Horatio Connell Jones, Jr.

Each of the officials of Mount Moriah Cemetery Association (the organization that founded Mount Moriah and ran the cemetery until it closed) led noteworthy lives, and through their individual life stories the history of this hallowed ground is revealed. Follow the links provided to see how each life story connects with the others, and learn more about the unique place entrusted to their care. 

 

Telling the story of the junior Jones is to tell the story of his 37 years at the helm of the cemetery he inherited. George Pennock Connell was the last of the founding family to govern the place, Horatio Jones Sr. was in charge for 25 years until he died in 1966, and then the mantle fell to his son. (The photo above of the office building serves as Horatio Jr.’s profile picture since no photo of him could be found and he was not buried here.)

This is his obituary from the Wilmington News Journal (June 12, 2004) which shows he had the same nickname as his father and his grandfather’s uncle, Horatio P. Connell. That man’s father, George C. Connell, co-founded the Mount Moriah Cemetery Association. His life story traces the first footsteps in the cemetery’s long journey. 

Young Life

Running a cemetery wasn’t what young Rash had in mind after his high school graduation. Some dates in his timeline are missing from that point until his father’s death but one major event was when he married Carol Ann Deese in 1958. Presumably he furthered his education but, like his father, the first marriage only lasted a few years. 

He was residing in Manhattan in 1966 when he married Lydia Montanez. His father died in October of that year, so management of the cemetery fell to his mother, Henriette. Her 1989 obituary says she was president of the cemetery’s board of directors, probably since the time her husband died. And in the 1980s the board probably consisted of only her and her son.

Rash did return to the area the following year to begin his career as a stock broker. A July, 1967 newspaper ad in Philadelphia announced his appointment to a brokerage firm, Bioren & Co., in their Media, Pennsylvania office. The couple settled in Chadds Ford in Delaware County. Traveling from there to Mount Moriah was about 25 miles or 50 minutes. 

Horatio had the burden of balancing his full-time job, his family life, and taking the helm of a 112-year-old cemetery that was in a densely urban area, where life was far different from his. He certainly must have asked his mother to continue to help with day-to-day affairs. How dramatically different the culture was from 30 years earlier when his father worked at the cemetery as a young office manager.

Changing Times

Jim Crow laws in the South created the Great Migration of African American families coming north, beginning in the early 1900s. But in terms of sheer numbers that first wave was dwarfed by the migration of the late 1940s through the 1950s, when the ethnicity of the majority urban population flipped for the first time in history. 

A glance at the 1940 census shows the population of Kingsessing Avenue around the soon-to-open John Bartram High School was entirely Caucasian. “White flight” became the trend among the thousands of employees at the big GE and Westinghouse plants as they sought better housing among the suburbs of southeastern Delaware County. 

Another trend was that people didn’t visit cemeteries as much as they had in the early years of the 20th century. Families would regularly come to place flowers, keep their plot neat, and even picnic there, typically on a Sunday afternoon. Most in the lower income bracket didn’t purchase “perpetual care,” so it was their responsibility to keep the grass cut themselves. As society became increasingly mobile, families moved away, generations passed, and connections with ancestors were gradually lost.

A tidal wave of changes came with the post-war era as young “beatniks” led to a “hippie” generation that rebelled against rules and questioned morality. The family unit led by a single parent grew to be more common. Southwest Philly had a high poverty rate and a worsening crime rate. Open spaces were gobbled up with row houses. Automobile traffic along Cobbs Creek cut what was once a “rural cemetery” in half. Security was virtually unenforceable.

While still new on the job, Rash wrote a letter to a friend in 1968 about the notion that the remains of Betsy Ross should be removed. He concluded by revealing his frustration with law and order:

A Personal Story

There were attempts by the cemetery at self-policing. In 2023, the Friends of Mount Moriah heard from children of former employees who shared what life was like when they were there. One man said his father, Al, answered an ad for a night watchman in 1958. The perk was that his family could live rent-free in the apartment above the office, so he and his wife and son moved in. He drove around the grounds in a pick-up truck and chased many juveniles away but never had to fire his gun.

In the late 1960s the grounds foreman left so Al took on his duties. It was frustrating, his son said, because groundskeepers wouldn’t always show up for work. Then the state discovered the cemetery wasn’t paying minimum wage.

Al was so stressed from being short-handed, his son said, that he had a heart attack and died in 1980. Years earlier, Joe O’Donnell, the office manager, retired but wasn’t replaced, so Al’s wife worked in the office for a few years. She and her son left in the early 1980s.

Another grounds foreman lived in the apartment, then another who was fired in 1987 after breaking into a mausoleum and stealing the skull of the deceased. Lydia played an active role managing the office into the 1990s and early 2000s, frequently placing ads like this to keep up with maintenance through a crew of three or four men. A former office worker explained that Lydia advised the foreman which lots were to have more attention under “perpetual care,” but burial work always came first.

Keeping Up

A cemetery is the only business that has to service what it sells – forever. This cemetery was an incorporated, for-profit business but as its reputation (and the reputation of the neighborhood) spread, sales declined and income fell. Expenses like salaries, equipment, utilities, and taxes continued to increase with inflation. Repairs that weren’t essential weren’t made. Even essential maintenance got only minimal attention.

One obvious example was the original wrought iron railing along Kingsessing Ave. When a section was destroyed, if it was replaced at all it was replaced with chain link fencing, as shown here. In another case, along 61st Street it wasn’t entirely vandalism but a tree that was allowed to grow and eventually helped to enable entry.

Without walls as a deterrent, people who wanted to do bad things found a convenient place to do them. Gravestones were toppled, monuments and mausoleums were desecrated. It became a haven for drug dealing, prostitution, and the dumping of trash, mattresses, tires, and even cars. 

A newspaper story from 2003 quoted office manager Debra Jerome’s frustration. “We have an ongoing battle with vandalism and dumping in the neighborhood.” She said she had 11 groundskeepers, a large number in comparison to the income from burials. That year there only 11 newspaper obituaries mentioning Mount Moriah. While there had to be more burials than those listed in the paper, the numbers are revealing: over the next six years, through 2009, only 26 obituaries were printed.

Horatio must have known from the start that there was little he could do to put a dent in it. Police protection from the two different jurisdictions could only patrol the perimeter. Under such circumstances, stress was probably a factor in his death in 2004 at age 66. 

Post Mortem

Horatio’s decision to be the last member of the board was certainly on purpose to absolve his family of any legal liability and not saddle them with an unsolvable burden. Lydia didn’t turn her back on the situation but knew there was no hope of seeing brighter days. She was not a member of the board, lived 136 miles away in Maryland, and would soon be approaching the age of 70. But those who knew her said she gave whatever support she could. 

Individuals and groups asked at various times if they could help preserve the grounds. As early as 2003 a group came together, calling themselves Friends of Mount Moriah Cemetery to voice their concerns. One of them, John Ellingsworth, said in 2006 that he had been trying to help the cemetery for ten years but all offers were refused. A sign was even posted at the gate saying such work was not welcome. He concluded, “It’s not perpetual care, it’s perpetual decline.”

A 2003 newspaper story quoted the office manager, Debra Jerome, who said she had 11 groundskeepers and was doing the best she could, given limited resources. She admitted, “We have an ongoing problem with vandalism and dumping in the neighborhood.”

For the next seven years after Horatio’s death, there were employees cutting grass, digging graves, paying bills, making payroll and keeping the books. The business continued until the money ran out. The last burial took place on April 6, 2011.

After 156 years, the lights were turned off, a message was left on the answering machine, and the gates were locked to the cemetery that nobody legally owned. Its fate would be decided in the appropriately named “Orphans’ Court” of Philadelphia. In 2013 the Mount Moriah Preservation Corporation was established by the city and the borough of Yeadon as the temporary receiver, but prospects for new ownership were never good.

The role of cutting grass, removing overgrowth, re-setting stones, and finding the funds to do all of that has remained to this day with the Friends of Mount Moriah Cemetery, Inc. This non-profit 501(c)3 tax-exempt organization depends on the generosity of those who will give of their time, talents, and financial means to maintain and preserve this unique space.