I took an unusual road trip yesterday, to a cemetery near the Mexican border. There's nothing inherently unusual about visiting a cemetery, of course, except that in this case, I didn't know anyone who was buried there. Technically speaking, no one does.
Some people call it the Juan Doe cemetery. It's a potter's field: hundreds of anonymous paupers' graves, unadorned save for a single, dun-colored brick assigned to each, spread across a few muddy acres of ground on the outskirts of a one-horse farm... READ ON