Grove Place Cemetery Association

About Grove Place was founded by a group of local citizens in 1856 with a vision for the future. They desired to have a local cemetery for the burial of their loved ones in their day, as well as many years in the future. The Association was incorporated as a non-profit corporation under the laws of New York State in the year it was founded. The cemetery is non-denominational, and continues to carry on the commitment made by the founders.

Grove Place and Westside Cemeteries are operated by the Association, which is governed by a Board of Trustees, and in conformity with the Rules and Regulations of the State of New York, Department of State, Division of Cemeteries.

Grove Place Cemetery is truly a bearer of history. There are several generations of many families which have chosen Grove Place as their final resting place; a living commentary on the care and constant maintenance of the cemetery.

Permanent Maintenance Coverage

When a lot is purchased in either cemetery, Permanent Maintenance coverage is included at a nominal fee which equates to approximately two dollars over 30 years. It provides for the perpetual care and maintenance of the cemetery long after the cemetery has reached capacity. While the Association remains the custodian of these funds, New York State Auditors visit regularly to assure that these funds are invested and maintained properly, in accordance with the regulations of the State of New York, Department of State, Division of Cemteries.

Grove Place and Westside Cemeteries have computerized mapping to assist in the location of graves. Our sales staff will be pleased to provide you with detailed instructions in helping you find the grave of a loved one.

On This Day in History

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  • The Medieval Gig Economy

    While the great and good of the medieval Church secured lucrative and influential posts, the average parish priest was often forced to juggle a variety of casual jobs to make ends meet. The ‘gig economy’ – of which we hear so much today – was part of everyday life in medieval England. 

  • A Rich Harvest of Formats

    A Rich Harvest of Formats

    By Suzannah Lipscomb

    In a diverse field, expertise should remain at the heart of history on television.
    In late 2017, the Royal Television Society staged a ‘Great History Debate’. A panel, chaired by Tony Robinson of Blackadder fame included the presenter and historian David Olusoga; Tom McDonald, the BBC’s Head of Specialist Factual Commissioning; and Leanne Klein, CEO of production company Wall to Wall, makers of shows such as Victorian Slum and Who Do You Think You Are?, and discussed the future of history television programming.Broadcast magazine reported negatively on the conference’s conclusions. McDonald was quoted as commenting on the ‘lack of confidence about the genre … across British broadcasting’ and on concerns about how to engage young people. Klein was cited agreeing that there had been a ‘complete lack of confidence in history’ for the past five years, that ITV and Channel 4 were not keen on commissioning much history and that ‘TV is not a terribly useful platform for informing people about anything’.Being there – and rewatching the debate online later – I came away with a different impression. McDonald also said, ‘it’s an incredibly rich time for history programme makers’. Klein added: ‘TV is a great place to interest and engage – and the best way to do that is through emotional experiences.’ Olusoga stated that no other medium can ‘tell these stories, bring them to life and make people care’ nearly as well as television.So, what is the state of history broadcasting today? There seem to be four different types of history programme.The first is a formatted show. These range from the hands-on – think of Dan Snow gutting a pig on the BBC’s Filthy Cities – to the event-history of Channel 4’s The King in the Car Park, taking in, along the way, the use of CGI, game-show formats, presenters in costume and landing squarely in ‘living history’ programmes, where ordinary people are put in costume to live the past, as in 1900 House or Victorian Farm. These are a way into telling ordinary people’s stories and are immensely popular, with some of the highest viewing figures. They promise emotion, as well as history. The hunt is constantly on for the new format, the new living history.A second type is the discursive model, such as the The Last Days of Anne Boleyn, made for the BBC. This most closely resembles the academic study of history, being embedded in debate and stressing the interpretative nature of history. Klein was doubtful about it, stating that ‘I don’t think you can engage people with two historians having a row on television’. McDonald disagreed; he felt that there was ‘more room for a multiplicity of voices who give their perspectives on the story’. He said that ‘hearing two people debate Anne Boleyn … [and] bring the people of history back to life … is something that television is actually rather good at and genuinely you can bring a big audience to’. Viewing figures support this conclusion. Olusoga agreed that it ‘works when those historians really, really care’. It involves the audience in history as a detective story.A third type is the docudrama. Like living history, this serves as a sort of gateway drug and stresses the storytelling remit of the historian. These days docudramas are made with high production values and attract excellent directing and acting talent, such as Lily Cole and Felicity Dean as Elizabeth I.Finally – seeing a renaissance after years of being slightly out of fashion – is the authored programme. We may have heard rumours of the death of the expert, but this model still has power. The combination of a very good historian and broadcaster, who has an interesting story to tell, is compelling and, in the age of the podcast, people are increasingly attracted to the opinionated, personal take. I asked viewers on social media which history programmes they had most enjoyed and, of 800 comments, most people’s favourite shows – Olusoga’s Black and British, Helen Castor’s She-Wolves, Mary Beard’s Empire Without Limit, Simon Sebag Montefiore’s Jerusalem – were authored. But authored programmes are not always presenter-led: consider Ken Burns’ The Vietnam War and the best historical documentary on Netflix at present, 13th. McDonald agreed: ‘We should be making more authored films... History is partial and it’s invented and created and moulded.’ Historians should ‘be brave about offering a point of view’.With all these forms of programming, the questions are: does the format advance the storytelling? Does it make the past seem more real to people? Does it distort the past? Does it turn people off history? If it does the first two and doesn’t do the latter, it works.McDonald’s final word was that, ‘we need history on television more than we have for quite a long time to make sense of the velocity at which our world is changing … history is a powerful and important way of understanding the world’. I think we can all agree on that.Suzannah Lipscomb is a Reader in Early Modern History at the University of Roehampton and author of The King is Dead: the Last Will and Testament of Henry VIII (Head of Zeus, 2016).
  • The Map: Uganda 1904

    The Map: Uganda 1904

    By Kate Wiles

    An expedition route map produced by Stuart William Hughes Rawlins.
    As part of a distinguished military career, Stuart William Hughes Rawlins (1880-1927), known as ‘Tots’ (his wife was ‘Dots’), served in both the Second Boer War (1899-1902) and the First World War. At the time of this map’s production he was attached to the newly founded King’s African Rifles (KAR) as part of the 5th (Uganda) Battalion. The KAR was a colonial regiment raised from possessions in British East Africa, which acted in both military and internal security capacities until independence in the 1960s. Notable other servicemen of the KAR include Idi Amin and Roald Dahl, albeit at a much later date than Rawlins.During his service, Rawlins produced many surveys of the eastern region of the Uganda Protectorate, including this record of the route taken by an expedition against the Baligeni tribe in retribution for the recent murder of traders, during which, on 23 October, Rawlins came to close quarters with tribesmen while coming to the aid of a police party.This map shows settlements  – at the bottom-left is Mbale (‘Mubale’) – and tribal regions, including that of the Batandiga, who are said to have the power to control the rain. Vegetation, cultivation, food and water are also noted and distances are recorded to a scale of time: ‘1 Hour = 1 Inch’.Kate Wiles
  • The Women’s Party

    Winning the vote meant millions of women needed a party to represent them in Parliament. Emmeline and Christabel Pankhurst founded one, with limited success.

  • The Music of time No 6: The Art of Noises

    The Music of time No 6: The Art of Noises

    By Alexander Lee

    As the sounds of the world rattled into the future, so, too, did art and music.
    [[{"fid":"34886","view_mode":"float_right","fields":{"format":"float_right","field_file_image_alt_text[und][0][value]":"","field_file_image_title_text[und][0][value]":"Dreadful racket: Luigi Russolo and the intonarumori, 1913. © Hulton/Getty Images."},"type":"media","link_text":null,"attributes":{"title":"Dreadful racket: Luigi Russolo and the intonarumori, 1913. © Hulton/Getty Images.","class":"media-element file-float-right"}}]]In the early years of the 20th century, Milan was in thrall to Futurism. Founded by Filippo Tommaso Marinetti in 1909, the Futurist movement sought to liberate Italian art from the ‘tyranny’ of the past. Consciously rejecting everything old – especially the static formalism and derivative sentimentality that typified ‘good taste’ – it exalted in the modern world, machinery, speed and violence. It glorified war, militarism, patriotism, ‘the destructive gesture of the anarchists, the beautiful ideas that kill’. It called for the destruction of ‘museums and libraries … morality … and all opportunist and utilitarian cowardice’. And most of all, it celebrated ‘roaring motor car[s]’, ‘the gliding flight of aeroplanes’, ‘factories suspended from the clouds by the thread of their smoke’ – anything, in fact, that displayed the technological triumph of man over nature.Among the early members of the Futurist movement was a young artist called Luigi Russolo (1885-1947). Born in the little town of Portogruaro, not far from Venice, he had come to Milan to study at the Accademia di Belle Arti di Brera while still in his teens. He was, admittedly, not the most talented of students, as some of his early paintings testify; but he nevertheless showed enough promise to be invited to help with the restoration of Leonardo da Vinci’s Last Supper and to attract the attention of other Futurists-to-be, including Carlo Carrà, Giacomo Balla, Gino Severini and Umberto Boccioni, who were to become his lifelong friends and collaborators. Restless and excitable, they wanted to break free of artistic convention; and, after being introduced to Marinetti in early 1910, they embraced his vision of Futurism. Only weeks later, Boccioni penned his own Manifesto of Futurist Painters and Russolo added his signature, along with the others.   Over the next few years, this group of friends took the world by storm. Though they were slow to develop a coherent style, they chose deliberately unfamiliar or provocative subjects and used elements of Cubism and Divisionism to imbue their works with an unparalleled sense of energy and dynamism. Soon, crowds were clamouring to get into their exhibitions; critics were lavishing them with praise; and collectors were willing to pay any price for one of their paintings – especially if it was as striking as Boccioni’s La città che sale (1910).But for Russolo, this was just the beginning. He soon began to wonder if Futurism could be applied to music just as easily as to the visual arts. Why should music not be brought into the modern age, too? Surely the time had come to break with the formalistic structures of the past and strike out in a more modern, technological direction?In 1913 Russolo wrote a long letter to his friend, the composer Francesco Balilla Pratella, explaining his thoughts on the subject. Later published in book form as L’arte dei rumori (‘The Art of Noises’), this began with a survey of musical history that rested on the distinction between noise and sound.In the ancient past, Russolo argued, ‘life went by in silence or at most in muted tones’. With the exception of such rare and unusual phenomenon as earthquakes, avalanches and waterfalls, he claimed, nature was quiet. When, amid this dearth of noise, man drew the first sounds from ‘a pierced reed or a stretched string’, he therefore regarded them as something strange and extraordinary – more divine than human. As such, sounds were considered sacred and reserved for acts of worship.These first sounds were, of course, crude and unsystematic. In time, however, the development of more sophisticated instruments led to ideas of harmony and chords. This paved the way for Gregorian chant, Renaissance polyphony, Baroque counterpoint and, eventually, the music of the Romantic age. But throughout, music remained cut off from everyday life. Devoted to the pursuit of ‘purity, limpidity, and sweetness of sound’, it was still ‘a fantastic world superimposed on the real one’.Since the Industrial Revolution, however, a dramatic change had taken place. The world was no longer silent. In cities, the air was filled with the rumbling of trains, the honking of car horns, the clamour of factories and the constant chatter of a million voices. Even in the countryside, quiet had given way to the lumbering of tractors and the swish of threshing machines. For Russolo, this not only threatened the special status previously claimed for ‘pure sound’, but robbed sound-music of its capacity to arouse feelings of reverence and awe. Indeed, so great was the ‘variety and rivalry of noises’ that sound-music no longer aroused any feelings at all.Composers were not unaware of this. As far back as the 18th century, they had realised that, if they were going to excite their listeners, they needed to respond effectively to the growing cacophony of ‘noises’. Hoping to make their music more like ‘noise’ than ‘sound’, they had developed more complex forms of polyphony, seeking out ‘the most complicated successions of dissonant chords’. Industry was, however, still in its infancy; and since they had not yet acquainted themselves fully with ‘noise’, they still struggled to tolerate more than a moderate amount of dissonance. Now, things were different. Composers – and listeners – were used to hearing a deafening array of noises every day and had learned to delight in discordance to a far greater degree. They had already begun to be more daring. But the time had come for them to be even more audacious. Russolo called on them to do away with all the compositional norms that they had inherited from previous generations. What was more, he also insisted that they abandon the limited range of instruments of which traditional orchestras were composed. Instead, he invited them to make use of a mechanical ‘Futurist orchestra’, inspired by the ‘confused and irregular’ sounds of daily life. This, he argued, should produce six ‘families of noises’ – from rumbles, roars and explosions, to gurgles, snorts, screeches, shrieks and groans – from which could be created an infinite variety of musical experiences, capable of enriching ‘men with a new and unexpected sensual pleasure’.Russolo was determined to lead by example. Shortly after penning L’Arte dei rumori, he set himself to designing and building a large number of noise-generating machines called intonarumori. Each of these peculiar-looking devices consisted of a large horn attached to a box containing a complicated collection of metal plates, gears and strings with which it was possible to produce any one of a wide range of bizarre noises. According to how they sounded, these instruments were classified into eight subgroups, including creepers, gurglers, howlers and rumblers.With this, the rudiments of a ‘Futurist orchestra’, Russolo set about composing some appropriate music and in April 1914 he put on his first concert. Together with Marinetti, he performed four pieces – ‘Battle in the Oasis’, ‘Dining on a Hotel Terrace’, ‘The Awakening of a City’ and ‘Meeting of Cars and Airplanes’. Their titles were, however, deceptively innocuous. Each piece sounded like a decrepit vacuum cleaner being tortured by an unusually malicious guitar. The audience was aghast. They could not believe what they were hearing. But bewilderment quickly turned to anger. A riot broke out and in a matter of moments, Russolo and Marinetti found themselves brawling in the stalls. At a second concert two days later, Russolo ended up punching a critic in the face. Happily, further performances were not quite as heated.Although Russolo never enjoyed the popular success he had hoped for, and ultimately abandoned music altogether, L’Arte dei rumori was to have a lasting effect. Not only were his intonarumori admired by modernist composers, such as Igor Stravinsky and Maurice Ravel, his notion of ‘noise music’ also inspired a wave of innovation that continues even today. Captivated by his attack on harmony, a young John Cage developed a new theory of indeterminacy in music and began using conventional instruments in unconventional ways to produce intriguing mosaics of noise – and even of silence. More striking still were the French composers Edgar Varèse and Pierre Schaeffer. Inspired by Russolo’s passion for technology, they developed some of the first electronic instruments – and even experimented with rudimentary sampling techniques. This paved the way not only for early pioneers of synth music – such as Josef Tal and Milton Babbit – but also for minimalist composers such as Steve Reich, electronic musicians like Jean-Michel Jarre and electropop groups like Kraftwerk. Indeed, even contemporary electronic acts like Dawn Hunger can trace their lineage back to L’Arte dei rumori.Painful though Russolo’s intonarumori may have been to hear, he had undoubtedly seen the future. And no self-respecting Futurist could have asked for more.Alexander Lee is a fellow in the Centre for the Study of the Renaissance at the University of Warwick and author of The Ugly Renaissance (Arrow, 2015).

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