In West Virginia, progress moved more than land—it moved generations laid to rest.
West Virginia
Across West Virginia, progress didn’t just reshape the land—it quietly moved the resting places of those who came before, sometimes with ceremony… and sometimes with little more than a notice in the paper.
The Man Who Moved the Dead
In February of 1980, newspapers across the country carried a remarkable story out of West Virginia. It told of D. J. Skeans, an employee of the State of West Virginia Highway Authority, who had supervised the reburial of as many as 100 cemeteries in the course of his work.
Among them was the Old Baptist Church Cemetery near Buckhannon, a burial ground dating back to the late 1700s, with 647 known graves—and perhaps as many as 400 more unmarked. The article does not say where those graves were ultimately moved, only that they were part of a much larger effort unfolding across the state.
The process was not quiet. Notices appeared in local newspapers, calling on the public for help—repeated again and again, changing only in name and place:
Warbutton Cemetery, located on the property of P. P. Shafer along U.S. 119 North in Kanawha County
Hammock Cemetery, at the junction of Little Sandy and Aaron Fork Road
Lovell Cemetery, near the West Virginia Turnpike Commission Administration Office at Port Amherst
Huffman Cemetery, on the property of L. V. Huffman along Willis Creek
Each notice carried the same plea:
“The public help is very much needed…”
It’s not hard to imagine the weight of such work. The grief, the anger, the unanswered questions—Mr. Skeans likely stood at the center of it all more than once. One might even guess that, at times, he was not a particularly welcome figure.
And yet, from all accounts, he approached the task with care and quiet respect.
His work reminds us that even in the path of progress, there were those who tried—steadily, and with intention—to carry the past forward.
When Roads and Rivers Changed the Landscape
Cemetery closures and relocations are rarely spoken of as achievements. No one celebrates them outright. And yet, they often moved forward alongside projects that were praised—highways stretching across counties, dams holding back rivers, and developments promising better homes and new opportunities.
These were the stories that made the headlines.
When burial grounds were mentioned at all, it was often quietly—or in the shadow of protest. But occasionally, the details surface clearly enough to show us what was done, and how.
In October of 1957, The Beckley Post-Herald reported on the creation of the Sutton Reservoir along the Elk River in Braxton County. The project would require the relocation of some 700 graves from 18 cemeteries scattered across 3,875 acres.
Plans were laid with precision. A new eight-acre cemetery would be constructed along State Route 15, four miles east of Sutton. The contract—awarded to Woody Parsons Construction Company of Nitro for $19,869—included clearing, grading, drainage, seeding, and the building of roads and fences.
The cemeteries ranged in size from just two graves to more than 200. Some of the oldest headstones dated back to 1825.
All costs were to be covered. Families could choose to have their loved ones reinterred in the new cemetery, or elsewhere, with expenses paid up to the equivalent cost. The work was expected to be completed within 75 days.
That same year, another article noted the construction of the Nicholas Dam. Almost in passing, it mentioned that six cemeteries—holding roughly 300 graves—would also be moved. The surrounding land, the paper explained, was seldom visited, its steep riverbanks reached only by “an occasional nature lover or fisherman.”
By 1970, the process had become formal enough to resemble any other public works project. Notices appeared seeking bids for the disinterment and reinterment of graves, such as those from the Heater Cemetery in Gilmer County—complete with parcel numbers, station lines, and precise relocation coordinates.
The language was technical. The work was procedural.
And yet, beneath it all, something far more personal was taking place.
In many cases, the cost of relocation was covered—
but the cost of memory is harder to measure.
Cemeteries That Quietly Disappeared
Sometimes we pass a familiar corner or a stretch of neighborhood street and never pause to notice what used to be there. A small burial ground, once carefully tended, can vanish so completely that later generations have no idea it ever existed.
Two such forgotten cemeteries in the Beckley area were recalled in old “Q&A” columns of The Raleigh Register.
The McCreery Cemetery
In July 1966, a reader asked about the old McCreery Cemetery that had once stood on South Kanawha Street, roughly where the telephone company building was thought to be. The newspaper’s answer gently corrected the location and explained what had happened:
“There is no telephone company on South Kanawha Street. In 1964, 13 graves were moved from the old McCreery Cemetery behind Central School. The bodies were re-interred at Sunset Memorial Park.”
What had been a modest family or community burying ground for decades was quietly relocated to make way for progress. Today, few people walking or driving past the site would guess that thirteen former residents once rested there.
The Old Mill Village Cemetery
Ten years later, in August 1976, another reader wondered about a different lost graveyard:
“What happened to the Negro cemetery that used to be right in the middle of Old Mill Village?”
The answer came from one of the developers himself. Bill Sigmund, co-owner of the housing development, reported that those graves had also been moved—this time to Greenwood Memorial Park. A burial ground that had once occupied a prominent spot in the village was carefully cleared so new homes could be built.
Both cases illustrate a common pattern in growing communities during the mid-20th century. Small, often private or segregated cemeteries stood in the path of expanding schools, businesses, or housing projects. Rather than being paved over, the graves were respectfully relocated to modern memorial parks. The original sites were then erased so thoroughly that only a handful of old newspaper clippings still preserve their memory.
These two quiet removals remind us how easily the physical traces of earlier generations can disappear—unless someone stops to ask the question and someone else takes the trouble to answer it.
Sometimes, the only record that remained was a question in a newspaper… and a brief answer.
Sometimes, the only record that remained was a question in a newspaper… and a brief answer.
By the mid-20th century, cemetery relocation had become common enough to support a specialized trade. In the Sunday Gazette-Mail Sun, Jan 29, 1967 ·Page 27 we find this advertisement:
Beane Vault Service.
Complete Steel & Concrete Vault Service
Graves Opened and Closed
Graves Moved
Disinterment & Reburial
24 hour services
Serving Southern W. Va
It’s a reminder that even the most solemn tasks can, over time, become part of everyday business.
On April 28, 1917, a devastating explosion ripped through the Eccles No. 5 and No. 6 mines in West Virginia, killing 181 miners. Fifty-nine years later, on Wednesday, April 28, 1976, officials from the Westmoreland Coal Company gathered on a quiet hillside one mile from the mine to dedicate a new cemetery.
The ceremony honored the victims of two separate tragedies. A stone monument bore the inscription read aloud by Westmoreland president E.B. Leisenring:
“This memorial is dedicated to those men who died April 28, 1917, and March 8, 1926, in explosions at the Eccles Five and Six mines. Their contribution to the economic growth of this country shall not be forgotten.”
Leisenring then stepped forward and gently shoveled dirt around the base of a newly planted rhododendron beside the monument. Students from nearby Eccles Junior High School, members of the school’s Conservation Club, stood quietly nearby. Leisenring thanked them for their work clearing and caring for the cemetery grounds.
The new hillside cemetery replaces the old “Unknown” cemetery, where many unidentified victims of the 1917 blast had originally been buried. The previous site, located close to the mine and next to a slag pile, was needed for continued mining operations. With court permission granted the year before, the graves were respectfully moved. One hundred twenty victims now rest at the foot of the hillside, encircled by a dozen young dogwood trees planted in their honor just before the ceremony.
In this case, relocation was not an act of erasure. It was a return to remembrance.