetest of souls-- the
tender-hearted Fat Lady, gently dabbing her eyes with a lace-edged
hanky... How George must have smiled down from Heaven to see his old friends again!
But the years passed, and his friends grew old. Then one by one, they too were gone… Now 185 years have passed. and no one is left to visit poor George-- except Siobhan and me. So we have taken him into our hearts and into our clan; we visit often and leave fresh flowers on his grave.
George,
we hope you find comfort in our small attentions, such as they
are--please know that you truly are not forgotten….”Chuid eile i
siochain, mo chara.” Rest in Peace, My Friend. “Cuimhin an croi.” The Heart Remembers….
