Memories, light the corners of my mind
Misty watercolor memories of the way we were.
Scattered pictures of the smiles we left behind
smiles we give to one another
for the way we were.
Can it be that it was all so simple then
or has time rewritten every line?
These lyrics are from Barbara Streisand’s classic song The Way We Were however I think of the title as Memories. As I thought about writing this piece these lyrics, dare I say poem, were very much part of my thinking. This is a paradox in that this piece will focus on death and the resting place of those we have known and those we have not. Those whose names are just that-a name on a genealogy chart. They are a part of who I am but what part and how much? Would I like them if we met? Has someone told me I would not? Is that really true? Beyond that what respect do we the living owe to them?
For those we have known in life time can and does rewrite every line especially after their passing. If we were predisposed to like them I suspect we tend to remember the good about them and let the bad pass away. A similar pattern would exist for those of whom we were not particularly fond. However there is the caveat “Do not speak ill of the dead.” It seems our custom, in general, is to remember the good and allow the other to pass away whenever possible. Perhaps the belief in another existence beyond this one plants the thought that the dead now know their shortcomings and our angst will be of no effect.
So why are my musings going to this place? First I am of an age that such thoughts reflect a coming reality for myself and others I know and love of my age. Second my family was very cognizant of respecting the dead and so Memorial Day finds me doing the family task of weeding, cutting, and planting at family graves-wondering all the while if anyone will do the same for me. Third knowledge of half my family is missing. My father’s Philadelphia family is a mystery. I soon learned that some of the meager details I had were not even true-a bleak task indeed.
My father said little to us about his Philadelphia family and most of it was reluctantly-his mother maiden name was O’Hara and she died when he was young, he was placed in foster care, he had an older sister. My two brothers and I had my mother’s family-and she exhibited no desire to know her “in-laws.” Growing up we did not feel the loss. Now my mother and her family are gone and I have first cousins but I realized that beyond her siblings and their families I do not know very much. Suddenly my attention was focused on those who carried the same family name and, aside from my two brothers and their families, I knew nothing about.
My father has been gone for over 30 years and I inherited his cigar box filled with pictures that were not marked, World War II memorabilia, a Philadelphia Lodge #2 Elk’s club handbook from 1920, a small cameo pendant, and an original Pennsylvania birth certificate for an aunt Anne-younger than my father-I never knew I had. This is where I began this journey looking for people from another place and perhaps already dead. I had memories but only from my imagination. I had pictures but who were they? Did I mention that the maiden name of my grandmother, on my aunt’s birth certificate, was not the name my father told me? I would get out the cigar box to look at pictures, my frustration would build, and I would put the box away-for a time.
My first step was to sort the 50 or so black and white 2” x 3” pictures. Those from my father’s Army career were put in one pile. There were pictures of my father as a young boy in Philadelphia that I recognized and they went into a different pile. The third pile were of folks I did not know and based on their clothing from the 1930’s and 1940’s. My father’s handwriting, on the back of one picture declared “the whole dam family” and no more. More frustration and I put the box away yet again.
Then I had a dream, over 20 years ago, a very vivid dream that seems like it happened last night. It was twilight and I was in a cemetery. No horror movie things here-it was serene and peaceful. It was spring or summer, everything was green and lush. A dark haired woman in a white dress stood before me. The dress was from the early 1900’s. It was full length, high collar, and long sleeved and she appeared to be in her late 20’s. I just knew she was Emma, my father’s mother, and she spoke to me. She raised her right arm and pointed off to a mausoleum-like structure and told me it was my job to bring the family together.
She said no more. Did she mean that people were scattered in different burial places? Was my task to literally have graves moved? Was I to track down family members and see them entombed together? In spite of the 20 years this dream has kept me on the path to discovery. Did one of my memories finally have a face? Not really. Her features were vague and not in the sharp focus of the surroundings.
My next thought was that I should send for my father’s military records. I sent the request and took special care not to tell my mother what I was doing. I waited almost a year for a response-thinking that they would never arrive-and when they did arrive it took a moment to sink in what I had. Now the conditions of the copies were also a marvel to me. There was a fire at the military storage facility and the copies showed edges that were singed and burned. I was fortunate to have them. They confirmed the Philadelphia enlistment, my grandfather and grandmother’s names, and my Aunt Anne’s existence. My father went into the Army with one middle name and left with a different one-what was that about? I was still creating memories from my imagination.
My next thought was finding a death notice for my grandfather. My mother told me he died shortly before my they were married and she did not go to the funeral. I wrote to the Philadelphia newspaper of record of the year and requested an archive search for my Pappy’s obituary-I now referred to him as Pappy-not grandpa or granddad-he was Pappy. They found nothing.
Dad said he was a big deal in the Elks Club-the booklet in the cigar box must be his-and so I thought the newspaper would have an obituary write-up and it did not. The Philadelphia Elk’s might have records but the Lodge was long gone and there seemed to be no one to contact. The funeral home was still open in Philadelphia but my requests for information were never answered. By now I was getting internet savvy and I found the vital records for Philadelphia and sent for Pappy’s death certificate but as in all good mysteries it left me with more questions.
What I learned was that Pappy was older than I expected when my father was born. My math skills served me well. He was 69 when he died and my dad was 25 so he was 44 when my father was born-much older than I thought. I went right to the cigar box and I had his picture. My Dad had similar features and because I knew he was older then I just knew it was Pappy and I had another face to add to my memories. However his death certificate listed his parents’ names as unknown. Darn! He was from Vermont? What? I was happy of course but now I had more questions to search out. I put the box away again.
About 10 years ago I was searching on the internet and I discovered that Elk’s clubs often had an Elk Rest section in some cemeteries. What about Philadelphia? Yes it did-Mount Moriah Cemetery (MMC) was one of the oldest Victorian garden cemeteries in the country. I wrote a letter and received a reply that Pappy was buried in there and it gave me the lot and section number. I could not believe it. How soon could I make the trip? Was my grandmother buried there? I wrote to MMC again and never received a response to my inquiries about my grandmother. In the meantime I was finishing a PhD, my job was changing, and I was developing mobility problem from childhood polio. The cigar box was put away again.
My grandmother had neither birth or death record nor record of her marriage to Pappy. Seeing he was older was Emma his second wife? My dear friend who has traced her family back many generations was using her memberships to genealogy sites to look information and she came up with nothing. I put the cigar box away-again.
Then on Saint Patrick’s Day in 2010 I was thinking about my father-remember he told me his mother was an O’Hara from County Cork. He loved the day and dressed in green down to his underwear but our name is not Irish. I thought of Aunt Anne. (Did I mention that as a Roman Catholic we take a name for our confirmation? When I was 13 years old many years ago I took the name Anne. Even though the spelling is odd it was an identical name.) I did an internet search and I found a military-Army-record for that name from Philadelphia with same birth date but a one year difference-I think she lied about her age to get into the Army. Why not the Army? Dad was in Army. Unfortunately as I followed up I learned her records were lost in the same fire that almost claimed my Dad’s. I was able to get her final pay record-she mustered out to Philadelphia-but then she disappeared.
Finally in the late winter of 2013 a friend wanted to take a summer trip. We had talked about Maine but then she said south. I have long wanted to go to Gettysburg. Then I could get to MMC. I looked up MMC on the internet and found out it had been abandoned for several years and finally had been taken over by a group of family members who had relatives buried in MMC and were forming a not-for-profit group. Wisely, in hind sight, I wrote to them and connected with Rob. He is a volunteer with over 120 family members buried in the 140 acres of MMC. We exchanged numerous emails and he was astonished that I ever received a response from MMC when I wrote in 2003. The words he uses to refer to the former MMC Association is less than charitable and I again realized how “luck” had been on my side. In addition my Pappy’s grave had been covered in 3 to 4 feet of overgrowth until May when a volunteer group came to clear the site.
Can you believe that after all of this I was not sure I was up to the drive into Philadelphia? We were staying in Lancaster and the Philadelphia traffic was murder. My friend and I were dazed by the route but we finally got there and Rob and I met face-to-face. My friend was overwhelmed by the size of MMC, the many sites still buried by brush, and the great deal of work the Friends of MMC had to do. I was prepared for that because Rob had been sending pictures.
When we got to the site I knew I was meant to be there. It had been 60+ years since Pappy’s funeral and, as far as I know, since any family had been to the site. It was a lovely spot on the side of a hill. I had made a flower arrangement with his name on it-hoping maybe someone else might see it and ask questions. Rob was pretty sure there had once been a headstone but it had been removed to put in someone else’s stone. It was never returned because no one had paid for perpetual care but we could identify the exact location of his grave.
In my mind's eye I saw my Dad standing at the graveside on a cold November day. Was he ambivalent about the father for whom he had so many mixed feelings? Yet was he still feeling the loss of his father? I know exactly how that felt. In addition the area had a resemblance to the surroundings in my dream-it was lush and green-and had only weeks before been covered in weeds. An even bigger miracle was this was an August day in Philadelphia and the temperature was 71, low humidity, and a soft breeze.
My friend was overwhelmed by the experience. Rob had given us a brief tour of the two sides of MMC-half in Philadelphia County and half in Delaware County. Pappy is in the Delaware side. We saw a Civil War site and my friend was captivated by MMC. Driving into Philadelphia she was asking me “Why are you doing this?” Driving home she was asking when I would go back?
I now have memories with faces, names, and locations. I was not there when Pappy died and was buried and I have much more to discover about my family. This trip, dare I say pilgrimage, was an important part of my journey. I knew Pappy was not perfect but the respect I came to show him was really as important for me personally as it was to respect his memory. Some of my success and strength come from him. I did not see this part of the journey before I arrived at MMC but I see it more clearly now thanks to a dear friend who told me to write it down. I had the cigar box with me at MMC and standing there with Pappy’s picture in hand let me know I was somewhat closer to my grandmother’s request. We were getting closer together at long last and it had nothing to do with moving graves and everything to do with memories being constructed to light the corners of my mind.
