“So, where approximately are we looking,” I asked my sister, Cory?
“Well…the thing is,” she chuckled in a sort of embarrassed kind of way, “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know? You mean you have no idea whatsoever?”
“I thought we could ask at the office. They should have a map. But it looks like they’re closed on Sundays. We’ll just have to look around and hope for the best. Maybe we’ll get lucky,” she offered hopefully.
“I don’t know. This place is HUGE,” I replied, turning my head and looking out every window of her van. “But it could be interesting. I’m game. Let’s just see what we can find.”
Cory parked the van and I grabbed my camera, stepping out into the warm Sunday afternoon sun. There were grave stones in every direction, some clearly very old and others more recent. I was fascinated by the names and studied the birth and death years on each stone, mentally calculating the number of years each person had lived. A lot of people used to die young. There were a lot of babies and children. I felt a sudden pang in my chest at the thought of losing one of my own, then quickly tried to force the thought away before it succeeded in darkening my spirits.
I called over to Cory who was wandering a short distance away, her head dipped low, studying some of the in-ground stones, “What names are we looking for?”
“The one I really want to find is Anna D***.”
I didn’t recognize the name. “Who was she?”
“Grandpa’s sister,” she responded without looking up.
I stopped and stared at her. “What? I’ve never heard that name before. How could Grandpa have a sister I’ve never even heard mention of?”
Still studying the stones in her vicinity, she replied, “Probably the same reason Dad didn’t know of her. She died before Dad was even born. She was only like twenty-one when she died.”
I stopped my own search and stared at the back of my sister’s head indignantly. “I can’t believe Dad didn’t know about her! Didn’t our family talk about anything with each other? No wonder we know so little about our ancestry!”
I found myself feeling grateful that my sister has been working so hard on our family tree for the past several years and a little guilty that I’d done nothing to assist to this point. The day’s expedition was the result of Cory’s search of death records at the church my grandparents had attended all of their lives. She had found Anna’s death record there and information showing she had been buried at Calvary Cemetery in St. Paul. Our search for the grave site was in order to substantiate Anna’s connection to our family. Calvary is an expansive cemetery. Not surprisingly, we had no luck finding Anna’s grave or any other of the names my sister had on her list. Our time there was fascinating and I did snap some pictures, but we agreed we’d come back another day when the office was open so we could find the exact location of the relatives we were looking to find. I suddenly found myself craving more knowledge of my ancestors; who they were, what they did, and what they were like. Cory’s genealogy research will help, and maybe I can help her with it from now on, but it’s not the same as knowing the stories. And now most anyone who could have passed on those stories is gone.
We left Calvary and drove to Resurrection Cemetery in Mendota Heights where some other relatives were buried but were met with the same obstacles we faced at Calvary. The office was closed and there were just too many grave stones to think we could find the few for which we were searching.
Though our search proved fruitless, I had enjoyed spending time with my sister. We reminisced about our grandparents and relived old memories. We lamented the fact that my grandparents’ old neighborhood has fallen into such disrepair. We remember a street full of family homes, friendly people, a neighbor nicknamed “Okie” and walking around a block filled with tidy homes and yards. Today, the neighborhood seems sad and neglected; even a little scary.
As Cory drove, I commented, “Wouldn’t it be great to be able to travel back in time? I’d love to go back and spend time in the house when Grandma and Grandpa were young and raising a family. I’d love to meet the neighbors and friends Grandma used to talk about. I’d love to see the neighborhood as it was when it was when it was younger and full of life.”
“I know,” she agreed. “I know.”
**********
Last night as I was getting ready for bed, I heard the sound of a helicopter over the house. I thought it was just passing through, but the noise remained. I went to the lower level where Mark was watching television and Kacey was playing on Face Book.
“I wonder what’s with the helicopter,” I mentioned as I passed through the family room.
Mark went out to investigate and returned to say it looked like there was a search going on. Kacey said she received a Face Book message from her friend Andi saying that a stabbing had occurred in the area and the authorities were searching for the perpetrator.
“This neighborhood is turning SO ghetto,” Kacey announced.
I was already on my way out of the room, but that comment struck me. We’ve been in our neighborhood for almost twenty-two years. I wondered about Kacey’s assessment. Ghetto?
I thought about the house next door. It was once the home of a young family and later that of a young couple. The couple has since divorced and moved away. The house is in foreclosure.
I thought about two homes across the street. The families living in each are struggling with family problems. The upkeep of their homes has clearly fallen to the bottom of the priority lists.
I thought about families we knew when the neighborhood was just developing; families who have since moved away. Homes have been sold over and over. Trees have matured. There’s definitely an older face on the place we’ve called home all these years. I suddenly worried that my children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren wouldn’t know our stories.
And then I remembered… this is why I have a blog.