Our Need to Remember and Tell Their Stories

Walt Whitman  writes of how a simple  impulse towards remembering a fallen soldier  haunts him. 

As Toilsome I Wander'd Virginia's Woods
by Walt Whitman

As toilsome I wander'd Virginia's woods,

To the music of rustling leaves kick'd by my feet, (for 'twas

      autumn,)

I mark'd at the foot of a tree the grave of a soldier;

Mortally wounded he and buried on the retreat, (easily all

      could I understand,)

The halt of a mid-day hour, when up! no time to lose—yet

      this sign left,

On a tablet scrawl'd and nail'd on the tree by the grave,

Bold, cautious, true, and my loving comrade.

Long, long I muse, then on my way go wandering,

Many a changeful season to follow, and many a scene of life,

Yet at times through changeful season and scene, abrupt,

      alone, or in the crowded street,

Comes before me the unknown soldier's grave, comes the

      inscription rude in Virginia's woods,

Bold, cautious, true, and my loving comrade.

"As Toilsome I Wander'd Virginia's Woods" by Walt Whitman. Public domain..

What haunts Whitman is what inspires many of  us who love old cemeteries--the desire to   tell the stories of our beloved departed ones.

I am truly privileged because since my early childhood my Aunt Grace  Jenckes took me to visit  Oak Hill Cemetery in Woonsocket where  so many of my ancestors on my father's side are buried.   I wanted to  know their story, and  I could guess at some of it from the stones, the names and the dates. 

It has been especially thrilling to learn that my paternal ancestors were  ardent abolitionists and fervent Baptists. It is always a delight to find that your people were on the right side of history and in the vanguard of Change.  

My Aunt Grace also took me to a small cemetery  in Cumberland where her mother and  grandmother were both buried when they succumbed to the flu epidemic in 1919.

What a blow to an eight year old child. 
 Grace would tell me little stories about her mother Ida Mowry whom she had  known for such a short time. 
Grace would bring water and stiff brushes to the Mowry graves to clean the old stones and plant seeds that would grow there. And she was careful to uncover the  small stone for Waldo, a son of Ida's who died in infancy. 
 I can still recall that we often held hands there and wept quietly while reading the inscriptions.  

What little I knew of my history and paternal ancestors I knew from Grace.

I learned more when I dared to cross the austere threshold of the RI Historical Society on Hope Street and found many books about my family history. 

 But Grace had made it real and given me the visceral connection with my grandparents and great grand parents.
That was only one of her most memorable gifts to me. She enhanced my life in so many ways.