Here they come like a herd of happy elk, down Newgate Street, turning off at St. Andrews, milling past an old cemetery with crazily angled
headstones, thin and flat like long tea wafers, past the Northumberland Arms and Richard Charlton, Ltd., which deals in Bass ale, and up the hill to the ground, a starkly
simple stadium with stands that are more like big sheds and unsophisticated light towers at each of the four corners.
America's most American writer lies in a family plot on a gentle hillside, beside his beloved wife, Livy, surrounded by the graves of their children and her relatives — all under
simple, matching
headstones.