When I first discovered that my father’s nephew, Robert Vernon Estes, was a prisoner of war in North Korea and died, probably of starvation, in their hands during his captivity, I was determined to discover as much as possible about Robert’s short life – and death. Maybe after all of these years more information would be available, although many of his records burned in the Records Center fire in St Louis in 1973.

I asked a research firm to find and obtain as many of his military records as possible, from as many sources as possible.

I felt that this is the very least I could do for Robert, known as Bobby in the family, 68 years after he was robbed of life by an inhumane enemy.

Killed in warfare is one thing – but starvation is another. I just don’t understand how humans WITH food could deprive other starving humans – to the point of death. How could they not only observe that horrific suffering, but be responsible for inflicting it willfully upon the miserable and dying who were probably begging for any morsel of food?

That’s not war – it’s torture, pure and simple.

Bobby’s Records

The packet of information arrived in an e-mail while I was speaking at a conference last week. I was almost afraid to open the document for fear of what might be inside, but I had to know.

The first record reveals the date that Bobby’s Missing in Action (MIA) status was communicated to his family. He became MIA and was taken prisoner on November 30^th, 1950 but the family wasn’t notified until January 4^th, 1951 using message “68.”

MyHeritage shows that Bobby was a truck driver.

I was hopeful that the MyHeritage yearbook collection would include Bobby’s photo, but neither Bobby nor his brother Charles is shown in any yearbook from their collection. I called the local Monon library as well, and while there are some years missing in the Monon yearbook collection, there are also years present where Bobby should have been included. Perhaps the Estes boys attended a different school system, or maybe they dropped out early to farm. In any case, sadly, there is no known photo of Bobby.

The closest I can get is a photo of Joseph “Dode” Estes, Bobby’s father, taken during WWI. Bobby probably looked something like Joe.

Bobby was an Army Corporal, promoted during his captivity. His address was given as Route 1 in Monon, Indiana, which indicates that he lived in the country.

Bobby’s mother, Lucille Latta, had remarried to Harry Stockdale in 1941. She died at age 45 of a stroke on August 18, 1952 where her obituary states that Robert is MIA and had been since November 30, 1950.

Lucille was not notified in person that Bobby was missing, but by an impersonal letter, even after a several weeks delay.

My heart aches to think about Lucille opening this letter. Did she know as soon as she saw the envelope in the mailbox, standing on that country road that cold January day?

By the time the military sent the letter, Bobby had been missing for all of December and into January. By the time his mother received it, another week or so.

Did Lucille wonder why she hadn’t received any mail from Bobby, especially given the Christmas holiday? Or was mail so scarce from the front that no mail was normal?

Unbeknownst to the family, Bobby had probably been starving since his capture, was laboring in a mining camp, and may have already died by the time this letter reached his mother.

Did her mother’s sixth sense tell her that her son was in trouble and was being tortured?

All Lucille could do was wait half a world away.

By June, even though Lucille wasn’t aware, the military was requesting dental information which suggests that they had no information that he was alive. They probably had no information at all.

1952

In June of 1952, Lucille was apparently very frustrated with the lack of response from the military and engaged her elected representatives for assistance.

Based on dates, letters seemed to have crossed in the mail.

Lucille just wanted Bobby’s things, whatever remained with the military. He certainly couldn’t use them whether he was missing, dead or in captivity.

At this point, Lucille didn’t know if he had been captured or killed. What she did know was that he didn’t reappear after being considered MIA, so he wasn’t just lost, injured or displaced.

Bobby’s personal items were going to come home. Lucille, as a mother, would have been hopeful that Bobby would return home too, eventually.

The letter to Lucille’s Congressman was written by the Army a few days before the letter to her.

“Period of anxiety.” That’s an incredible understatement.

Finally!

It’s interesting to note that Lucille’s Congressional inquiry did serve to expedite things.

Dirty towels and worn, torn socks. Lucille probably cherished them since they carried part of Bobby.

Apparently, these items had been sitting someplace since April.

The shipment inventory of effects is dated May 16, 1952.

These few items were sent to Bobby’s mother. The bottom items appear to have been sent in July, but the top 2 were sent in a second, later, shipment.

In October of 1952, the Army requested his dental information, again.

Lucille died in August 1952. When I made that discovery, I wondered if the stress of Bobby’s captivity in any way contributed to her early death of a stroke.

Bobby’s Bible and “misc brass” weren’t returned until after Lucille had passed away.

Given that Lucille had died, Harry wrote to the military on her behalf.

Where’s Joseph “Dode” Estes?

Reading this letter from Harry, I realized that no-place in Bobby’s records is his father, Joseph “Dode” Estes either mentioned or communicated with. In fact, it’s Bobby’s step-father who wrote this letter, which leads me to wonder about the absence of Dode.

Where was Bobby’s father and why was he not involved at some level? One would think the military would communicate with a father before a step-father, although Harry married Lucille when Bobby was 10 years old.

The Estes family knew, at least eventually, that Bobby had died. Somehow, someplace, Joe had been told. I noticed in one of my father’s records that the authorities in Lafayette, Indiana in 1938 were asking my father if he had seen Joe. My father stated that he had not seen Joe since the previous Christmas at their mother’s house in Chicago.

This makes me wonder if Joe was in some sort of legal trouble.

Regardless, it tells us that by 1938, Joe was not in the area, assuming my father was truthful, which might not be a valid assumption.

This September 1940 newspaper clipping tells us that Lucille and Joe were getting divorced and had been separated for a decade. In fact, their separation date is in September 1930 and Bobby’s birth date is March 27, 1931, telling us that they separated when Lucille was 3 months pregnant. Joe may never have been involved much in Bobby’s life.

This might, just might, have something to do with the fact that Lucille wanted to marry Harry Stockdale. Joe seemed to be chronically in trouble and clearly failed to provide for his family.

In 1926, Joe had been in trouble for stealing a car, although he wasn’t convicted because the prosecution’s witness failed to appear.

However, in February 1930, Joe was jailed due to intoxication.

The State Penal Farm isn’t the local jail, so this sentence must have been non-trivial, although we know he had been released by late June 1930 when Bobby was conceived.

On September 27, 1930, Joe went to jail once again for stealing chickens.

This date coincides with the separation date in Lucille’s divorce pleading. She had had enough, pregnant or not. Joe was still in jail, unless he accrued “good time,” when Bobby was born.

Apparently, in 1930, Joe escaped and returned home. He was obviously caught and returned to prison.

The daughter of Bobby’s brother, Charles, told me years ago that Charles remembered that, as a child, between the ages of 8-10, a group of men with guns came and took Joe away in a vehicle. If Charles’ memory is accurate, that would put that event between 1935 and 1937. The family was shrouded in secrets, and Charles, born in 1927, didn’t see Joe again until he was an adult and somehow found his father.

I’d wager that the event between 1935 and 1937 was yet another jail episode. If the White County newspapers are ever indexed, maybe we’ll find out.

Aunt Margaret sent a photo of Joe in San Pedro, California in 1942.

Joe’s location in 1950/51 is a mystery but Aunt Margaret’s letter says that prior to her mother’s death in 1955, she had been sending Joe money to help with his medical bills. He had reportedly been hit by a car in Indiana or near Chicago. My father thought Joe had died, either then or eventually, as did the rest of the family. Joe didn’t pass away until 1988 in Fairfield, Illinois. More secrets.

Another of Margaret’s letters places Joe in Claiborne County, Tennessee in 1957.

“I also chewed him out in 57 when Ed and I visited Eppersons and Dode was working in the cain patch after telling me he was down and couldn’t get up. We went after him and when Aunt Corny Epperson told me Joe had come there splurging money received from his son’s death in the armed service – yet crying hard luck to me, I flipped my lid and really laid him out flat with a good lecture.”

Unfortunately, there are no records regarding payment of any funds related to Bobby’s death.

1953

Bobby’s Bible wasn’t returned until after Lucille died. $1.47 and a Bible – all the makings of an appropriately sad country song.

The Bible was worn from usage. I hope Bobby found solace and comfort there.

The months must have dragged on for Harry after Lucille’s death and the interminable waiting on word about Bobby’s whereabouts.

Hopefully, Bobby was just a prisoner of war and would be released or exchanged after the war ended. If Harry was a praying man, that would have been his daily prayer.

The Korean conflict ended in 1953. Other men who were missing and actually POWs were released, but still nothing about Bobby.

1954

Then the inevitable…

Word had come that Bobby was dead, not informed by the Koreans diplomatically, but from a friend of another soldier who had direct knowledge of Bobby’s death. The soldier grapevine.

And then this entry in Bobby’s file.

Another antiseptic letter. You’d think a personal visit would have been much more respectful to deliver this type of devastating news.

Word came, albeit through the grapevine, that Bobby had died of dysentery and pneumonia. I have to wonder if this was secondary to starvation, or his body was unable to heal due to lack of food. We know that other men died of starvation in these camps days on either side of Bobby’s death.

Clearly, the North Koreans were not interested in the health and welfare of their captives – or even basic human decency.

The money that Joe was spending that he received from Bobby’s death was likely Bobby’s pay for the time that he was captured in November 1950 until he was declared dead in January 1954. Bobby’s pay would have been $83.20 per month, plus $8 for foreign duty pay as a private, and slightly more as a corporal. That promotion was actually posthumous.

Three years and a couple months pay was certainly a windfall to Bobby’s father, equivalent to about $30,500 today. One family member said Joe purchased a restaurant in Tazewell, Tennessee, but I found no documentation of that rumor.

This card in Bobby’s file documents the source of the determination that he had died.

“The Letter,” direct, to the point, short and final.

Pneumonia – not starvation directly – although other men did starve at this camp during this time.

I wonder if the family actually accepted this letter as final. If one wanted to continue to hope, there is enough ambiguity with the notification being a friend of a friend that one could possibly refuse to abandon hope. Lucille was gone, Harry as a step-parent might have been more accepting, but I wonder about Bobby’s brother, Charles.

An identical letter was sent to Charles, Bobby’s brother, but nothing was sent to Bobby’s father. The military may have had no information about Joe. Joe was known to drink and was reported to have been hit by a car, incurring amnesia. Joe could also have been in jail someplace. The Estes men of Joe’s generation were not known for their good behavior.

1956

January 1956 brought this letter.

Nonrecoverable.

Such a final verdict.

Bobby was held in North Korea, not in the DMZ. The Koreans never tracked their prisoners, never informed anyone of their capture, and never kept records of their location, treatment, deaths or burials. Bobby may be in a mass grave someplace with the other men that died each day.

In short, the Koreans never had any intention of these men surviving to release.

Bobby’s remains would never leave Korean soil. He is literally buried at the feet of his tortuous captors.

The only saving grace is that Lucille had joined Bobby and she already knew. She no longer cared about bodies.

Mining Camps

I narrowed the possible POW camps based on the description of the camp where Bobby was held as a mining camp which helped immensely. I found the following candidates.

• Pukchin Mining Camp – between Kunu-ri and Pyoktong – (aka. Death Valley Camp).
• Suan Mining Camp – P’yong-yang
• Koksan Mining Camp

Based on the location, near Kunu-ri where Bobby was captured, he was most likely at the Pukchin Camp, also known as the Death Valley Camp.

I wish Bobby’s records had said specifically where he was held and died. Surely Eugene Inman, the soldier who provided the death information, knew.

Eugene provided the following description of the Death Valley Camp in the book, American POWs in Korea, Sixteen Personal Accounts.

Eugene Inman, POW

Eugene Inman was the soldier and fellow POW who informed the military that Bobby had died. Eugene and Bobby were in the same unit when they were captured.

Eugene Inman is honored as a veteran and former Korean POW on this page. I want to thank Mr. Inman, now deceased, for his sacrifices and for telling the story of his capture and subsequent POW experience – which is also Bobby’s story.

I am quoting the full portions of Eugene’s biography relevant to Bobby, below, because Bobby can’t tell his own story:

I served with the Army’s 2nd Infantry Division, 9th Infantry Ret. I saw action in various parts of Korea from the Naktong River Line in last of July-Aug. 1950 as a member of an RCT plugging holes here and there under highly stressed and traumatic scenes until Chongchon River Line in November 1950.

The early activities in July were struggles to beat back probing and breakthrough efforts of the Koreans. Then my capture running the gauntlet at the pass in the Kunu-ri-Sunchon roadblock of the Kuni-ri area November 30, 1950, when the Chinese entered the conflict. Years of torment and abuse followed, thinking only of survival. Finally my freedom when I was repatriated at “Big Switch,” crossing “Freedom Bridge” Aug. 30, 1953.

The last week or so before capture was very difficult and dangerous. The extreme cold and confusion of the ambushes at roadblocks had cut us off from our own lines. At the time of capture we were separated from the main company, and my outfit was cut off by the enemy forces. Resultant conditions forced our surrender by ones, twos and small handfuls. Broken up into small groups we were to seek our own way out. We were out of ammunition and supplies, and the way to our lines was totally blocked. As the battle of Kunu-ri receded, there were many wounded and dead lying on all sides of us on the hillsides, on the road and in the ditches. The pass was blocked with all kinds of equipment, a mass of destroyed junk.

We were gathered up and placed into a holding area of animal sheds and vacant huts without any protection from the cold. The chill factor drove the cold deep into our bodies to the point that it was debilitating pain and restricted movement, thinking and reaction. The weather was at its worst, for the area was mountainous and it was bitter cold. The temperature was well below zero, in the 30- below-or-more area.

We lost all our warm clothing we had to the enemy who took off of us whatever they wanted. I was left with only light clothing, a field jacket being the heaviest article with a fatigue cap and a tattered scarf. I used the scarf, which was very long, to wrap around my face and neck covering all the exposed area I could. My breath caused a layer of ice to form from my jaw down to my waist. It acted somewhat as an insulator in the area it formed. There was no real protection from the extreme cold, even the equipment, rifles, machine guns, trucks, jeeps and most things with oil turned to glue in the punishing cold refusing to function.

We were forced to march under these frightening conditions for 15 or so days from sundown to sunup. We walked without food, and as we passed civilians they would stone us. Many of the stones found their mark and caused serious injuries. The police and home guard were especially brutal. The wounded and the exhausted among us began to suffer. It was unbelievable. If they fell out and could not go on they were indiscriminately shot, bayoneted, or clubbed to death. During the march we truly had no shelter from the elements, and food, as such was provided, only on irregular intervals of days. It consisted of cracked corn and sometimes was mixed with soybeans. This kind of food did two things to me on each intake; (1) a case of dysentery, fever, bowel discharge of mucus and blood. I was always thirsty, that never really stopped, (2) abdominal cramps and rectal pain. No time of the day or night freed one from the constant urge to purge oneself.

In what I believe was the month December in 1950 we arrived in a deserted mining town in the Pukchin area. The place was called “Death Valley.” We faced the inclement weather, lack of shelter, food, death, and the attempts to indoctrinate us, with “Marxism” given in small groups. It was here that various conditions of fear, beatings and death of many from lack of proper food, potable water and bowel discharge of mucus and blood increased. It took a large toll in lives.

The huts and animal shelters were made from mud, stones and thatched roofs. The room was made of dried mud and the floors were large flat rocks and mud. The rooms were extremely small and we were packed into them in such a manner as to have no room to rest. It seemed that every time a guard wanted to express his anger at the world in general and me in particular he would strike, shove or kick me in the same areas and I never seemed to completely heal. The favorite areas for the guards on the march and/or in the camps seemed to be the arms, shoulders, leg joints and back area.

These areas always seemed to be re-injured by the repeated hits and falls when carrying heavy wood products in the slippery ice and snow.

We left the “Valley” and marched to Camp Five at Pyoktong, arriving Dec 25,1950. I stayed there until Aug 12, 1952. The cold in the marches and food of poorest quality of whole kernel corn, sometimes mixed with soybeans, given every 24 to 72 hours didn’t help matters either. There was little change in food to corn and millet with a little rice on special days. But still men died of starvation.

Then the camp authorities added bean curd and seaweed, which helped those not too weak to make a recovery. Malnutrition was very ghastly in the period from Jan. 1951 to August 1952. I experienced profound changes in the condition of my body. My ankles and legs swelled, and the pain in time became acute. This “bone ache” pain was not in the swelling but seemed to center in the very bones that no rubbing or any other efforts could relieve.

This condition never seemed to let up. It acted up through the day and at night followed up by leg cramps. Then the work details began with long trips to carry wood back on my person over ice and snow causing many slips and falls causing much pain to my extremities. The pain drove me with the insanity of it, to argue and/or resist the camp authorities. It was at this time a guard knocked out some of my teeth when I failed to satisfy him. I was made to stand at the proper figure of attention in the cold and snow, without shoes until the guard was satisfied that I learned to be humble and obedient after knocking me around.

I could barely read these words, dreading each next one, because I knew that Bobby’s experience was even worse. He died. It would have been better, more humane, had Bobby been killed outright.

The Korean War Legacy Foundation provides additional information on the Korean War, including interviews with former POWs, here. I will tell you that I cannot watch these at this point. If any of you watch the videos, please tell me if by some remote possibility, Bobby is mentioned, which video, and where.

Honoring Corporal Robert Vernon Estes

The American Battle Monuments Commission maintains a page honoring each missing soldier in addition to operating and maintaining military cemeteries.

Bobby’s page lists his service and military awards. I wonder if anyone in the family ever received those.

Family can print Memorial Certificates.

Photo of Bobby’s name, along with others in “Court 4” of the missing.

I’m glad his service to his country is memorialized.

Epilogue

I believe I have all of Bobby’s extant records from the military now. Anything else will have to be accomplished using DNA on recovered remains, if we would be that fortunate.

More than 7,800 men were lost who remain unrecovered in North Korea. Eugene’s story explains why, given the conditions. Many POWs were probably not buried in “graves,” per se, but along roads and wherever was expeditious at the time to dispose of a body.

I’m still hopeful, in spite of seemingly insurmountable odds, that Bobby’s remains will be found, identified and brought home. He did reportedly die in a “camp,” although North Korea never acknowledged that soldiers were held at Pukchin, shown below. In an effort to conceal the site, bodies were removed from the camp known as “Death Valley” and were reburied or sealed up in nearly abandoned mine shafts.

Bobby’s remains, such as they are, are probably someplace in this photo in North Korea, far, far from home.

Pukchin is located about 40 mountainous miles south of the North Korean border with China as the crow flies, in an inhospitable region. Access is only via roads following rivers and valleys.

I don’t carry Bobby’s mitochondrial DNA, typically used to identify the remains of soldiers, but I assuredly would match him autosomally if enough DNA could be recovered for that type of comparison.

I stand ready to claim Bobby, for whom I was named after the family was notified of his death.

Ready to welcome Bobby home and watch his flag covered coffin roll off of the airplane into a waiting Honor Guard.

Ready to thank Bobby for his service and ultimate sacrifice, as tardy and insignificant as that might be.

Ready to proudly stand at his grave site as Taps is played and Bobby is truly laid to rest, a hero, on American soil.

I will remain ready all the days of my life.

I still pray for the return of Corporal Robert Vernon Estes.

______________________________________________________________

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This Mother’s Day morning I woke up half way home from St. Louis. I had been speaking at the 2019 NGS Conference in St. Charles, Missouri and drove part way yesterday after my luncheon session.

The rain has been incessant not for hours, not days, but weeks. The rivers aren’t just swollen, they have crested and then crested their crests. Entire farms are underwater, half way up grain silos and barns.

Those farmers won’t recover.

I anticipated a difficult drive in the rain, which is why I stopped as dusk fell – outside Indianapolis last evening.

Indy is about an hour from where I grew up – and I was NOT driving through my hometown.

Mother’s Day is difficult enough without that on top of the fact that the only thing left there to visit is Mother’s grave. I made that stop on my way to St. Louis, taking Mom flowers and rocks from her ancestors’ land.

Mother

I didn’t immediately remember that it was Mother’s Day when I woke up in my roadside hotel this morning but was quickly reminded at the first place I stopped for coffee. I needed coffee to stay awake in the four and a half hours of grey drizzle.

Of course, I immediately began thinking about mother. It IS Mother’s Day, after all.

Mom’s high school graduation photo in 1940. You’ll pardon me if I say that she was beautiful and reminds me so much of my daughter.

I pondered memories of the farm, my kids spending summers there with Mom – and when my son dropped his pop upside down in Mom’s purse. Such fun but all memories since she is gone.

Just over 4 hours to home, now.

The rain increased, the sun hiding forever. Boring grey windshield time.

I remembered earlier Mother’s Days; ones that mother celebrated with us.

Often, we drove to Fort Wayne or Auburn, Indiana, about 3 hours each way to meet Mom for lunch on Mother’s Day. We generally met at the Ponderosa in Auburn. Ponderosa had a buffet AND a senior discount. Never mind that Mom wasn’t paying – that’s where she wanted to go.

I also recalled the miserable Mother’s Day, also raining, that I loaded the last of the items from her apartment into a rental truck, a couple weeks after her death. I do believe that was literally the worst Mother’s Day I ever had. I tried not to think about that today – actively having to put those thoughts out of my mind as they snuck in from time to time.

I drove past State Road 18, the road that if I turned west would take me past the cemetery where Mom is buried and another 20 miles or so on down that road, to the farm that I loved so much. Such wonderful memories there.

Yes, State Road 18 had always been the road home – but not today. In fact, not for the past many years. My mind wandered down 18, reliving memories, regardless of whether I wanted it to or not.

Mother’s Day tribute songs were playing on the radio.

I decided that I needed a bathroom break near Auburn, but there are too many memories there, so I decided to bypass that exit and stop at the rest stop up the road.

As I drove past the Ponderosa at the Auburn exit, I noticed the sign on the building that said “Available.” The Ponderosa had closed – just one more thing that connects me to Mom gone.

I cried and pulled in at the rest area, needing a break and a walk. The rain wasn’t the only difficult part of this drive today.

Inside the rest area was the seal of the State of Indiana, laid into the tile floor.

I smiled, realizing that I was literally driving through a lifetime of memories – from my birth to this very day.

On the road again, I remembered little things.

Like when I made my own clothes and Mom marked the hems while I stood on a kitchen chair. She would tell me to stand still. I don’t think those hems were ever straight!

Or when a date would arrive to pick me up – he had to come to the door and converse with my mother before we could leave. The date always looked incredibly uncomfortable. That just might have been the idea.

One certainly did NOT go outside and just get into the car. And if any young man would have had the bad judgement to honk the horn, I wasn’t going anyplace with him then or ever.

Thank goodness the boys all had more common sense than that.

I had to smile as I remember Mom shaking her finger and lecturing one young man about something as he repeated “Yes Ma’am” over and over. I don’t think he ever asked me out again. That too was probably the idea:)

I passed by tractors with their plows attached, abandoned in the fields, and I knew the farmers had started plowing and couldn’t go further. I also know what that means – they’re probably stuck, and stuck or not – they aren’t doing anything until the land has an opportunity to dry. Every day lost in the spring can’t be recovered and the farmers try not to show their worry or emotion – but you can hear it in their voices.

I crossed the state line into Michigan, glad to leave Indiana and her memories behind.

Just 2 and a half hours to go now.

Crossing the Line

No one tells you when your mother dies that you never “get over” the grief. No one explains that while you may be a mother yourself, and you cherish your own children recognizing Mother’s Day and spending time with you, that your smile is hiding the tears you shed earlier for your own mother.

No, it’s never over and it never ends.

I try very hard to salve the grief with the good memories, but good memories are gateways to the tears – because there are no new good memories.

I had to focus on the road construction and the rain. Maybe that was a good thing.

I passed Lansing where I moved when I left Indiana. Mom visited often and we set out on new adventures. She loved antique shops and there were lots to explore in Michigan.

Now, half an hour east of Lansing, the grey rain continued as did the construction. However, there seemed to be a problem.

The Cross

Across the median I noticed a car pulled over with its doors open as if someone exited hurriedly. I slowed, immediately thinking that someone might need help. I saw people in the median.

Glancing back and forth between the median and the road with the orange barrels, I caught a quick glimpse of the scene – now seared into my memory in those brief seconds.

First, I saw two dark grey shapes, silhouettes of people, along with bright colors, which confused me.

Then, I realized that one person was on their knees, on the ground in the rain, their back towards me, with the other person bent over them from the right, hand on their shoulder. What looked like flowers were on both sides of the person on the ground.

Flowers?

What is someone doing on their knees in the rain?

Was someone or something hurt?

Had someone been hit?

Was there also a car in the median someplace?

Did I need to call 911?

Did I need to stop and help?

I slowed, preparing to stop, when I saw it…

A white cross in front of the person on their knees.

A few months ago, there was a horrific accident in that stretch of highway involving many cars and semis which resulted in 3 fatalities.

That white cross was not there before.

Those people get to spend this Mother’s Day remembering – in the rain, in the median, on their knees, head bowed, in front of the white cross, planting colorful flowers.

They can’t take their mother flowers anymore.

Or, is the person kneeling the mother who is marking the location of her child’s death? Two young people died that terrible day.

I don’t have the answer, and it only matters to them. Grief is grief regardless.

I wished I could have taken a quick photo in the cold rain. Nothing could ever be more effective or poignant in promoting safe driving, but I would never have intruded into such a private space.

I realized in that soul searing moment that the sadness I carry about my mother’s death – and will for the rest of my life – can’t be compared to the agonizing grief these people must surely feel. In the median of an expressway, alone but at the same time, on public display.

Mother passed over at 83, she wasn’t ripped from me, from the prime of her life, in a horrific pileup accident that took nearly a day to clear.

I’m suddenly grateful for my flavor of grief.

I’m fortunate that I can grieve softly, and slowly, knowing that mother completed her life. Realizing that missing her and wanting more goodness is normal. I’m not grieving for what could have and should have been but that I was robbed of by someone else’s negligence. Her life was not cut short – it just wasn’t long enough for me.

Not everyone celebrates this or other holidays which surface painful memories, or sometimes lack of them. Those who cannot bear children or have lost children or parents tragically. I need to be more cognizant of this situation, my words and what silence might mean.

I hold those people in the median into the light along with all others who suffer in a river of unrelenting grief.

______________________________________________________________

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I never write my 52 Ancestor stories from the road, but this is an exception because of the incredible series of events that happened over the past couple days. So, be warned, nothing you are seeing is “cleaned up,”

My Jewish friend, Moishe, shared with me the Yiddish phrase, “bashert” – destined to be. I’ll let you decide.

I’ll just simply say that once again, I had to call my husband and begin the conversation with, “Well, you’re never going to believe this…”

I swear, I think our ancestors reach out and help us from time to time – that is, when they aren’t stubbornly hiding😊

One key to accurately remembering people, places and events is to record things when they happen. We all think we are going to remember, but we don’t. Consider this my “journal” and you’re coming along on my great adventure!

The Best Laid Plans

This week marks the 13^th anniversary of mother’s passing over.

Mom and I set out on ancestor search adventures from time to time. I did the genealogy and research part, but we traveled together to discover our ancestral locations. What fun we had, and how I miss her.

My plan this week was to visit Warsaw, Indiana to obtain deeds, wills and court information for Hiram B. Ferverda (1854-1925) my great-grandfather – mother’s grandfather – who died when she was a toddler. She knew of him, but doesn’t remember him, although she knew her grandmother who lived another 14 years well. How I wish I could ask mother to show me exactly where they lived, but alas, I can’t so I went searching through genealogical means.

I thought that finding mother’s grandmother’s house, where she played as a child, was fitting on the day of that 13^th anniversary. Not only would it honor mother, it might take some of the sting out of the day, and I would wind up in the cemetery where Mom is buried at days end, sharing my discoveries with her. Who knows, maybe she would even answer a few questions!

But that wasn’t at all what happened – and I’m blaming mother. It was her influence, pure and simple!

Warsaw – Finding My Way

My goal was to determine which lot in the very small town of Leesburg, Indiana that Hiram owned and drive by. Does the house still remain today?

Seems pretty simple – right?

While I was in Warsaw, the Kosciusko County seat, I also wanted to obtain Hiram’s will and take a look in the court indexes.

That sounds a lot easier than it turned out to be – not the least of which was because the several hours drive was undertaken in the midst of spring rains that had lasted for days. Everything was entirely sodden and the sky hadn’t seen any color other than grey for days.

The good news was that I managed to arrive at the Kosciusko County courthouse before noon. The bad news was that while the deed was easy to obtain and the recorder’s staff was quite helpful, the clerk’s office wasn’t nearly as accommodating. When I told them I needed copies of 3 wills, they informed me that they normally didn’t “just stop work to take care of people.” I explained my situation and asked what my options were, given that a preliminary call hadn’t been helpful either and I drove from out of state.

The person stated that she was leaving for the day and I could look in the will index myself. Hurray! That’s what I wanted to do in the first place. However, after that, I didn’t feel I should press my luck and ask for court records too. Besides that, time was running short and I still wanted to drive to Leesburg as well as on to Elkhart County before ending the day at Mom’s grave.

Suffice it to say that on my way out the door, I asked the Kosciusko County surveyor, who had been extremely helpful by plotting the lots in Leesburg for me, if he happened to know which road on the neighboring Elkhart County Union Township plat map abutted Kosciusko County. Hiram Ferverda grew up on his father’s farm in Union Township and I was having trouble correlating the old plat map with the current roads.

Roads change names from county to county, the old names aren’t the current names and new roads are constructed, which makes everything more confusing.

The surveyor was kind enough to tell me the names of the Kosciusko County roads I’d need to turn onto in order to be on the right road when I crossed the county line into Elkhart County.

My chicken scratches and the surveyor’s directions to the intersection of sections 35 and 36 in Union Township, Elkhart County from Kosciusko County. I hand drew State Road 6, in red, built since this 1929 plat map and cutting across section 35 where I believed Bauke’s land was located.

Union Township, Elkhart County

After locating Hiram’s land in Leesburg, I was planning to drive by what I believed to have been the land of Hiram’s father, Bauke Hendrik Ferwerda, known as Baker here in the US. Both Hiram and Bauke were immigrants from the Netherlands and settled in Elkhart County in 1868. Bauke proceeded to both farm and teach.

At the time that Bauke immigrated, he was married to his second wife, Minke Van der Kooi, known at Minnie. Names tended to be Anglicized, probably based on pronunciation.

Minke and Bauke had 2 daughters when they left the Netherlands, but only one would survive the passage. The youngest child, about a year old, learned to walk on the ship according to family stories passed through the generations.

Bauke had been married previously to Geertje Harmens de Jong who died in 1860. She and Bauke had 3 children, a daughter who died, Hiram whose Dutch name was Harmens Bauke and Henry, whose Dutch name was Hendrik.

Both boys, above, ages 14 and 11 in 1868 when they immigrated helped their father homestead.

The Ferwerda’s were a Dutch Mennonite family in the US who spoke neither English nor German. They settled among the German Brethren in Elkhart County along with some of the other Dutch families who sailed on the same ship. The Mennonite and Brethren religions are more similar than different and Bauke and family soon became Brethren – if not immediately.

I haven’t yet written Bauke’s story, and this is certainly a part of the larger picture, but this adventure is deserving of its own individual article because it’s just so doggone amazing!

Horses and Buggies

After a few wrong turns, I found myself on the back roads of Kosciusko County. Turning north onto Kosciusko County road 300 West, I quickly found myself crossing over the county line where I was on Elkhart County Road 15, not to be confused with Indiana State Route 15 which runs parallel about 2 or 3 miles east.

I told you it was confusing!

It’s no wonder I couldn’t put these pieces together from maps alone.

I pulled to the side of the road to photograph two beautiful horses in a green field. Emphasis on green. In Michigan it is still very cold and nothing is green. Indiana is about 3 weeks ahead of Michigan.

While I was trying to encourage the horses to meander closer to the fence for a better picture, an Amish horse-drawn buggy passed me.

How many people in a Jeep can say they’ve been passed by an Amish buggy?

This land is very hilly, and the last thing I wanted to do was spook the horse, so I stayed quite a ways back until after we finished in the hilly section, including the railroad tracks which parallel the county line a few feet away.

The children in the back of the buggy were packed in snugly and coyly waved.

After we crossed the bridge spanning Turkey Creek, the buggy moved to the right and I very slowly passed on the left where the bridge widened.

I drove on past, looking for the first road, which I thought was the road on the north side of Bauke’s land. Google maps wouldn’t let me “drive” down that road, because it was dirt, but it looked from the aerial to have an older house that might, just might, be Bauke’s original home. I wanted to take a look.

On the plat map, you can see that the land was owned by William O. Ferverda, Bauke’s son, in 1929. Bauke had died in 1911.

In section 35, there’s a divit with an arrow that looks like it was owned by someone else.

It had begun to rain again, as I turned down the road.

Not to be deterred, I found the house that looked to be older, but of course I had no way of knowing if that house was Bauke’s old home. It was located where it could be the divit.

I continued driving down the road, when I became a bit hesitant. The road was dirt and it was VERY muddy.

So muddy, in fact, that I was seriously concerned about becoming stuck. Looking down the road, I realized that there was too much water, and although the road wasn’t entirely flooded, it was certainly uncomfortably water-logged. Jeep or not, stuck is stuck.

Not only that, but I didn’t have enough room to turn around and I could feel the road “squishing” under my tires.

Nope, no turning around. I needed to back straight out of there, very slowly. One false move and I’d be there until the road hardened enough that a tractor could get to me. Translate – days.

I began backing, fully intending to turn into the driveway of the house I had passed near the corner.

I backed for nearly half a mile.

Looking in the rear-view mirror – I saw it. That same buggy.

I slowed once again and was going to tell them that the road was in bad shape if not impassable, when they turned into the farmhouse where I was going to turn around.

I still needed to turn around.

I pulled into their driveway when I decided that I’d have to overcome my shyness and pull on up to the barn and ask if they knew any of the Ferverda family. That old plat map was from 90 years ago, so I was sure the land was sold out of the family generations before, but perhaps they knew some local history. Maybe they knew if it was the Fervida farm at one time. Memories in farm country are long and farmers tend to know the history of their land – but almost 100 years might be hoping for too much.

Approaching the buggy, I realized that the oldest person was a female, perhaps in her 30s, so I wasn’t very hopeful. She was understandably reserved, but after petting her dog, chatting for a few minutes, showing her the plat map with the Ferverda name and asking if a specific plat across the road from William Ferverda’s land was her land – she acknowledged that it was and told me that yes, she did know some Ferverdas and I might want to stop at the house across the road.

The House Across the Road

When you’re on a corner, the house across the road can be multiple houses. There were 2 within view. Both houses in question were newer, so I was fairly sure that neither was the house I was looking for. I was disappointed, but given that the road was flooded, I had no other options. I pulled slowly down the road, hoping someone might be outside – but it was raining so that was unlikely.

As I approached the first, smaller house, with grain bins and barns behind the home, I noticed a large rock out front.

Then, I saw it. My brain didn’t believe what my eyes were registering.

What???

I sure am glad I didn’t just drive on. Between the horse, buggy, corner, rain and mud, I had never looked at the rock. Yes, I had driven by it before but since the house was modern, I hadn’t paid much attention.

I pulled into the driveway, just as a pickup was pulling out of the driveway on the other side of the house. I frantically waived for him to stop.

The man pulled down to my driveway and I asked if he was a Ferverda. “No,” he said, “I work for Scott Fervida and he’s home with a sick child.” I asked if this was still the Ferverda farm and he confirmed that it was – then told me to go on over to the house across the road where Scott lived.

I was extremely hesitant to just walk up to someone’s door and knock. They are going to be justifiably suspicious and I’m actually rather shy. Plus – farm dogs can be pretty intimidating.

The man in the truck did me the favor of calling Scott and warning him, then offered to take my photo with the Fervida farm stone.

Meeting Scott

I summoned my courage and walked up to Scott’s door. He graciously asked me inside. The nice young man in the truck had told him that I was “related somehow.” I had the plat map in hand and explained that my mother was a Ferverda and that Hiram had been Bauke’s son.

Scott said that he had the immigration papers of Bauke in his office. By this time, he could have been Jeffrey Dahmer because I would follow him willingly to my death to see Bauke’s naturalization papers – with the original seal no less!!!

Scott’s lovely wife and children were home too, and we all began chattering and talking like magpies.

Scott mentioned that their fireplace mantle, above, and one beam, above the window, below, was from Bauke’s old barn. Those logs were hand stripped of bark with an adze.

A few minutes later, Scott mentioned that his parents lived just down the road on the next farm. His wife called them, and they arrived in short order.

How exciting, an impromptu family reunion!

Scott went to the safe and retrieved a file folder of goodies. We looked through the old envelopes and papers, most of which were from the late 19-teens, the 1920s and later.

Scott is the 5^th generation Ferwerda, then spelled Ferverda, now Fervida, to own this land.

Ferwerda, Ferverda or Fervida?

The answer is yes, all 3. In the Netherlands and in Bauke’s naturalization papers, the name is spelled Ferwerda. In short order, here, the w became a v. On the 1929 plat map, William’s name is spelled Ferverda. In a 1940 newspaper article, it’s Fervida.

In the cemetery, Bauke’s name is spelled Fervida, as is William’s. I suspect Bauke’s stone was set later, not when he died in 1911.

By the time Hiram was found in the records, his surname was spelled Ferverda.

So yes, all 3 and now the descendants of the two sons of Bauke spell their surnames Ferverda (through Hiram) and Fervida (through William.)

Bauke’s House

Scott’s father, Don, told me that Bauke’s original house was a small cabin. Most early cabins were about 10X12 or maybe 12X16 – amazingly small for a family – but what every family began with.

By at least 1920, a new house had been built, and probably long before.

I mention this because in the 1910 census, Bauke is living with son William and family who is listed as the head of household, beside Cletus Miller, as shown on the 1929 plat map. It’s likely that the new house is shown in this photo above, with the old cabin right next door to the right.

Don showed me where the old house stood, not terribly far from the Fervida rock, and then he pointed out where the cornerstones for the original cabin had remained, long after the cabin was gone.

Eventually, the cornerstones had to go when a new grain silo needed to be installed where the cabin once stood.

Bauke’s Barn

Another item in Scott’s office was a framed aerial photo of the property that included the original barn, now torn down.

There’s a lot of glare on the glass from the window, but you can see the barn.

We know that the barn immediately in front of the original barn is 40X80 because of this article detailing the barn raising in 1920.

I laughed at the mention of how many automobiles were there. Apparently the horse and buggy had been replaced in the Brethren families, but most women never drove.

The barn wall of the original barn was incorporated into the “new” barn as a cost savings measure. Farmers were always frugal.

I grew up on a farm and love barns. Don took me inside the barn and showed me the original studs remaining and how they “shored up” old wall and retrussed it to be part of the new wall.

You can see that the studs have been reused as there are notches for connecting beams no longer present.

Pinch me, here I was standing in Bauke’s barn.

A day ago, I didn’t even know it existed.

Surreal doesn’t even begin to touch this.

Don grew up on this farm, helping his father, Eldon, who was William’s son. William didn’t pass away until 1960, so Don knew him well.

This early International Harvester tractor looked much like the one I learned to drive.

Of course, now its dwarfed by contemporary monstrous tractors and modern equipment.

I tool this photo for the rock, but it shows the current “new” barn and other out-buildings in relation to the grain silo with the conical shaped bottom, to the right behind the tree and barn.

William Fervida and Family

Unfortunately, we don’t have a photo of Bauke, although Don is checking with his sister to be sure.

We do have a lovely photo of William and family.

Thank goodness someone wrote on the back!

Bauke’s Furniture

When the Fervida family had to tear William’s house down, they salvaged the remaining original furniture.

Scott was kind enough to show me both pieces, lovingly integrated into his home.

Here, Scott and Don stand beside Bauke’s cupboard. My mother called these pieces “Hoosier cupboards.” One of the reasons I think Bauke built the larger house before his death, as opposed to William later, is because a piece of furniture this size would take a disproportionate part of a log cabin. It simply wouldn’t fit.

Scott said that this piece, and the one below were both refinished by an Amish craftsman because they were literally black with age and wear.

This dresser lives in the spare bedroom. That’s me, very happily taking the picture and framed in the mirror, like a mirror into the past. That was Scott’s lovely daughter’s suggestion! I told her she needs to study genetics😊

Notice the candlestands beside the mirrors.

The corners of the drawers are beautifully dovetailed.

Saved the Best for Last

After returning downstairs, I mentioned my Mom’s Bible in the context of my article last week. Scott said, “well, maybe you’d like to see this,” walked into his office again, and pulled this off of his shelf.

“What’s this?”, I asked.

Don told me that before his grandfather, William, died, William told him to be sure this Bible didn’t leave the family.

The Bible always sat on the dresser in William’s house, in the center. That’s the same dresser with me in the mirror.

This beautiful Bible is worn.

The first thing Scott’s mother and I did was to look for names, births, deaths and marriages. Not one thing was recorded.

On the front page, we noted that the Bible was published by Mennonite Publishing Company.

It’s interesting because the oral family history on my side stated that the brother, William, who lived near Nappanee was Mennonite. However, Don indicated that the family was always Brethren to the best of his knowledge.

Clearly, William felt this was a heirloom when he passed away.

The Mennonite Publishing Company published from 1875-1908 but of course this doesn’t necessarily mean that’s when the Ferverda family obtained the Bible.

There was no copyright, per se, but we did find that this had been registered in the Library of Congress in 1884 which at that time seemed to function in essentially the same way. It’s likely that this Bible was purchased originally sometime after 1884 and before 1908, meaning before Bauke’s death.

Unfortunately, there were no dates recorded in the Bible, but a lot of political newspaper clippings from later years.

That was torture!

These large “Big Bibles” or “Great Bibles” as they were called weren’t carried to church, but were used in home readings and study.

Judging from the wear on the cover, this Bible was well-used. It’s in amazingly good condition given that it’s someplace between 110 and 135 years old.

We know unquestionably that it was Williams. Was it Bauke’s?

Dinner

As the afternoon turned into early evening, I realized I really needed to get on the road as I had miles to go before reaching my destination for the evening. Furthermore, I was probably standing between these people and their dinner.

Scott’s wife asked me if I would join them for dinner, but I felt I had already intruded enough. I had literally been there for hours.

I declined, mentioning that I wanted to visit my grandparent’s graves in Silver Lake yet that day, winding up in Peru an hour and a half further south near where Mom was buried, preferably before nightfall.

As Scott’s parents exited through the garage, I left with them, saying my goodbyes. Don asked me once more if I wouldn’t join them in town, Nappanee, for dinner. I really, really wanted to, but I needed to visit Mom’s grave yet and had planned to be another 90 minutes south before morning when I would drive on to St. Louis. It was already going to be a long day. If I stayed for dinner, I wouldn’t make it any further south. And I wouldn’t see Mom on the 13th anniversary of her passing.

What to do?

Don’s wife suggested a couple hotels in Nappanee, and I decided to call my husband and see if he could book me in someplace. While that was taking place, I would indeed join Don and his wife for dinner. Fingers crossed.

As we drove the few miles into town, the rain became torrential, meaning that we were soaked to the skin in the 10 feet from the vehicles to the door of the restaurant. I was VERY glad I had opted not to drive further and very much enjoyed visiting with my Fervida cousins.

As our meal was delivered to our table, Don said grace, a practice long lost in most places, but not in the Fervida family in Indiana. I added my own special thank you for finding my Fervida family, thanks to a buggy and a flooded road.

I so enjoyed absorbing everything Don had to say. I wish I had more time to spend.

The Hotel

I spent the night in the “red hotel” as the locals call it, just down the road from this round Amish barn on Amish Acres. I grew up with round barns nearby and hadn’t seen one in years.

As I tucked myself in for the evening, in a room with quilts and handmade curtains, the rain poured relentlessly. I looked outside to see torrents of water running and inches everyplace. There was too much rain and no place for it to go.

The morning light would reveal floods, including flash floods that washed across roads, stripping the fertile topsoil in the fields away. These are the days that try farmers’ souls. I wondered if Bauke saw floods like this.

Floods

My morning began with water in the lower level of the hotel. Fortunately, my room was on the second floor.

The rains had lulled, at least momentarily, but every time I woke up during the night, the rain was still pounding on the roof.

The sun tried to peek through the clouds, but soon gave up and retreated.

The first thing I needed to do was find a grocery store or someplace to purchase a bouquet of flowers to divide between the graves of my grandparents, my Mom and step-father and my two step-siblings. All stores in Amish country have special areas for parking horses and buggies.

I realized that in my excitement the previous day that I had forgotten to ask Scott if I could have a rock for my garden from Bauke’s farm. I often collect a rock to take home, something permanent and tangible from the land that once belonged to my ancestors. I particularly like rocks plowed from their fields, and no farmer ever says, “No, I want all those rocks to hit with the plow.”

Scott indicated that he wasn’t home, but that he’d call Don and see if he was available. I told Scott I could easily find a rock along the edge of a field, I just needed permission, not assistance.

As I drove down State Road 6, I looked to the right to see Bauke’s land entirely covered with water. Turkey Creek had not only overflowed its banks, it had over-washed the road and covered the fields. You can see the grain silos in the distance in the location of Bauke’s original home.

I was sick at heart for Don and Scott, because as a farm girl, I knew exactly what this meant.

Rocks

I went the “long way round,” avoiding the floodwaters and pulled into the driveway of the barn.

I saw a rock that someone had thrown out of the field and that was waiting for me to rescue it, sitting patiently in the roots of a nearby tree.

As I carried the rock to the car, Don pulled in the driveway too. I quickly explained that Scott had given permission for me to rock shop, and I explained to Don that I add ancestor rocks to my garden as a way of bringing a little bit of them home with me. As it turned out, Scott had called Don and Don had found me a wonderful rock, in addition to the one I picked up.

As we talked, I mentioned that I’d like to pick up a couple small stones to take to my grandfather’s grave and my mom’s. He offered to help, and we drove across the road to a culvert where Don had installed catch basins the year before.

The road was full of corn cobs, meaning that during the night, the water had over-washed the road, taking with it soil and anything else it could carry away as it raced towards Turkey Creek. Not just flash flood warnings, but flash floods indeed.

Don helped me select and clean the mud off the rocks to take to the cemeteries.

As we drove back to my vehicle, I noticed yet another rock, about half the size of a small car. We opined that this one was a bit too large for the Jeep. What a beautiful stone that Bauke didn’t even know he had. Don found it plowing and decided it was too beautiful to bury. I wondered what kind of stone it was, and Don replied that it was “just a stone of some kind,” an answer very similar to one my beloved step-father gave my kids decades ago when asked the same question about one of his field rocks.

I asked Don if I could take his picture in front of the Fervida Farm rock that he and his wife had engraved for Scott’s birthday. The farm equipment in the background is just so appropos. Wouldn’t Bauke be amazed at the changes in farming since he plowed this ground, probably using a mule and standing on the plow.

I thanked Don again, for everything, but in particular for being such a wonderful steward of our ancestor’s farm. I’m so glad that Scott loves it as much as Don.

Turkey Creek

Turkey Creek snakes its way through Bauke’s farm, swollen and flooded.

No driving down the road today. The creek has overflowed everyplace!

Skeletal irrigation equipment looks strangely out of place.

As I drove away, I turned back one last time to take a final, lingering look and say goodbye.

I crossed the bridge where less than a day earlier, I had passed that Amish buggy.

Today, on my way out, I was stopping at the church that had once been Turkey Creek Brethren Church. Don said that to the best of his knowledge, the Ferverda family had always been Brethren in the US. Bauke and family were members of Turkey Creek Church.

I asked why they were buried at Union Center Church cemetery if they had attended Turkey Creek, and Don said that there was no cemetery at Turkey Creek – even though it was an older church. All Brethren were buried at Union Center. I never thought of that.

Turkey Creek Church

Turkey Creek Brethren church ceased operation in 2012 and the building has since been purchased by another congregation.

The church remains the same, with the original structure incorporated into the current building.

The old trees were probably here when Hiram drove his horse and buggy up this same pathway to the church.

A sign commemorates the original church.

I pulled into the parking lot to take a closer look. I was hoping to see some part that I could identify of the original building, but no dice.

Even the cross is much more contemporary that it appears from a distance.

As I walked towards the rear of the church, I realized something very important.

That grain elevator in the distance is Bauke’s land, a mile away.

You can see the church on the 1929 plat map, at left. I’ve marked it as well as the location of the barns and grain bins today with red arrows. A section is a mile wide.

The flooded fields between the church and the grain silos are Bauke’s. It’s no wonder that Bauke and family attended Turkey Creek Church – it was literally right next door, within sight. The next generations of Ferverda/Fervida men would also attend Turkey Creek Church. Understanding the history of Turkey Creek Church and Union Center explained why the Fervidas were members in one place and buried in another. Previously, I had presumed membership at Union Center because that’s where they were buried.

My Grandfather, Pawpaw

Leaving Turkey Creek church behind, I headed for Silver Lake, 45 minutes away where John Ferverda, my grandfather, Bauke’s grandson is buried.

I arranged the flowers in a milk jug I had brought along for the occasion, placing the rocks lovingly at John’s end of the stone. The larger rock from Bauke’s farm and the smaller one from Hiram’s. John grew up on Hiram’s farm, of course, but he assuredly visited his grandfather. Bauke didn’t pass away until John was 29 years old. John probably played in Bauke’s fields and along the banks of Turkey Creek.

Mom

My next stop was the cemetery in Galveston, Indiana where Mom is buried. I feel like I’ve traveled the Ferverda Cemetery trail these past few days.

Mom’s married surname at her death was Long, but my brother and I had her birth surname inscribed on the front as well, along with his and mine on the back. Once a genealogist, always a genealogist.

I placed the stone from Hiram’s farm where Mom’s father grew up beside the stone from Bauke’s farm – the one Don had so graciously washed for the journey.

I wonder how long those stones, a small piece of her ancestor’s lives, will remain. I hope that they will survive to greet a future generation who will stand where I stood and wonder why someone placed those stones on Mom’s grave.

One might say that Mom wanted these stones. She certainly sent me on quite the round-about adventure on the way to visit her grave – and it made me a day late.

What an incredible gift.

Thanks Mom!

______________________________________________________________

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April 29th marks the 13^th anniversary of Mom’s “passing over.” Of course I think about this, because I can’t NOT think about it.

Part of the grief is still fresh, especially when I’m somehow caught by surprise, but many rough edges have been softened into cherished memories by time.

Mom’s lovely secretary, one of my favorite things, sits in my living room now. I am the steward.

Mom always referred to it as “Mother’s Secretary,” which is, not surprisingly, what I call it too. But now, it’s mine and someday maybe someone else in the family will eventually call it “Mother’s Secretary.”

A secretary is a type of desk with a drop-down front that is used as the writing surface. Mom’s had some secret cubbyholes inside after you lowered the front, and a couple of shelves below as well.

After Mom passed, I installed a few of her Avon award statues. She was extremely proud of her accomplishments, as was I, especially as a 3^rd career that stretched well into her 80s. I know she would approve.

Books!

The lower shelves, at home, always held vintage books. Margaret Mitchell’s classic, “Gone with the Wind,” one of my all-time favorites always lived there as did Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s poetry which I don’t think I’ve read even yet today.

The book of poetry was bound in soft painted leather and was simply beautiful to behold – it didn’t matter what was inside.

Books were an expensive luxury, so sometimes we bought discarded books from the classroom “library” at Lincoln School.

Most of those were sold at Mom’s estate auction or rummage sale years ago, but the rattiest, which means my favorites, didn’t sell. They still have the price tags on the front.

Other books on the shelf included several Bobbsey Twin books – some that had been Mother’s and a few newer ones, now 50+ years old, that were mine. Only two remain. I should give them to my granddaughters. I sure loved the Bobbsey twins and read those books several times each.

I devoured Gone with the Wind so many times that the book began to fall apart.  Later, seeing the movie in color with Clark Gable and Vivian Leigh was a treat to die for. I loved the movie as much as the book, if that was possible. I learned so much about romance, handsome men and strong women! I also internalized lessons about slavery, freedom and alcoholism along with right and wrong. I’m not at all sure Mom meant for me to absorb ANY of those lessons with the veracity that I did.

A Sacred Space

In my childhood home, the secretary always stood in the living room, nestled in a corner beside the fireplace. For years I felt very grown-up having the privilege of sitting there doing my homework. I actually enjoyed homework, which was much better done at the special secretary instead of at the much-too-sterile Formica kitchen table.

Besides, the kitchen was busy, the living room wasn’t.

One day when I was about 10, I was absolutely horrified to discover that I had pressed so hard that my writing had gone through the paper and had marred the finish inside the desk. I never felt right again about doing homework at Mom’s secretary.

However, I would occasionally sit there to write “special” things. I seemed to connect with inspiration in that sheltered space.

I began reclusively writing poetry. Mom’s secretary seemed so embracing and safe, with its secret-compartment-like essence. Some of my poems were bright and sunny, but most reflected the darkness of grief, loss and heartache. The loss a child feels when they lose too many loved ones too quickly and are left lonely and alone.

As time moved on, so did the secretary. Mom remarried and moved to my step-father’s farm, taking the secretary along of course.

There too it always had its own reassuring secure place. Mom always kept certain items there, and today, in my home, it still has the same things in the same locations. I wonder if it was the same when it belonged to my grandmother. I’d bet so.

It always made me feel good to see the secretary although I didn’t really think about it at the time. I don’t recall that the thought ever occurred to me that someday it might be mine. The secretary was just always a warm friend greeting me as I walked into the living room, sometimes on an errand to retrieve something for mother.

Twenty-plus years later, after my step-father passed away, Mom moved to an apartment in town. The secretary, which had long before reached the antique stage, looked strangely out of place in the white-washed walls of mother’s new city apartment. By this time, the secretary, along with a table and mother’s bedroom furniture, were the only antiques among the upholstered chairs and carpet.

The secretary may have looked out of place, but as a silent sentinel, it was still welcoming and reassuring. Mom still used it as a desk as well as storage for its familiar stamps, envelopes and paper, along with her crossword puzzle books, a deck of cards, pens and pencils and some dice from the Yahtzee game so we could find them.

It was always beautiful with its carved and raised front. I remember tracing those beautiful wooden swirls so many times with my finger.

From there, Mom moved to another apartment near where my brother lived for the last nine months of her life. It was in this apartment that I first realized that my brother, sister-in-law and I would have to figure out what to do with mother’s things eventually.

While there wasn’t much of a physical nature that I wanted, I did want the secretary which had been such a quiet part of my life for so many years – nearly half a century.

By then I could open the desk and look at the homework marks and smile. Mom never mentioned them to me, but she couldn’t have missed them. Maybe she knew how badly I felt.

A New Home

After Mom’s passing, I brought the secretary home in a rented truck on one very sad Mother’s Day and installed it in the dining room in a little nook that seems to be made just for Mom’s secretary. For the longest time, I’d glance in that direction and be a little startled while reflexively thinking to myself “what’s Mom’s secretary doing here”?

Slowly, the startle went away, and now it’s just a warm presence in the corner, near me as I iron and quilt and sew. Keeping me company, surrounding me with something of Mom’s essence. My old friend, beckoning, saying hello, reminding me of happy times that Mom and I spent together across so many years and miles.

Sometimes I walk by and caress Mom’s secretary, smiling a little sadly and remembering. I open it from time to time and take out things that were hers, Avon notes and receipts in her increasingly shaky handwriting that mean absolutely nothing, but I can’t bring myself to throw away.

Mom’s Bibles, the one her mother gave her for Christmas in 1951, now much worn.

The one we got her when my kids were young when she asked for a new Bible for Christmas, and the one my father gave her. Her old one is my favorite, by far, with her handwriting throughout her life, holding obituaries and birth announcements inside the cover.

I imagine what Mom was thinking as she inscribed those important family dates; births, marriages and deaths. I can close my eyes and see her at the secretary, writing. It’s almost as if I could just reach out…

I think of her. I touch her things and smile, sometimes through tears as the ghostly memories transport me back to her.

The trinkets of her life still live in the little cubbies. I’ve added a few items of my own, like boxes of cards that I send with care quilts as they leave for their lives with their new owners. It’s kind of like Mom is with me a bit as I open the secretary to write an uplifting note. That only seems right, given that I make the quilts sitting at the table beside the secretary.

The 13^th Anniversary

This year’s anniversary of Mom’s passing is a bit different. As fate would have it, I’ll be leaving the day before to speak about DNA at the NGS conference in St. Charles, Missouri and passing not terribly far from her grave. “Not far,” as in marked by hours.

Mom isn’t buried “near” to anyplace I travel with any regularity. I think I’ve only been to her grave 2 or 3 times, but this year, I’ll be visiting to say hello, on the same day I said goodbye 13 years ago. How’s that for irony.

I’ll chat with Mom, saying whatever comes to mind, as if she can hear me.

Perhaps I’ll sit on a quilt in the grass by her stone and tell her where I’m headed and what I’m doing. She encouraged me to “tell people’s stories” revealed by their DNA. She would be very surprised not only that I’ve done exactly that, but how the fledgling genetics industry she knew has prospered and grown. If she was still with me, I’d have her DNA in the newer databases too.

The Gift

Mom gifted me a few days ago, in a very odd way, reminding me of her presence. I felt her near.

I was dusting the secretary, something I’ve done hundreds of times now. Mom collected toothpick holders. At the auction, a few either didn’t sell or perhaps she held them out because she particularly liked them. I remember her crying as the entire box sold for an obscenely low price, but by then, it was too late. I so desperately wish I had bought them.

In any case, as I moved a toothpick with a metal lid, I heard a faint “clink.” As I put the toothpick back on the secretary, I heard it again. Odd, I had NEVER heard that before.

I picked the toothpick up and opened the lid to discover my Mom’s cross that I had given her many years before. I wondered after she passed away what happened to the cross, but I presumed that another family member was cherishing the cross and never thought more about it.

Imagine my surprise. I couldn’t help but wonder why Mom put it in a toothpick holder, of all places.

The last few months of her life, mother was having multiple small undiagnosed strokes, which makes me wonder if she took the cross off for some reason, putting it in the little toothpick holder which probably was sitting near her chair, for safekeeping. Perhaps she forgot where she put it, and it’s clearly not someplace one would randomly stumble across looking for a piece of jewelry.

Odder still, there was no chain, just the cross. It had a chain when I gave it to her.

I cried when I realized that somehow, Mom had managed to gift me with her cross so many years later. A gift that had been waiting for me all that time – in her secretary.

Now I’m even more grateful to be the steward of her secretary, my silent forever friend – spanning 5 decades of our lives together across two states. The secretary has been in our family for parts of two or three centuries and at least three generations, if not more. I don’t know how, when or where my grandmother acquired it.

I still miss Mom. Perhaps more than ever as the years slowly increase, marking the cavernous time from the last time I heard her voice and held her hand. I remember both events clearly. I was driving home, talking to her, the evening before her “big stroke” and had to stop to remove a family of geese from the road. She was laughing at me, admonishing me to be careful. Just days later, I held her hand as she died.

Even her last message on my phone, which I replayed for years, disappeared one day.

Wearing Mom’s cross eases the pain of her passing a bit, that bottomless hole that will never even begin to fill, for a few minutes anyway, until it doesn’t anymore.

See you Tuesday, Mom.

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