Stop 1. Photographic Proof

When I tell people I have been in genealogy for more than 40 years then they realize I am not a 'seasoned citizen', they often call what they think is my bluff. But I have photographic proof of my pre-school connection with my family's history. My mother began her research journey in 1970 or so. I was the ripe old age of three, and spent many an afternoon nap under a table in a courthouse or library as my mom (heretofore known as Mumsy for her privacy) and her sister, Aunt Fish (because I couldn't pronounce her name correctly) mined the records for tidbits of our family history. Once I was old enough to read, maybe five or six, Mumsy would make a list of surnames and hand me a book with an index. That seemed to work well, and soon I was going by myself to the counter to request books. Can you imagine the look on your local clerk's face when a six-year-old wants possession of a hundred-year-old tome as big as she is??  It's a small wonder than none of them fainted. I was a well-behaved child in that atmosphere, and once they got to know me a bit, the would relinquish their grip on the smaller books and occasionally carry the larger ones to the table for me. No doubt I was never far from their watchful eye. But the thought of tearing out pages or marking in the books never crossed my mind. After all, I had to find my people! I had a list! These days, my work keeps me traveling away from home a lot, but I steal a few hours here and there for research. And it is Mumsy who, at the age of 81, needs that afternoon nap at the library.

October 1971. I was four and a half years old in this 

picture with the stones of my fourth great-grandparents
at James Cemetery, Franklin County, Indiana.

Richard Perkinhon Clarkson was a veteran of the War of 1812. Following the Year Without A Summer, times were hard in Penobscot County, Maine. Leaving his family behind, Richard came west  to Franklin County, Indiana, in about 1818. A tailor by trade, he was able to establish himself in business and soon sent for his family. In the early 1820's, Richard and wife, Mary Simpson, and their children settled on a farm near Brookville, Franklin County, Indiana, just outside of a hamlet called Mount Carmel. Construction was begun on a large, two-story brick home to shelter their growing family. 

Richard and Mary's home still stands on Highway 252 in Mount Carmel. The earliest construction included bricks fired in a kiln onsite. The second phase, being the massive perpendicular addition, included the one story segment on the far left of the second photo. The newest portion seemed to finish out the rectangular footprint of the building. The roof on the front portion is clearly installed over and earlier one, while the rest seem to be original to their construction.

The house was demolished sometime between about 2008 when these photos were taken and 2018 when I realized via Google Street View that it had been demolished. To say I was heart-broken would be an understatement. Aerial America has an excellent shot on their website. It can be seen here.

A Little Background To Get Us Started

I don't recall my first trip to a cemetery. No introduction. No realization. They were just there as an integral part of my childhood. Decoration Day, or Memorial Day as we call it these days, was spent traipsing all over Delaware and Grant Counties, Indiana, and, on rare occasions, to far-flung locations like Boone or Franklin Counties.The trunk of the car would be filled with five gallon buckets of cut iris and peonies, a years worth of coffee cans, and milk jugs of water to fill them. And spare shoes because someone would inevitably dump a bucket or jug. Stopping at a cemetery or two following a family reunion or funeral was common. A weekend drive with a picnic basket resulted in a blanket spread somewhere in a field of memories more times than not. All that being said, I suppose it is of little surprise that childhood lifestyle has evolved into a passion for every aspect of cemeteries. Visiting. Studying. Preserving. Restoring. Photographing. Remembering.

These days, as a middle-aged adult in late 2012, I have the occasional opportunity to visit cemeteries outside of my home state. I look forward to sharing a mix of taphophilia, genealogy, photography, American history, even geography. Whether unknown, famous, or infamous, every stone represents a story waiting to be told. So hop in and fasten your seat belt. We will see where the road takes us!