No one knew the name of the neighbor's bloodhound, a goofy assemblage of flopping ears, flailing limbs and wet muzzle. The dog had heard the cars crunching up the gravel-paved hill early that morning, jumped the fence, and came looking for a caress.

Jerry Moon, the property owner with a surveyor's map rolled under his arm, pets the dog. Suzanne Sammons, the salvage archaeologist, pets the dog, too, as does her 12-year-old daughter, Peyton, and officer Robert Gayle of the Douglas County Sheriff's Office. The four orange-suited inmates in Road Crew No. 6 —- Adam, John, Gray and Paul —- take turns scratching its ears and throwing sticks.

"Okay, now," says Sandy Whittington, this unusual group's matriarch, giving the bloodhound a decisive tap, tap on its head before getting back to the task at hand. The sun would be brutal soon and she —- they —- have a lot of work to do.

All have gathered on this high plot of tree-shaded land to rake, to saw, to stop the forest from completely reclaiming these few square yards it once yielded.

They stake out the earth, brush the dirt from cut rock, and try to visualize the dead lying beneath, their heads all facing east to greet the sunrise on resurrection day.

Since early this year, the volunteer members of the Douglas County Cemetery Preservation Commission have been making the rounds of abandoned and neglected cemeteries dotting the county with the assistance of a prison work detail. Working from old county records, books and maps, they have identified 56 forgotten burial sites —- some belonging to slaves and some to American Indians —- that are all equally protected under Georgia law.

But that doesn't stop inadvertent development, as abandoned cemeteries have a tendency to disappear from sight.

"If you don't rake a wooded area in 100 years, you get 6 inches of new topsoil," says Whittington, 69, scraping her rake around a low, stubby wall of stone that very likely marked a family grave.

"This is pretty typical of 19th-century burial grounds in piedmont Georgia," says Sammons, whose own ancestors are buried nearby, behind the Ephesus Baptist Church. "You can see lots of fieldstone markers," she said, pointing to low stones that would escape most people's attention. "Not so many are inscribed, so this was probably a small family or community plot."

'Quiet neighbors'

The fact is, no one really knows who is buried beneath the soil.

"It's 19th century, but before that we don't really know," says Whittington. In asking around about it, she did meet one very elderly woman who claims her mother used to sweep the cemetery.

The crew has cleaned up 23 cemeteries so far, so by this point they all know the routine. The men in the work crew begin raking in the central part of the site, collecting as many leaves and as much topsoil as they can in plastic bags to haul away. Slowly, they radiate out to the edges of the plot, as indicated on Jerry Moon's survey.

Moon, a jovial man, loves the mysterious cemetery on his property.

"You know what they say about quiet neighbors and all," he says.

John, one of the prisoners (we've agreed not to use their last names), fires up a chain saw to remove a dying tree.

"These guys are just great tree men," says Whittington, observing these four young men with apparent affection. "They're really very skilled. At one cemetery they did what amounted to a $10,000 tree job."

With some pride in her voice, Whittington notes that a couple of the inmates expressed an interest in continuing the work after being released.

"This is a good thing that needs to continue," says one inmate named Paul, who used to scavenge around his parents' Florida property for old bottles and moonshine stills. "This is preserving history. These people were important people."

Paul and another inmate, Adam, have found a head marker and begin talking about the possible information it might contain.

"Some are a total mess," says Adam, "and the only way to read them is to feel and touch them."

He also says that seashells around a grave usually indicate a slave is buried there, and that a surprising number of 19th-century graves belong to children.

"There are a lot of children," agrees Paul. "And I thought the only problem they had was not getting shot by an Indian."

The dogwood question

The sun climbs, and rays of light shoot through the tree canopy. Three more members of the Cemetery Preservation Commission arrive. Everyone remarks on the heat. Gray asks Officer Gayle for permission to go back to the truck for water.

Why does everyone here donate their time to keep up the abandoned cemeteries of Douglas County? Everyone has a different answer.

Sammons, sounding like the archeologist and historian she is, says her role is "to locate, delineate and ensure that someone doesn't come through with a bulldozer."

Whittington is a little more philosophical. "I find cemeteries fascinating, and I think we have a lot to learn from them."

Officer Gayle simply says, "I hope someday somebody will keep me cleaned up."

After six hours, the cemetery is clean, and all that remains is the question of a dogwood tree that has grown at a ragged angle from the central burial plot.

"It should really go, but I sure hate to take down a dogwood," says Whittington.

Moon, the owner, asks if it can stay. "If I was buried there, I'd sure appreciate it," he argues.

The members of the Douglas County Cemetery Preservation Commission and the members of Road Crew No. 6 all nod their approval.

The cleanup team leaves, the dogwood stays.