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.