Before

A decade spent restoring the wrong thing, on other people's monuments.

Iris Winterbourne trained as a stone conservator, restoring cathedral facades and war memorials for the better part of a decade. It was careful, respected work, and she was good at it. What it didn't prepare her for was going looking for her own family's history and finding that the tools of her trade couldn't help her at all.

2014

A rectangle of flaking marble outside Concord.

She went looking for her great-great-grandmother's grave in an old burying ground outside Concord, Massachusetts, and found only a rectangle of flaking marble where the inscription used to be. She'd seen a photograph of the stone once, taken by a cousin in the 1970s — the lettering was already worn thin then, but legible. By the time Iris found it herself, forty-odd years later, there was nothing left to read at all.

No amount of careful restoration could bring back text that was simply gone. Restoration repairs a surface; it can't reconstruct a memory the surface never kept a copy of anywhere else.

2015

A straightforward premise, badly needed.

She founded Brighton Ledger with a simple idea: someone should be photographing, rubbing, and transcribing the old burying grounds of New England before the stones finish the job the weather started. Not restoring them — that's a different trade, and a more invasive one than most families realize. Just recording what's still there, properly, while it's still there to record.

What We Hold To

Four things that haven't changed since 2015.

We record. We don't restore.
Recording is reversible. Restoration, done badly, is not.

A stone can be photographed, rubbed, and left exactly as it was found. Cleaning and repair are a separate, more invasive trade, and we're careful never to blur the line.

We publish our uncertainty.
Brackets, not guesses dressed up as facts.

Where we've reconstructed a letter rather than read it directly, we say so, in the transcription itself, every time.

We ask permission first.
A burying ground belongs to its town or congregation, not to us.

No survey begins without the town's or congregation's knowledge, and no stone gets touched — even for a rubbing — without checking its historic designation first.

We finish what we start.
A half-recorded burying ground is worse than an unrecorded one.

A partial archive gives families false confidence that the gap has been covered. We'd rather take fewer surveys and complete them properly.

Meet the people doing this work today: the Recorders, or see exactly what the work involves on the Work.