The courthouse is, well, a courthouse. It’s not exactly a Sears Brand courthouse or anything, but there’s nothing particularly enthusing about it either. Thus is life in a small town, I guess. Maybe I was a little wistful at the moment. I had already picked up a cache and I put me in an interesting frame of mind.
There’s always a cemetery. I hadn’t been to one in a while (at least not on this trip) and sometimes it turns into some sort of philosophical rumination on the nature of life and death or some kind of crap like that, but this one was a little more poignant.
The cache owner placed one at the grave of his baby brother who only lived for a day. I was an only child so I can only imagine how hard that must have been on him and his family. I’ve considered the possibility that when I die I might have a stone that’s a cache. I know that a lot of people consider caching in cemeteries to be incredibly disrespectful in the first place, much less grabbing a cache from a stone. I myself have grappled with that question at least once. That said, if it was my own stone, I would think that would be an altogether different issue. All that said, it is a heck of a way to keep a memory alive. We’ve all seen so many cemeteries that never get visited, see so many stones that fall into ruin and decay. At least this little fellow will get some cachers to visit him out there on the windswept Kansas plain.
With log signed and respects paid, I was off again and, aside from my photography stop in town, I continued on into…