Read time: 6 min.

When I think about cemeteries, two kinds usually come to mind: the sprawling, carefully landscaped municipal grounds and the tiny, forgotten graveyards tucked away in the countryside. It’s rare to find a pioneer burial ground hidden in the heart of suburbia, but that’s exactly where Collins Cemetery sits in Muncie.

Collins Cemetery is old. When it first came into being, it was surrounded by open countryside. Thomas Collins arrived in Center Township in 1834 and officially deeded a piece of his land to serve as a community burial ground thirteen years later. In truth, though, people had been interred at the site for years¹. Some are thought to have occurred earlier, but the first confirmed burial was that of young Mahala Nottingham, who died on July 1, 1833², long before the cemetery was formally established.

Nearly two centuries later, around 280 people are buried at Collins Cemetery, which now sits near the quiet corner of South Harvey Road and West Ethel Avenue on Muncie’s west side. Back when the cemetery was first established, though, there were no streets or landmarks to speak of- just trees, fields, and careful surveying. In fact, Thomas Collins’ original deed described the property’s boundaries not with addresses but with black oaks, white oaks, and precise measurements in rods and links: “commencing at the southwest corner at a black oak one and one-half inches in diameter, thence N3W to a white oak four rods nine links and a half³…”

That archaic description is a reminder of how dramatically the suburban landscape has shifted over time. If you’re not fluent in old surveying terms, like I wasn’t, here’s a quick translation: a rod equals 5.5 yards -or 16.5 feet- while a link measures a mere 0.66 feet (7.92 inches, to be exact⁴).

Even as Muncie pushed westward, Collins Cemetery remained surprisingly isolated. In 1952, some who lived in the brand new Clark’s View and Riverview additions just a few blocks away didn’t even know it existed⁵! Reaching it back then was no simple stroll- curiosity seekers and mourners had to climb over a rail, trace the edge of an apple orchard, and then hop another fence to finally reach the cemetery perched on a tall knoll overlooking the original route of the White River⁶.

Today, access is much easier: park on West Ethel, hop out of your car, and open the gate. Once inside, a few markers immediately stand out. The largest –Squire Fimple’s pink granite obelisk– marks the final resting place of a farmer who settled in the Delaware County wilderness in 1835.

Another notable headstone is much smaller than Fimple’s, but it carries the weight of even more history: Born in 1745, Joshua Howell became an ordnance officer in the Revolutionary War. Eventually, Howell and his wife, Mary, moved to Delaware County, where he died on July 2, 1836⁷. A pair of markers honors his early service.

Near the western edge of the cemetery he set aside for his community lies the grave of Thomas Collins himself. A private in the Ohio Militia during the War of 1812, Collins played a small but meaningful role in defending our young nation. Decades later, he ensured that his corner of Indiana would have a place to remember its own.

Perhaps the most haunting marker at Collins Cemetery is a simple, weathered cross tucked near the back on a gentle slope. Its scrawled inscription remembers Hannah Nelson, who died at the age of seventy-nine. Beyond that, the stone offers no dates and no epitaph- just a name and an age, leaving the rest to mystery.

Collins Cemetery might have faded into obscurity if not for several dedicated restoration efforts. In 2002, after two years⁸ and hundreds of volunteer hours⁹, a group of forty gathered to rededicate the burial ground. Many of the old markers had been carefully cleaned and reset, though some were too damaged -or long missing- to recover. Near the cemetery’s center, a flagpole now rises from a ring of broken stones as a focal point. In front of it, a metal sign honors those whose final resting places can no longer be identified. It ensures that their memory endures even without a headstone.

Collins Cemetery is easy to miss if you’re not looking for it. Tucked quietly into the Ludingwood neighborhood, it’s a rare reminder of Delaware County’s earliest days when the land was open and the future uncertain. Each headstone, from Squire Fimple’s towering obelisk to Hannah Nelson’s humble cross, tells a fragment of a larger story about the people who carved out lives on what was then the frontier.

Thanks to years of volunteer effort, the cemetery endures as more than just a patch of ground; it’s a living link between past and present. With traffic humming faintly beyond the trees and the river meandering slowly down below, it’s easy to imagine the landscape as it once was and to appreciate the quiet persistence of history hiding in plain sight.

Sources Cited
1 Greene, D. (1962, April 12). Seen and Heard in Our Neighborhood. The Muncie Star. p. 6. 
2 Werner, N. (2002, November 11). Restored pioneer cemetery rededicated. The Muncie Star Press. p. 9. 
3 (See footnote 1). 
4 Holloway, T. (1881). The practical surveyor. Horace Cox [London]. Book. 
5 Owens, E. (1952, May 26). A Community Burial Ground. The Muncie Evening Press. p. 4.
6 (See footnote 5).
7 Beeson, C. (1964). Revolutionary War Soldiers Buried in Delaware County. Daughters of the American Revolution. Paul Revere Chapter [Boston]. Book. 
8 (See footnote 2).
9 Send your data (2002 November 25). Send your data. The Muncie Star Press. p. 6.