On the last leg of my trip to Pinetop-Show Low last Friday, I decided to make a stop in Globe. I'd been wanting to visit Globe Cemetery, and since I was passing through town, it seemed like the perfect opportunity.
The cemetery sits on a hillside just north of Globe's historic downtown. As soon as I pulled in, the first thing I noticed wasn't the headstones. It was the row of tall Italian cypress trees lining the entrance. They seemed to stand watch over the cemetery, welcoming visitors into a place that's been part of Globe's story for nearly 150 years.
Established in 1876, the same year Globe was founded, the cemetery covers about 32 acres. Some of the headstones are worn smooth by years of Arizona sun, wind, and rain. Others lean a little or have cracked with age. It didn't make the cemetery feel forgotten. If anything, it made it feel honest. Every stone marks a life, a family, a story.
As I wandered through the grounds, I noticed how the cemetery is divided into different sections. There are areas for fraternal organizations like the Elks and the Knights of Pythias, along with sections for the Chinese, Italian, and Slavic families who helped build Globe during its mining days. Seeing those sections together was a quiet reminder that people from many different backgrounds came here looking for the same thing: a chance to build a life.
More than 7,400 people are believed to be buried here. A few are well known, like scout Al Sieber and Sheriff John Henry Thompson, better known as "Rimrock Henry." But I found myself thinking more about the people whose names aren't found in history books. The miners, merchants, mothers, children, and laborers. They're the ones who turned a rough mining camp into a town.
The first person buried here was Thomas B. Hammond, a prospector who was killed in 1876 while out exploring near Pinto Creek. His grave became the beginning of Globe Cemetery's long history, one that continues today as families still use plots that were claimed generations ago.
I always leave old cemeteries feeling like I've learned something, even when no one has spoken a word. They're more than places of loss. They're places of memory. If we're willing to slow down and pay attention, they have a way of reminding us that every life mattered, whether history remembered the name or not.
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