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.

Back East, Part II

St. Michael's parish in Mitchell Township. My ancestors helped to build this church. They are buried next to it.

(Scroll down for Part I of this thread if you haven’t read that bit yet.)

Do you know who your great-great grandparents were? Do you know their names and where they lived?

Most people don’t. In the years that I spent researching Tainted Legacy, it occurred to me more and more that I had never thought past my grandparents. (I suspect my mother was always secretly glad of that, since she didn’t want to talk about her grandmother to anyone before the family secret was laid bare by her curious and persistent daughter.) Genealogy, in the pre-discovery-of-Bertha-Gifford days, was boring to me. I mean, I knew that my ancestors had come to America from Ireland—Dad never let us forget it. But, let’s face it; those were dead people. What did they have to do with me? Sigh. What a self-absorbed little ingrate I am at times.

I began to change in my thinking during long conversations with my cousin, Danny Fiocchi. We talked about Bertha a lot because I was immersed in writing the book and then I was immersed in finding a publisher. But those talks eventually led to him sharing about discoveries his brother Mick had made about the Murphy side of our family. After Tainted Legacy was finally published, I began traveling back to Missouri every summer to promote the book, give talks on Bertha, roam around in cemeteries where Bertha and others are buried, and visit all the new friends and cousins I made during the writing and research. And with every year that passed, Danny encouraged me to take a summer out and head up to Wisconsin to visit one particular graveyard up there.

Well, Danny my love, I’ve finally done it. I’m so sorry, sweetheart, that you are no longer around so that you could’ve gone with us—although I felt your presence with us every step of the way, let me tell you.

This is me, standing by the headstone--how grand it is!--for Jeremiah and Elizabeth Murphy.

My great-great grandparents, Jeremiah (Jerry) and Elizabeth (Betsy) Murphy traveled—somehow, dear lord, making that rough trip over the ocean—from Ireland to the baby country of America. After living for a time in Massachusetts, presumably to work and save their money, they made their way to Sheboygan, Wisconsin, and then set out to find land on which to homestead in Mitchell Township, walking the twenty miles out into the country to find the perfect spot. And they found it, boy howdy, they found it.

Cousin Mick was our tour guide when we drove out to Mitchell. From his careful study of plat maps and other historical information, he has been able to determine precisely where that early Murphy family built their home (which is no longer standing). Oh, the countryside there! The green rolling hills and fertile soil, the trees and trees and more trees! (Actually, the trees are so thick, they have obscured a view of where the house would have stood. Had I taken my hiking boots with me, I would’ve been game to tromp on through.)

Can you imagine it? No paved road, no electricity, no phone lines, twenty miles from town. “Yes, dear, I think you’re right; this is the perfect spot for our new home.” Of course, they had to get a house built before the winter came on. I hear Wisconsin winters can be a bit chilly….

The courage of those two! Oh, wait, did I mention that five of their six children had already been born, and that Jerry and Betsy were nearly forty by the time they booked passage on a barge to travel down the Erie Canal to Lake Erie, then travel by steamboat across the Great Lakes to Sheboygan? Yeah. And then the seven of them walked to Mitchell Township. (“Mary, keep on eye on your little brother! You know John is always running so far ahead I can’t see him!” I can just hear Betsy….)

But I know something about wanting a better life for your children… and how you just gird yourself up and then keep putting one foot in front of the other, no matter how tired you are…. But hey, I’ve always had the comforts of electricity and a car and running water and a functional indoor toilet. Well, most of the time, anyway.

Two years after homesteading, Jerry and Betsy gave birth to their youngest son, Peter Henry Murphy, my great-grandfather. My dad was named after him. He would later marry Julia O’Brien, and the two would have ten children, including my Grandpa George. George and his wife, Delia, had seven children, including my father, who was also born in Mitchell Township.

Beneath this humble stone lie Peter and Julia Murphy, my great-grands.

Knowing all this history (which has been gleaned from multiple sources and carefully set down for the family by Cousin Mick), I stood over the graves of Jerry and Betsy, Peter and Julia, with profound humility and gratitude. Our family, down through the generations, has never lacked for work ethic. We have always been less interested in amassing wealth and more interested in the values of family and home life. Well, and the value of a good Irish whiskey, let’s be honest.

I am grateful as well to Danny and Mick, who gently encouraged me over the years to take this trip until I finally did it. There is a sense of respect that is cultivated in learning of one’s ancestry, one’s own personal history. Thank you, Jerry and Betsy, for agreeing together to leave one beautiful land to come to another. It is an understatement to say that I am privileged to be here because of the sacrifices you made.

Peter and Julia Murphy, my great-grandparents, with their youngest son between them, surrounded by nine of their ten children.

The Mystery of Ernest Jefferson West. Solved.

My grandmother, Lila Clara Graham West

Ernest Jefferson West is my maternal grandfather.  But I know very little about him.  We lived in California and he lived in Florida as I was growing up, and I only remember meeting him once.  He and my grandmother, Lila, divorced when she was still a relatively young woman, and he went on to marry someone else, have other children, create another life.

By the time I knew that Grandma Lila's mother had been tried for murder, Grandma Lila had already left this earth, so I could not harangue her for information as I did my mother.  One thing she did not have answers for was this:  How did her mom (Lila) and dad (Ernest--whom Mom is named after) end up in Detroit?  Lila was born and raised in rural Missouri.  Somehow she was in Detroit in the early 1920's, running a boarding house... which is why she sent her young daughter Ernestine to live 'back on the farm' in Missouri, so she would be "safe" in the country from all the dangers of the big city... which is how Mom came to be there the day her grandmother was arrested for murder.

A lifetime later, I tried to track down the history of Ernest Jefferson West (as did my genealogy-loving sister-in-law), but to no avail.  I wanted to know where he came from, how he met my grandmother, why they ended up in Detroit.  For years, I had no answers.

On my last trip to Missouri, I told my dear friend Marc Houseman (Saint Marc, at this point) everything I knew about Ernest West, and I asked for help in finding him.  Marc spent hours researching findagrave.com and ancestry.com and any other place he could think of.  And he found him.  He found him.

Now I know that Ernest Jefferson West (the son of Andrew Johnson West and Artie Miss West, nee Kelly) lived in Iron County, Missouri, some distance (but not too far, apparently) from the county in which Lila grew up.  They were married in 1914.  As Marc shared with me the information he had found, he pointed out that the 1920 shows the young couple living in Detroit, with Ernest working in the auto industry.  Makes sense, right?  And it's a universal, American Dream type of story.  The youngsters left the rural mid-west, hoping to build a future for themselves.  Sadly, they divorced several years later.  Lila was on her own, and she sent her only child back home to live with her mother.  Little did she know what would transpire over the next few years.

So now I know.  I only wish my grandma were still alive.  It never occurred to me when I was a kid, then a young newlywed myself, to ask her how she'd met her husband.  If I had, I might have been privy to their reasons for leaving Missouri.  Now, I can only conjecture.

I do know how my mom met my dad, so for posterity's sake (and because it's my mama's birthday today--Happy Birthday, Mom!), here it is:

My mother was a singer during the 1940's.  She did not sing on the radio nor did she have a recording contract.  What she has told me is that she traveled around the mid-west, occasionally staying in towns she liked.  She would find a nightclub, and if she liked the band, she would convince them to let her get up and sing.  She made tips and traveling money, as she put it.  One night, at a club in Highland Park, Illinois, a man from the crowd approached her after her set and asked to give her a ride home.  She declined.  He offered again, but somewhat belligerently.  When she declined again, he became obnoxious.  Sitting nearby was my father, who gallantly stood and said something like, "Didn't you hear the lady?  She doesn't want a ride home."  Their brief conversation ended in my father punching the guy in the nose.  My dad wasn't a policeman yet in those days, but he was a taxi driver, and he did take my mom home that night.  Good call, Mom!

My mom and dad, circa 1947