In last week’s blog post, My Mother, the 80 Year Old Junior Genealogist, I mentioned my handy-dandy cemetery kit. 

After reading the post aloud to my editor and asking for improvement suggestions, Michael simply said, “Sounds good.  You should make next week’s post about the cemetery kit.  I’m your husband and understand what you do, but I have no idea whats in that red basket.”

Point taken.

It’s actually quite simple.  Really. 

A cemetery kit, or “grave bag”, is a collection of items you take to a cemetery with you when you are performing genealogical work. 

Kits vary depending upon what you’re doing.  My handy-dandy kit fits in a little red basket.  Of course, as soon as I sat down to bang this post out, the Type-A perfectionist in me reared her ugly head and I promptly scurried through several on-line articles to make sure I hadn’t left some elementary, but vital item out of my kit. 

I hadn’t.

But I did see a few things I’m adding to my kit that isn’t in the picture below:

·         a Ziploc bag for my camera and phone in case it begins to rain

·         a pair of thin work gloves (It’s a wonder I’ve not been eaten alive with poison ivy!)

·         a small gardening hand spade to dig the dirt away from around sinking stones

·         a pair of shears for trimming grass around the stones. 

Snacks and water were mentioned, but I choose to leave my snacks and water in the car since the cemeteries I deal with are small, usually fifty square yards or less.   I don’t mind trotting back and forth to the car since it is usually parked right at the edge of the cemetery.   

My kit consists of:

·         two pencils, a pen, and a 5” X 8” lined pad on a small clipboard which all fit in a notebook sleeve

·         sunblock stick, first aid kit(band aids, anti-bac, and antihistamine), tissues, gum, washcloth, cap

·         spray bottle full of water, two brushes, a grocery bag for trash and the brushes after using them

·         tape measure, flashlight, hand sanitizer, Deep Woods Off!, antibacterial wipes and a kneeling pad

All of which fit in my handy-dandy red basket, leaving plenty of room for the new items to fit!  Two items included, but not pictured are my fully charged digital camera, and a 5½” X 8½” pad of graph paper to plot the location of the graves. 

And that is my handy-dandy cemetery kit.  With it I can clear, clean, transcribe, plot and photograph tombstones for posterity. 

Quite handy-dandy.

Recently, I was blessed with the opportunity to visit my mother for five days.  A typical visit includes making small (or sometimes large!) repairs around the house, little home improvement or organization projects, shopping, cooking, and lots of sitting and talking.  



I usually glean several nuggets of genealogical information from the sitting and talking segments.  Then, quite often, on the five-hour drive home, I lament that, once again, I missed an opportunity to do some REAL genealogical work at the courthouse. 

Not on this return trip.

I drove all 300 miles without the radio and without talking on the phone.  I believe I may have spent the entire drive replaying the last day over and over in my head, thankful that it played out the way it did. 

The day I arrived, Mom mentioned that my cousin, Bill, had cleared the cemetery off.  I suppose she remembered last September when my brother Steven and I couldn’t even find the entrance because the place was so overgrown.

“You can probably get in there now,” she said.  “We could go on Sunday if you want.  The weather should be good.”

I could hardly contain myself!  Some REAL genealogical work! 

Pine Ridge Cemetery, as it is called, appears on few maps—unless you count Google Earth, and then you have to know where to zoom to find it.  There is another cemetery close by, Fletcher, which appears, but rarely Pine Ridge. 

For over 100 years, it was the “colored” cemetery—the place where black people buried their dead.  Since the black people in that area have been able to pretty much bury their dead wherever they please for the last 40 years or so, Pine Ridge has been largely forgotten. 

Mom called her sister and asked if she’d like to go with us.  She was game, so after loading my handy-dandy cemetery kit into the car, we were off. 

It was so heart-warming to see those two senior citizens brushing leaves from around grave markers and scrubbing moss off tombstones to reveal names and birth and death dates.   

It was even more valuable to hear them talking about the people whose stones they were working on, “Poor old Miss R.  Her family didn’t have a plot so Mr. K. said it would be all right for them to bury her here in his plot because he had plenty of room . . .” 

I furiously scribbled as much of their conversations as I could in the notes for each grave that I was recording while also trying to plot a schematic of the graveyard and take a clear picture of each marker or stone. 

An hour and a half passed quickly; it was time to take my aunt home.  After we dropped her off, and as we watched her make her way to her back door, I thanked mom for taking the time to help me and for all the work she did.  I also casually mentioned how I wanted to document Pine Ridge and try to get it on the map. 

“Well we can go back down there.   There’s more graves in the lower section.”

“What?  Wait, REALLY?!” 

“Yeah, sure.”

Again, barely able to contain myself!

We returned to Pine Ridge, mom grasping my right arm with her left hand for support as she picked her way with her four-pronged cane in her right hand down the cemetery path toward the old section.   

We battled through high weeds to one plot, seemingly all by itself.  Mom explained how many of the graves were unmarked and that there used to be a fence line which set the boundary of the cemetery property, but that it had been gone for years.  The oldest graves were along that fence in that lowest section.  Stones that may have been in that area at one time have long since sunk into the graves themselves.    The “old cemetery”, as Mom called it, where her grandmother’s mother was buried was over that way, along where that fence would have been, in a snake-haven thicket you’d need hip waders, a chainsaw and a DR Mower to even think about approaching. 

Nonetheless, I was able to record two more plots, Mom cleared and scrubbed while I scribbled furiously and took pictures. 

We did see two other enormous stones in the aforementioned “old cemetery,” however, without the hip waders and at least the DR, there was no way to get to them. 

“Next time, we’ll bring the cordless weed-eater.  Then we can see who they are.”

My Mother:  the 80 year old junior genealogist. 

I love it.

And I can’t wait for my next visit. 

Everybody’s going somewhere.  Though destinations differ, we all choose to travel. 

Some everyday destinations include work, school, church, the gym, the grocery, and the park. 

Special destinations could be the lake, the beach, or even a foreign country. 

Then there are those courses of travel that are far more about the journey itself than the destination. 

Pursuing a degree or accepting a marriage proposal are both courses of travel which, while they should be considered journeys, may have no specific destination. 

Regardless of the trip and whether or not it has a destination, the trick is to learn as much as you can along the way and ALWAYS TRY to treat each person you encounter as if he or she is your cookie-baking granny. 

When I was a kid, my mother often said, “You’ll catch more flies with honey than with vinegar.”  “Yes, ma’am,” I’d murmur, dying to ask, “Why in the world do you think I’m trying to catch flies?!”   Not until I was a teenager did I understand what she meant. 

From the stories I have heard, my paternal grandfather, Papa, was a honey-kind-of-fellow.  People liked and respected him.  He was a hard worker, operating a steam shovel in a rock quarry for over 40 years during the middle of the last century.  The work was dangerous and hard, freezing cold in the winter and deep-fryer hot in the summer. 

He only took one vacation a year, but what a trip!  First, he’d get all dressed up in his best suit, shove a good wad of cash into his pocket, and don a pair of old coveralls.  Next, he’d hop a northbound freight train, which was usually hauling coal, and ride it all the way to Washington, DC.  Dodging railroad police, he’d jump off the freight at some point, quickly shuck the coveralls and hide them beneath a bush.  Then, he’d walk into DC  for a week of fun at the Cherry Blossom Festival.  At the end of the week, he’d retrieve the coveralls and hop a southbound freight home.  He did this, “hoboing” as they called it, for years and years—even after he married my grandmother!

Papa’s hobo adventures must have been delightful side trips away from the drudgery of his overall life’s journey.  Why else would he continue to go year after year?  Riding 450 miles swaying to the clickety-clack of the wheels on the C & O Railroad; anticipating the fun he’d get into in DC must have beat the stuffing out of sitting in that steam shovel on that pile of rock.

Papa saw and experienced things he otherwise would only have read about in a dime novel simply because he dared to take the side trips. 

His childhood was hard.  His mother died when he was only five.  Soon thereafter, his father gave him away to a white man who primarily used him to clean out the fireplaces in his hotel.  Years passed, the only love he had known—his mother—faded from memory replaced by the confining burden of the hard work he was required to do.  

When he was old enough and big enough Papa left the hotel, hopping a freight train to personal freedom and life experience.  The kindness of strangers he encountered, a few of whom became friends, undoubtedly shaped his attitude and resulted in that honey-kind-of-fellow whom I can barely remember.    His quiet, loving demeanor certainly wasn’t cultivated by his family because he didn’t have one as he grew up.   

His journey through life, while hard and unappealing to most, produced much fruit.  Papa was happily married to my grandmother for 55 years, and he was blessed with a fantastic son—my father.  When he died in 1971, he owned his own home, a ’64 Chevy Impala and zero debt despite being refused his pension upon retirement from the quarry.   He also owned the reputation of being a fine up-standing citizen of the town, loved by all who knew him. 

How did this happen?  How did Papa get from scrawny, penniless orphan to comfortable retiree? 

I believe it was because he chose to take the journey of his life, hard as it was, and make the best of it.  He chose to use everything he learned and, most importantly, he chose to model the kindness he both saw and received.   

He dared to take the side trips to alleviate the oppressiveness of his daily grind. 

He chose the right freight train for each side trip as well as the right passenger train for the journey in order to learn all he could. 

He refused to be obsessed about the destination, while deciding to be concerned about the people. 

Each person Papa encountered was the cookie-baking granny he never had. 

Genealogy is not for the faint of heart or, as we like to say, the lily-livered soul.  Researching one’s own family can reveal less-than-savory facts about your kith and kin. 

Genealogy also isn’t for the easily frustrated.  It can take years to unearth the information you seek.  Occasionally, you seek and seek only to find the information simply does not exist. 

And although you may be neither a coward nor a Tasmanian devil, priorities may lay the foundation for a brick wall.  The information you seek may be available, but your financial situation, proximity to the information or constraints on your time can make it impossible for you to move backward. 

Sometimes, just sometimes, the research has to take a back seat.  “What! What! What?!”  you ask in full-blown consternation. 

Just hear (or read!) me out for a minute!

I’m am certainly NOT suggesting my genealogical research take a back seat to house cleaning, laundry, television, or twitter--don't get crazy, here.

But I AM suggesting that I’ll NOT take out a second mortgage on our house to finance my research habit.

I also AM suggesting that I’ll NOT move to Salt Lake City (dudes, you got no ocean) to spend the rest of my life pursuing my research habit. 

Most importantly, I am flat-out saying that when I “go home” to visit and, on the five hour drive, I contemplate the beckoning of the courthouse, I simply have to say “No.” 

I’d rather spend every minute hanging out with my 80-year-old mother listening to her talk of days gone by, taking notes about the life she remembers.    

The wills and slave records at the courthouse in Union will be there.  Priorities.