San Diego's old cemeteries have stories to tell brave visitors.
story and photos by Heather Quinn

For a good Halloween scare, there isn't any place as universally creepy as an old graveyard. Here, the dead still have some power over the living. Though separated from this world by time and a good six feet of earth, the mere presence of the departed – especially on a dark, windy night – is enough to send chills down the spine of even the most courageous.

But apart from their more morbid aspects, cemeteries have another story to tell. They are the repositories of the rich history of San Diego, the only places where the dead can still speak to the living – not as ghosts, but as legacies carved in tombstones. Cemeteries are a good starting point to learn about the pioneers and leaders who built this city and hearing their not often told stories gives us a truer sense of what it means to be San Diegans.

El Campo Santo, Old Town

As Antonio Garra was led to the open grave he would momentarily occupy, he was ordered to beg pardon for the crime he was sentenced to execution for.

"Gentlemen, I ask your pardon for all my offenses, and expect yours in return."

Upon saying these last words, Garra was shot and killed by the waiting firing squad, according to www.sandiegohistory.org, the San Diego Historical Society's Web site.
Garra was a chief of the Cupenos Indian tribe near Warner's Ranch and was convicted in 1882 of the murder of four white men in an Indian uprising, according to the Web site. His story is just one of the colorful tales of San Diego's early history that are still told at El Campo Santo, the city's second oldest cemetery, dating back to 1849.

Not all of the dead rest inside of the cemetery's walls, however. A streetcar line was built through part of El Campo Santo, leaving nearly 18 graves under the paved street, according to www.gothere.com. Bronze markers embedded in the pavement and along the sidewalk outside of the cemetery walls designate the locations of these unidentified graves.

Some were even deliberately buried outside of cemetery grounds - criminals apparently too fiendish to share the grounds with the more innocent residents. One such unfortunate is Bill Marshall, who, instead of a grave marker, has a sign with a carved wooden hand pointing outside of the wall with the message "Bill Marshall is not here, but on the other side of this wall."

Marshall, according to www.sandiegohistory.org, was implicated in the same Indian uprising that Garra was convicted in. His wife was the daughter of Indian Chief Jose Nocar, and he was told to join the rebellion or die, according to the Web site.

Julian Haven of Rest Cemetery

Known for its apple pies and Old West atmosphere, Julian is one of San Diego's most popular tourist destinations during this time of year. In addition to being the perfect Sunday drive destination, Julian is also a cornucopia of history about San Diego's pioneer days, and its cemetery is no exception.

Although it was officially founded in 1922 by the Julian Cemetery Association, the land was used for burials long before that, according to www.orangebook.com. Julian Cemetery historian David Lewis said the first burial was of Tommie Harrall of Volcan Mountain, according to minutes of Cemetery Association secretary Ida Bailey Wellington.
Another version of the story states that the cemetery began with burials of still-born babies around an oak tree, but Lewis said he has more faith in Wellington's version.

"While many cemeteries begin in association with a church," Lewis said in an article for the Julian News, "ours appears to have begun as many graveyards do on the frontier.

"The deceased was taken by their friends or family to an appropriate piece of ground and buried there."

Davis said he's the first person to undertake documenting the cemetery's history, a process made difficult by the lack of written records and the neglect of some parts of the graveyard, with many markers covered in silt.

Of particular interest is the diversity of individuals buried in the cemetery. Four black pioneers rest in Julian's cemetery, including ex-slave Albert Robinson and his wife Margaret, the founders of the Julian Hotel, Davis said. Sixty percent of blacks in the area lived in Julian, partly because of a gold rush in 1869.

"In addition to the black population, there were also local Indians, Chinese and Mexicans," Lewis said. "Add to that English, French, Irish, German, etc., and all of the attendant religions, and you have got yourself one diverse population."

Other notable burials include Drury Bailey, an ex-Confederate soldier and the founder of Julian, who was buried in a family plot with his wife, Annie, and their children.

Also buried are Issac Bush and the man he shot, John Ivy. The two rivals were buried 100 feet from each other. Several men who had died in the mines are also buried here, as well as a few who had died "with their boots on," Davis said. And, there is still more to discover.

"Information is so scarce and sometimes contradictory, that I always present my information with a disclaimer," Davis said, "and that information may come to light that changes the facts as we know them today."

Juancito Cemetery, Campo Indian Reservation

Near the eastern terminus of old Highway 94 lies the small, picturesque Juancito Cemetery. Adjacent to a petite, humble church with faded paint and boarded-up windows, the cemetery consists of about 128 graves marked with wooden crosses and one large cross in the middle.

The graveyard is all dirt, with no grass, and there are holes from animals burrowing into graves. The green, white and black paint is cracked and faded on many of the crosses, adding to a feeling of isolation and neglect that the church itself reflects. But personal objects and flowers left on the graves prove that these departed are still not forgotten.
Dolls, pinwheels and toys litter the graves of children, and beer bottles stuck upside-down in the dirt offer some humor to this otherwise lonely and somber resting place of the dead.

"I found it while exploring some dirt roads throughout various Indian reservations," said Steve Paul Johnson, a contributor to www.interment.net, a Web site that catalogues regional cemeteries. "I used to have a particular interest in exploring the back country to find old ghost towns, mining operations and graveyards, and I decided to take a drive down that particular road to just see what I could find.

"This particular cemetery is typical of many Native American cemeteries in San Diego County and Imperial County," Johnson said.

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Mission Hills Calvary Cemetery

Mission Hills Park is the definition of tranquility. Throughout this expanse of rolling hills and under a canopy of eucalyptus and pine trees, the sounds of children at play can be heard - kids playing at a nearby elementary school, or clambering over the jungle gym on the park's playground, or playing catch on the grass. A child might run to the southeast corner of the park to happily retrieve a poorly aimed baseball, but then this idyllic child's dream would be interrupted with a somber reality. For he or she would discover a collection of some 140 grave markers, all that remains of the cemetery that the park was built upon years ago.

Calvary Cemetery, now known as Mission Hills Park, was founded in 1870. One half of the cemetery's 10 acres was set aside for Catholic burials, and the other half for Protestant, according to www.sandiegohistory.org.

The last burial at Calvary Cemetery was of Rose Wilson Mallicoat, who was born on March 28, 1879 and died on March 11, 1960, according to freepages.genealogy.rootsweb.com. The first burial is unknown, but was reported to have taken place in 1875.

The influenza epidemic of 1918 to 1919 resulted in the busiest burial rate for the cemetery. But the epidemic was merely a temporary increase in burials, and after the 1916 opening of the Holy Cross Cemetery, located on Hilltop Drive off of Highway 94, the site steadily fell into disuse. A 1939 fire destroyed all records of unmarked graves, according to the Web site.

After falling into further disrepair, the city turned Calvary Cemetery into the park it is today in 1970, according to the Web site. But instead of relocating the buried bodies, they simply removed the headstones. The 140 markers in the back of the park are all that remain. The other markers were buried in Mount Hope, a newer cemetery located near downtown San Diego.