Birthday

On this date in 1872, William Poindexter Williams and his wife, Matilda Caroline (Lee) Williams, gave birth to their sixth child, Bertha Alice. When she was 22, Bertha married Henry Graham. They had one child together, a daughter, Lila Clara. Lila would also eventually have one daughter: My mother.

Bertha’s first husband died, and about a year later Bertha married Eugene (Gene) Gifford, thus becoming Bertha Gifford, that name now infamous due to circumstances that occurred so very long ago.

In 2008, one day after what would have been Bertha’s 136^th birthday, the book I wrote about her alleged crimes was released on Amazon.com.

Folks who live in Missouri in and around the town where she lived have claimed that it was said at the time of her death that “her grave should go unmarked for fifty years.”

I was unaware of that local lore when I arranged, in 2009, to have a headstone placed on her grave, but when I heard it, I did the math; her headstone was placed 58 years after her death. What gave me chills, though, was the realization that I had begun the book in 2001—50 years after her death.

The marking of Bertha’s grave is not the only significant event that has occurred since the publication of the book—or because of it.

In researching Bertha—and searching for who else might be searching for her—I connected with Marc Houseman, historian and director of the Washington Historical Society and museum in Washington, Missouri. In the decade since, he has become one of my closest friends. Writing the book also introduced me to a fellow lover-of-ghosts-and-cemeteries, Ginger, who is also now one of my dearest and closest friends in the world.

And oh my goodness, the cousins I’ve met! Starting with Jean Thompson, who has now passed over, but was my first living familial link to Bertha besides my mother. Also: Tim Fiedler, owner of the farmhouse on Bend Road where Bertha lived and where I am now always welcomed when in Missouri. Tim Ogle, the cousin who found me through researching our mutual ancestors and who introduced me to another cousin, Maxine Nevel, who told us recently she was fine to stand while talking but, she said, “When I was ninety-five, I had to stop riding the horses.” She’s ninety-eight. Chris Wilkinson, the cousin who found me through reading the book and was kind enough to reach out to me, showing me pages from an ancient family Bible that listed our mutual ancestors. He and his wife are now dear friends.

The list goes on.

I’ve lost count of the number of talks I’ve given about Bertha at libraries and book clubs and writers groups. Every single event has been a joy, mostly for the kind individuals who have expressed compassion and empathy for my great-grandmother, but also for those who’ve shared a different perspective on her deeds; the fact that they have read the book is always enough to make me happy.

All of these introductions, events, and connections have been invaluable to me, including and especially the book's effect on my mother. For 80 years, she carried the shame of having been the granddaughter of this woman who had been accused of heinous crimes. Reading the book helped her see Bertha from a new perspective. Her shame fell away when she considered her grandmother as simply a fallible human being, not the monster that others and the media had portrayed her to be. Mom was given closure, and for that I am most grateful.

When I wrote that book, I wrote it for my mother. And for my family (because I know that one day, my yet-to-be-born great-grandchildren will be interested). And for the folks in Missouri who still tell the stories about Bertha. I never could have imagined the resulting repercussions it would have. It is one story. Telling it would change my life in profound and wonderful ways.

Thank you, Bertha, for giving me your story. For trusting me with it. And happy, happy birthday. Please hug my mom and Grandma Lila for me.

In MO

Last Thursday, October 10th, I landed in St. Louis at 6:10p.m. I switched my phone off airplane mode as soon as we'd arrived at the terminal--only to find 17 text messages awaiting me. A fire was burning in Calimesa, the city where I live. Friends and family members were calling, texting, emailing and hitting me up on Facebook to check on me.

It only took a few minutes to get a Lyft ride, and from the backseat of my driver's car, I called my next-door neighbor. All was well in my senior complex, but the mobile home park 5 miles away had burned to the ground. The good folks in my town were already rallying to reach out to those who had been displaced.

We drove on in a steady rain to Pacific, Missouri, where Marc and Ginger, my two musketeers, were waiting in the lobby of the hotel to take me to dinner. We talked about the fires burning back home, about my flight, about Marc's health and Ginger's current situation with a bad, bad ex-husband. It was so, so great to see them.

The next day was meant for rambling. I met my new-found cousin, Chris, and his wife Vicki, in the hotel breakfast room the next morning. Chris and I share a distant (several times) great-grandfather, Israel Lee, and the day would be spent looking for Israel's grave. We never found it (though we have a few new leads). But along the way we stopped in Morse Mill so that I could visit the grave of my great-grandmother, Bertha Gifford. Marc pointed out the remains of the old mill, which sat upon the banks of the Big River (not to be confused with the Meramec or the Missouri or the Mississippi rivers), and we strolled across the old bridge that is still there.

Later, we would find another mill along the Big River, one Israel Lee might have been involved in erecting. 

Chris and I ventured inside the 100-plus-year-old building, which is mostly gutted, and the giant millstones are gone, but it was clear where they'd been placed all those years ago, and how the pressure from the flow of the river water passed through to turn the mechanism which turned the stones. The place is for sale, and we had half a mind to call the realtor. But then common sense prevailed.

I'd been invited to Missouri to attend a ceremony to honor my great-great-great-great-grandfather on my mother's paternal side, Landon Williams, who had fought in the War of 1812. The Society of the War of 1812 in the State of Missouri, and the National Society of United States Daughters of 1812 in the State of Missouri were joining together to bestow a medallion in recognition of his service on the grave of Landon Williams. He did not die in the war. He survived--and fathered a son who fathered a son who fathered my great-grandmother. Amazing, no?

The ceremony was presided over by Sumner Hunnewell, president of the Society of the War of 1812 in the State of Missouri--and a true renaissance man. He not only emceed the ceremony, he brought 30 small pies for refreshments. Pies he baked himself. From scratch. And I mean scratch--making his own crust and cooking down the pumpkin for the pumpkin pie (which was not the only kind; he also brought berry, pecan, and mincemeat). 

The 4th Regiment North Carolina Militia turned out for the ceremony as well, posting the colors and, at the end, providing a rifle salute to Landon Williams.

Cool, no? Of course, as soon as they posted the colors, I cried--for our flag, for our country, for men who find the courage to act out of duty to both, and for all the generations of my family that somehow survived hardship and kept reproducing so that I could live this extraordinary life. It was a lot to take in. Plus pie.

All of this hoopla started when my cousin, Tim Ogle, went looking for people in the Williams family he was related to. And he found Landon Williams' grave. And the headstone was broken, so he repaired it. (Good job, Tim!!) In researching Landon, he discovered his service in 1812, eventually enlisting the aid of the two historical societies to honor Landon's service. All I had to do was show up and take a seat in the front row.

The next day, my last full day in Missouri, was spent once again with buds Marc and Ginger, just driving around, visiting cemeteries, laughing over lunch and Marc's puns and cornball jokes. (We love them. We really do.) As we were headed back to the hotel, he casually mentioned, "Oh, we're near my friends' home. They raise bison." And suddenly he was pulling to the side of the road. Yep. That's a buffalo all right.

People often ask me why I go to Missouri every year, and what I do there. Well... I spend a lot of time walking through cemeteries... and hugging friends... and laughing... and relaxing... and seeing things I don't normally see... and being spoiled. I get homesick easily, and I miss my fur babies while I'm gone. But the minute I'm home again, I also miss the friends and cousins I will not see for another year. Oh yeah, I'll be back again next year. We still have to find Israel's grave.

Grief

This is just a brief addendum to my previous post. It is the grateful acknowledgement of another pain I have not had to endure.

You will have to look closely at the photo above to see that those blue balloons are attached to party hats. I took this picture in the cemetery next door. That particular section is reserved for babies and toddlers who have passed over.

On a gloomy, rainy day, I drove into the cemetery to take Sgt. Thomas Tibbs for a walk, but the balloons grabbed my attention, and I pulled over long enough to snap the shot. Then I got out and went to investigate.

Beneath each balloon was a festive party hat, and beneath each hat was a small, sealed envelope, protected from the rain in a clear plastic bag. All the baby graves had a similar envelope, save the grave up front, the one that is frequently decorated with toys. The same one that was piled high with fresh snow one day last winter. (No, it doesn't snow here. At least, not at this elevation. But we're an hour's drive from the mountains. Someone had gone up and brought down enough snow to make a mound three feet tall and nearly as wide.)

The envelopes were addressed to the parents of the deceased: "To the parents of Isaiah" ... "To the parents of Sarah Lynn" ....

I couldn't help it. My curiosity got the best of me. I slipped open one of the ziplock bags, hoping to see what was inside the envelope. But they were all sealed.

You are left to your imagination, as I was.

But the parent 'hosting' the party for departed young souls was clearly reaching out--in grief, in kindness, in empathy--to all the other parents who were experiencing the same loss.

Weird? Amazing? Compassionate? Loving? Yes.

Thank you, Universe, that in this life, I have never shared that experience. All of my children, all of my grandchildren, are well and healthy.

May it be so until I draw my last breath... and join the others for the party.

Pain

Last night as I was trying to pop some frozen fruit out of an ice cube tray, my hand slipped and my right thumb smashed into the counter at just the precise angle to bend the nail back so far it bled. It hurt enough for me to make continual guttural sounds, possibly blaspheming, for about ten minutes. (I don’t remember what I said or if I said anything coherent. I just remember it hurt enough to require some verbal response.) It was tender for the remainder of the evening, but my only inconvenience was not being able to quickly unlock my iPhone as I couldn’t use my right thumb print to do so.

That pain, that smashed thumb pain, was nothing like what I’ve been experiencing for the past three weeks.

I don’t know what I did. It might have been a yoga position performed without adequate stretching. It might have been sitting in an awkward position for too long. But three Sundays ago I woke up with pain in my hips radiating down my left leg and into my calf. After I returned from my usual dog walk with Sgt. Thomas Tibbs (because why wouldn’t I go?), I could hardly walk. I ended up on the floor on my back, knees pulled up, breath coming in moaning sobs.

The pain in my calf from the irritation of the sciatic nerve felt as if a dragon had sunk its talons into the back of my leg and would periodically squeeze just to remind me it had all power over me.

For the first few days, I barely functioned, spending most of my time on my back, a heating pad beneath my hips. After an appointment with my doctor, some time on an oral steroid and copious amounts of Ibuprofen, I slowly—ever so slowly—began to feel some relief. I am still recovering, but in the last few days, I’ve been able to walk Thomas again, which is one activity I simply can’t live without.

That pain, that sciatic nerve pain, was excruciating. But it was nothing like the pain a friend is going through now as her husband, recently diagnosed with a debilitating disease, begins to decline. I can’t imagine what she’s feeling. The two are inseparable soulmates. They’re my age, so they should be looking forward to another 20 or 30 years together. Instead, they are trying to maximize the handful of years they may—or may not—have left. Outwardly, she is still smiling, still maintaining her strength, her warmth, her tender care of the man she loves. Inwardly…. As I said, I can’t imagine what hellish heartbreak she’s experiencing.

Pain is relative.

I will confess that as I began to spiral downward into the vortex of pain my sciatica produced, I felt myself on the edge of despair. I had to summon all my strategies—reading good books, talking to good friends, hunkering down on the floor with Thomas or curling up on the couch with the kitties—so that depression didn’t take me over. I kept wondering how I would survive if this issue with sciatica became my new normal. How would I cope with the harshness of the world at large if I couldn’t walk my dog out into the quiet countryside and center myself?

But sometimes surviving comes down to a matter of perspective. I hurt. And the pain immobilized me physically. But it was nothing like losing a loved one. When I couldn’t get out to buy groceries, a friend brought pizza. Another friend came by to socialize and to reassure me that I would get better with time. I never lacked food or shelter or love. How can I not see myself as incredibly blessed compared to those in the world who go hungry daily or live in constant fear for their lives due to war or oppression?

Perspective is everything.

This morning, for the first time in weeks, I walked with my good dog on a quiet, dusty road far from the bustle of the city. We inhaled the autumn-crisp air and watched the sun slowly rise in the east as the birds began to flit around us and chatter. My hands on Thom’s leash were freezing, but my heart was warm. May this gratitude continue, even if I am once again immersed in pain.