On Learning She Took A Knee

The parson arrived fairly early in the morning to pick up Number Six. [The parson has always remembered how his grandmother would often say to him, “Frank, Bob, Bill, Fred, ah you, come help me with this.] As such the parson, in fear he might become his grandmother and forget his grandchildren’s names decided long ago to number them. The parson knocked on the door of the house and, lo and behold, Number Two answered.

She hugged him and yelled to her mother and sister he was there. In no time at all Number Six was fastening her seat belt in anticipation of the day’s adventure. She in her nine years of growth has become an avid historian. She and the parson were headed out so she could learn something about her ancestors.

They headed down the expressway, around the by-pass, and onto another expressway heading into the big city. About eight or nine miles or so before reaching the actual inner city, the parson exited. They headed into the large cemetery and began their search for the burial places of ancestors.

Reaching the site, she stood there, her phone in hand, and took pictures of a headstone. “So, this is my great-great-grandfather on your side of the family, and you are named after him, right?” The parson acknowledged it was right. “Tell me about him.” The parson told the tale of his grandfather, of his working at the Federal Penitentiary where he ran the laundry and how Al Capone had worked in his laundry when he was in prison. He told her of how he’d retired from there and started running the laundry at the huge charity hospital in the city. Number Six sat on the ground next to her great-grandfather’s headstone and wrote notes in her notebook.

She scooted over a bit to sit in front of the adjacent headstone. “And this is my great-great-grandmother,” she informed the parson. Tell me about her. The parson began his tales of hanging out in her kitchen and learning how to cook, of how she could be so cute and coy, and how her sister had told the parson she was spoiled to death as a child. Number Six took notes.

Walking a few feet up, she looked down. “This is my great-grandmother, your mother?” The parson acknowledged and told her how her great-grandmother was a gymnast, just like her sister, Number Two. She moved over to look down at another marker. “This is my great-grandfather, your Daddy.” She stared at the marker and then stepped back to the previous one. “Oh, look, they died only a month apart.” The parson told her stories, lots of stories. Before they left she stared at another headstone. “Was this your brother?” The parson acknowledged it was. “I’m sorry,” she said, “he only lived one day

Back in the car they headed across the city and stopped at the United Methodist Children’s Home. There Number Six studied the children’s chapel, the stones for awhich her great-great-grandfather had hauled up from the creek as part of his chores while he was growing up there.

And then the adventure extended northeast of the city, to a little town that had once been a couple of stores on a two lane road but was now part of the sprawling suburbs. There they entered the parking lot of what was once a small country congregation but was now a big church in the midst of a growing community. In that church’s cemetery Number Six discovered her great-great-great grandfather and grandmother along with some great-great-great (the parson lost count of the greats) uncles and cousins and aunts. Her phone recorded pictures of the graves and the headstones as the parson related their stories.

At one point she held up her hand to signal the parson to stop. “I’m doing the math,” she said. “Oh, my goodness,” she explained, “look how many of them died when they were just babies.” The parson talked with her about infant mortality in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries.

It was now late afternoon. They headed to the car. As they did she noticed some other graves. These had no headstones as such. There were only large rocks marking where the graves were. “Why don’t these have any names on them?” she asked.

“These,” said the parson, “are graves of slaves.”

Her face turned white. There was an audible intake of breath. 

The Parson watched as she took a knee, placed her hand on the top of one of the rocks and said maybe to the wind, maybe to the Parson, and maybe to her ancestors buried behind her, “Why would they do that?”

The parson didn't answer. He didn't know the answer.

Comments

[Hunter Matheson]

Thank you, Parson!

[Fat Dormouse]

Just found your blog - this is very moving. Here in France, on All Saints Day, people visit the graves of their families, and, I would imagine, talk and remember and pass on knowledge just as you have done. An important time. Blessings.