Recently, Andi and I had just moved into our first home in Austin, and I was staring at a “honeydo” list as long as my arm. As the husband of a professional Interior Designer, there was no shortage of chores, and projects that required immediate attention. Mirrors, fixtures, photos, art, furnishings and hardware were distributed in piles throughout our new suburban domicile, which caused me to adopt an appropriate nickname for myself: “The HangMan.”
Admittedly, it wasn’t the most favorable time to be leaving town with so many loose ends yet to be fastened. For instance, to my chagrin, my morning began with a cold shower at 4:30 a.m., due to a faulty hot water heater. My inspection and repair efforts caused me to nearly miss my flight, but with a fortuitous procession of green lights, and no bags to check, I breezed through the security line at Bergstrom International Airport, arriving at my gate with time to spare. The Airbus dropped me down into the mile-high city right on schedule, affording me an astounding view of The Rockies painted in hues of cyan and sienna, reflecting the rising sun. This time I wouldn’t be hopping on another bird bound for Seattle or L.A. for business purposes. After 7 years, it was high time to pay Denver a visit on my own dime.
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| Our former Colorado Digs |
I selected a new Ford Focus, which had previously proved to offer the right amount of performance and payload for our periodic road trips to Houston, and ample headroom for my 6’4” frame. I was surprised by my auto-pilot memory, as I merged onto Southbound I-25, a route I had followed countless times as a resident commuter. I detoured through our former neighborhood in Highlands Ranch, and parked across the street from the house, just off the scenic Wildcat Reserve Parkway. I was pleased that the present owner was still capitalizing on my sweat equity, and my “custom” water feature still bubbled in a flagstone pond before the front steps. I snapped a photo with my smartphone, attached it to a text, and sent it off to Andi, who was at her office. Only seconds later, I heard her ringtone, and answered my phone promptly. She was in tears. “What’s wrong?” I asked. “That was a little abrupt, and unexpected,” Andi choked. “It just brought back so many memories.” She was right. It was a wonderful home that we enjoyed very much, during a time in our lives that was abundant and full of fun and fellowship with friends and family. It was a semi-custom house that we designed together. Andi approached the décor with her typical aptitude, as I installed all of our landscaping, fencing and sprawling backyard deck. Some of the parties we hosted in that house were legendary. Who could forget the sensational time we had with friends and colleagues at our Hawaiian Christmas party of 2002? What a riot!
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| Hiking in Morrison's Red Rocks |
As we continued our phone conversation, I laid out my plans and schedule to Andi, as I usually did when on the road. I took one last look at the old Enyeart place, and drove away wearing a mischievous grin. I wondered as I rolled out of the neighborhood if anyone would ever unearth the time capsule I placed inconspicuously within the structure. Time will tell.
After a brief hike along the rambling trails of South Valley Park in Morrison, I drove East to Lakewood, and parked at a restaurant near the ad agency where I once worked. I had previously arranged a meeting for lunch with my 3rd cousin Dee, who was the great grand daughter of Henry’s brother, William. My cousin Mary Emma in New Hampshire had introduced us via email, since we both were in a common pursuit of Banks family details. Since Dee and her husband Max coincidentally lived in Lakewood, CO, I couldn’t pass up an introduction. Dee and her husband, Max joined me at the table, and I immediately recognized some of Dee’s unmistakable “Banks” features that reminded me of my late grandmother, when she was younger. Dee had been raised near Grinnell, KS, and had many details to share, regarding the Banks family members who lived in the Salina area in the 1870’s and ‘80s. She produced a copy of her family tree, and photographs of great, great, great grandmother Cynthia’s headstone. She knew the exact whereabouts of the small cemetery where Cynthia was buried, and gave me written directions. Dee and Max seemed fascinated by Henry’s small wooden bible, and I explained the details of its discovery as they closely examined it. We had a wonderful exchange of information, and said goodbye, with a promise to stay in touch.
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| My cousin, Dee, and her husband Max at The Elephant Bar, Lakewood, CO |
I spent the rest of the day with friends, and former colleagues, many of whom I hadn’t seen for seven years. I was caught up on all the gossip, and news that I had missed out on as a now former employee. Everyone, it seemed had been affected in their own way by the economic downturn of the previous years, and the agency that I left had taken on a new, but not-so-alluring character. It was clear that I had made the right decision to relocate when I did. There had been a scant, lingering microbe of regret floating around in my subconscious, which had been permanently eradicated, as a result of this visit. To some extent, it was liberating.
Saturday morning arrived with a cloudless violet sky, and rising before dawn, I poured myself a generous cup of java to-go. There was moisture in the autumn air, which had obscured my windshield with condensation. Idling for a few moments, I let the defroster do its thing, as I set my GPS to Salina, Kansas. It calculated an approximate ETA of 12:30 pm. My heart sank a little. Truthfully, this was my initial realization of just how far a drive I was in for. Had I driven from my home in Austin, it wouldn’t have been much more than two additional hours on the road. “What am I doing?” I asked aloud. My destination was 6.5 hours away, and I hesitated as apprehension did its best to take root. Ultimately, stubborn foolhardiness triumphed, and I aimed my Ford eastward, down the I-70 corridor toward the Colorado/Kansas border. I watched the blinding sun rise over the endless plains of Western Kansas, as I set my Satellite Radio to the ‘40’s channel. This selection was so beyond the norm for me, but for some reason Glen Miller, Tommy Dorsey, Les Paul and Mary Ford offered an appropriate soundtrack to a scenic, but monotonous landscape, which diminished toward the horizon in my rearview mirror.
I was no stranger to long road trips. As a family of 5, with my father as our benevolent sole provider, we rarely traveled by air or rail when I was a youngster. Dad preferred to experience new horizons from ground level, so as not to miss the details. It was up to each one of us to find ways to pass the time in our own unique ways. One such trip came to mind while I was en route to Uncle Henry’s Kansas homestead. In the summer of 1981 my parents and I traveled in our 1972 Volkswagen Squareback Wagon from Seattle to Burns Lake, British Columbia to visit some extended family. They allowed me to invite a friend along for the 700 mile drive.
Responding to boredom and monotony, it’s quite remarkable how creative a couple of ninth graders can become, armed only with an implement as rudimentary as a whoopee cushion. Stopping at a small truck stop cafe near Kamloops, B.C., we rushed through our breakfast, and excused ourselves to set up an elaborate stunt in the Men’s room. The restaurant was cozy, but obviously popular, as every seat was occupied. The restroom doors were frivolously poised just a few feet away from a row of tables where locals, and travelers alike were innocently enjoying their omelets and oatmeal. With my buddy stationed at the sink, and I in a locked stall, we laid in wait for our first victim. It didn’t take long before the restroom door hinges squealed to life, and in walked contestant number one. When he was finished at the sink, I heard my signal, which was my friend’s subtle cough. It was perfect timing that we were after, and we nailed it on the first try. From the shadowy safety of the locked stall, I squeezed with all my might as the cushion roared with flatulent harmonies, echoing against the tile walls, and out through the open doorway, where our victim stood red-faced before an appalled assembly of diners. After three or four sessions, my parents became wise to our little gag, confiscated our instrument, and dragged us out to the car, as we snickered uncontrollably. Good fun.  |
| Roadside Pirate Ship |
The signs along the interstate to “Kanorado” were clear indicators that the border between states was not far ahead. Since it was a Saturday, traffic was moderate, and weather was superb. I was anxious to finally visit Henry’s post-war spread, and to explore the property for any leftover trace of his former occupancy. As I had so often done before, (but not very much lately) I said a brief prayer to God that I would come away with something in exchange for my far-fetched efforts. He would not disappoint.
Near Colby, the highway took a sharp right turn Southeast for about 30 miles, leading me into a sort of “crop circle” encounter. Obviously, center-pivot irrigation was the method of choice in this region to nourish crops. Enormous green circular fields flanked the highway for miles. As I approached Oakley, I was enticed time-and-again by tempting signage, beckoning for me to behold “Live Rattlesnakes,” “The World’s Largest Prairie Dog,” “Roscoe the Miniature Donkey”, and “The LIVE 6-legged Steer!” Unfortunately, I had not prepared adequately for this one-day junket. Had I known about the colorful network of roadside attractions that I would encounter en route to Salina, I would have allowed myself more time to follow the exit ramps, and enrich my famished intellect. Still, just pondering over the progressive “Burmashave-style” campaign of homespun billboards provided some welcome amusement and tested my willpower, but I resisted and stayed the course toward Salina.
The remaining miles of my road trip featured much more than just bovines and hay bails. Among the many diversions en route to Henry’s farm were the strangely incongruous Cathedral Rocks near Grinnell, the beautiful twin spires of St. Fidelis Church, aka “Cathedral of the Plains” in Victoria, not to mention the Museum of Natural History in Hays, and their wonderful collection of prehistoric dinosaur bones and fossils.
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| Approaching Henry's farm, just over the horizon. |
Somewhere near the junction where the arterial of highway 156 leads southwest to Great Bend, the landscape began to assume an entirely different appearance. The garrisons of modern windmills atop quilts of crop circles gave way to lush rolling mounds of green, divided by deeply pitched valleys crowded with groves of stately Cottonwoods and American Elms in various stages of prismatic transition. This was certainly a bucolic postcard view that I didn’t expect; a compliment to the constant thread of my entire experience, which began with just a meager desire for truth. Every blind corner that I approached —sometimes with trepidation— seemed to hold an unexpected reward in nearly every case. After all of this time, I still hadn’t shaken the habit of placing my trust in presupposition. So far, the boring, nondescript, lonely drive that I had momentarily dreaded earlier that morning had me rubbernecking all the way from Denver to Pleasant Valley. I was getting close to the turnoff to Hedville, which was just a stone’s throw from Uncle Henry’s homestead.
It wasn’t long before I was turning onto the dirt road that led to the farm that I had located on GoogleEarth. I turned into a dirt driveway that led me deep into the property. I grinned ear-to-ear as I coasted through a small village of antique buildings, crippled vehicles and rustic farm equipment. I remember thinking to myself that this was a “Picker’s Paradise.” A dog barked loud and aggressive. I couldn’t locate the source, but from the sound of it, I didn’t feel threatened. An old red barn stood at the end of the dirt driveway that looked like it was conjured directly from a Steinbeck novel. In hand-hewn woodblock letters, the word: COW was spelled out in a vertical orientation. I chuckled, then mumbled to myself: “This must be the place.”
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| One of many outbuildings on Henry's Kansas farm. |
It was approximately 12:45 pm as I stepped out of the car to look around for the owner’s house. I stretched my back, which was aching from the 6-hour haul, and took in a deep breath of warm air, sweet with fresh hay and old dust. For a moment, I was back at my grandfather’s roost in Lamar, WA, where I had first inhaled that medley of pungent scents with which I was so familiar. I had driven into the wrong driveway somehow, and wound up behind the farmhouse, which I could see through thick brush and trees. I got back into my rental car, and carefully backed out of the narrow driveway.
The dirt road led to another driveway. This one was neatly paved with loose gray gravel, and some trees had been cut away to make room for a large satellite dish. I followed the driveway up to the modest, split-level farmhouse, where I was hailed by a tall, slender figure in well-worn blue overalls and a baseball cap. As he approached, I rolled down my window and called out “Mister Claussen?” I kept the motor running, I suppose in case I needed to make a quick getaway. After all, I was a long way from home. “That’s a nice car. Is that a Ford?” he asked. I shut off the motor and stepped out of the car into the “crunch” of the gravel driveway. “Sorry I’m a little late,” I said. We shook hands, and walked in tandem up the drive where I was introduced to “Zip,” the dog whose barking had since subsided to a low gravelly growl. I got the feeling from his cautious and standoffish behavior that visitors to the Claussen farm were few and far between.
Virgil led me to the back of his home, across a cement patio, and up a step through the back door into the kitchen. It was a sparse, yet comfortable space that reminded me a great deal of my own childhood home. I smelled home-baked goods and coffee that transported me to occasional weekends at my Dutch grandparents home in rural Mount Vernon, Washington, where my Grandmother all-to-often spoiled my family with her instinctive culinary talents. Appliances and furnishings were dated, but utilitarian, and a no-frills décor richly complimented a simple, salt-of-the-earth lifestyle. Virgil stepped into a room adjacent to the kitchen, where I remained standing, reviewing prerequisite questions in my head that I was otherwise likely to forget to ask. It wasn’t long before he returned to the kitchen with “Thea” in tow.
Virgil’s wife had a familiar accent that I remembered from our recent exchange on the telephone. She was petite, sandy-haired and dressed nicely for a Saturday on the farm. The three of us sat down at the kitchen table, where I proceeded to share the reason for my visit once again. I cleared up some confusion for them, which I am certain was a product of my own excitement as I had previously droned on over the phone with all the details that I had unearthed since Henry’s bible fell into my hands. I produced the little block of wood that I was carrying in my camera bag, wrapped in a small piece of chamois. Both Virgil and Thea examined the bible, and both seemed intrigued as I reminded them that it had almost certainly spent some time here on their farm, perhaps in a drawer or chest when Henry was the landowner. Here it was, once again occupying the same space that it had, some 130 years before.
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| Mr. Claussen and his gift |
Virgil carefully placed it on the kitchen table before me. “Do you know who made this jeep for me?” he asked. I examined it closely, determining promptly that it was not fashioned from a plastic cheap store-bought model kit. On the contrary, it was fashioned by hand, out of chunks of wood. Even the round tires were hand-carved with precise detail right down to the tread pattern, and the delicate spokes of the steering wheel seemed to be evocative of the real deal. “Someone made this?” I asked. “Yep. German prisoners at Dachau gave it to me as a Christmas present.” I was speechless. “Go ahead” Virgil said, as he clued into my eagerness to hold the jeep for a closer look. “What were you doing at Dachau?” I asked. Virgil spelled out the details of his post-war assignment in 1945, watching over Nazi captives as a prison guard at the notorious concentration camp. I knew some of its history, and the grim newsreel images captured shortly after the camp was liberated flashed through my mind, as Virgil narrated in tandem. “I guess those fellas liked me for some reason.” “Anyway, they made this jeep for me out of scraps from around the camp.” Virgil continued. “They did a real nice job with the paint too.” “I kept it just like they made it, all these years.” As I listened intently to Mr. Claussen’s account, I pieced together the rest of the story. “Did you bring Thea back to the states from Germany?” I asked. “Sure did.” He said with a smile, and a wink, aimed across the table at his bride. I leaned forward toward both Virgil and Thea, resting my folded hands on top of the table, and looked them both in the eye. “Now that is a fascinating story.” I said.
We chatted for a little longer about the family they had raised, who were now scattered about, and their history with the farm, which they bought in 1956, not long after Virgil brought Thea to the states from Germany. Apparently, there were just a few buildings on the property at that time, including an old farmhouse that they lived in until termites forced its demolition in 1963, once the construction of their current home was completed. Virgil handed me a black and white photo of the house, as it stood in the 1950’s. “You can have that if you want.” He said kindly. Instead, I promised him I would scan a copy for myself, and return it by mail. “The old house is still here, it’s just in piles.” Virgil said. “Can I see it? I asked eagerly.” “Sure!”
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| The farmhouse in Pleasant Valley, as it appeared in the 1950's. |
I followed Virgil out the back door, making sure to grab my Canon G9 digital camera. I snapped photos of everything I could that appeared as if it was from Henry’s era. Virgil pointed out an old barn, some stone foundations where original structures no loner stood. We passed by the original water pump, manufactured in Fairbury, Nebraska that hadn’t drawn from its well in decades. Finally, we arrived at the edge of a giant chasm in the earth, next to a large pile of neatly arranged stone blocks, decaying wooden planks, and composition shingles. It appeared as if the entire house was still here, just deconstructed.
Virgil pointed into the hole, and stated, “They say there was a big well here, that opened up next to the old house.” “I believe someone fell in once or twice.” I snapped a few photographs, from different angles, and suddenly lost my footing. Instinctively, I reached out to break my fall, and braced my arm against a large stone object that jutted out from the earth about 24 inches. It was a stone obelisk-like object, about 6 inches wide, and crowned with what appeared to be a 4-inch wide brass ring. I rose to my feet, and examined the landscape. I was standing on top of a wall of stacked, hand-hewn stone blocks that spanned about 20 feet wide. A 4-foot wide staircase escalated up through the center of the wall. The staircase was flanked by the stone post that broke my fall, and its twin.
“Do you know what those are?” asked Virgil? I thought for a moment, and offered up my best guess. “Horse hitches?” “That’s right!” he said. This sent my imagination spiraling into hyperspeed rewind. Who might have hitched their horses up to these posts when they came calling on Henry and Tilla Banks? I was holding the black and white photograph of the old farmhouse, and glancing at it, I could imagine ascending the stone steps at dusk, and approaching the quaint little cottage with its brick chimney billowing aromatic smoke from a warm, welcoming fire. Since Henry’s first wife, Tilla was mentioned in the 1880 Federal Census as “keeping house,” I would expect her to be the first to greet me at the door. I couldn’t picture her. Who was she?
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| The farmhouse as it appears today. |
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| One of two hitching posts with the original stone staircase in the background. |
Tilla seemed to fall off the map shortly after Henry was remarried to Emma Bowlus-Gain, who abruptly brought Henry to her family home in Texas, only days after divorcing her first husband. I wasn’t the only one who assumed that Henry and Tilla had also divorced. My volunteer contacts at The Smoky Hill Genealogical Society in Salina thought this may have been the case, since Henry and Emma made such a hasty exit to the Lone Star State. However, no records ever surfaced except for both of Henry’s marriage certificates. There was no sign of Tilla, Tillie, or Matilda Banks in the 1890 Census that matched her date of birth, though if she had remarried, it would be very difficult to locate her under her new married name. It was yet another mystery to solve in this exciting, yet perplexing haystack.
Alas, nothing now remained of the old farmhouse but a tidy cluster of piled rubble and a small stone foundation marking the structure’s former perimeter. I at least had photographic proof of its former self, while in its bygone heyday as my great, great Uncle’s Kansas residence. For that, I was grateful.
Virgil and I continued to peruse the property, and old structures that were likely to have been in use during Henry’s era. We passed through a barbed wire gate, and into a stand of tall trees that were arranged in a perfect line, like a hedgerow. I recalled the Google Earth image of Henry’s property, which was divided into fourths by these dark green living boundaries. I don’t remember Virgil’s exact words, but he mentioned something about leaving the trees where they were, instead of clearing the property for pasture, out of respect for whomever went through the trouble of planting them in the first place. Henry was the first ploughman that came to mind. Perhaps a certain German-born immigrant named Theadore Siffens, also listed in the 1880 Census as a household resident was there at Henry’s side to share the sweat.
Virgil and I reached a clearing beyond the trees, when I heard him say, “Well, you’re sure an interesting fella…why, we figured you for an older guy than you are.” I wasn’t sure how to respond, but I knew Virgil’s observation came from a good place. “I guess so,” I said. “Most guys like me would typically be on the couch watching football on a Saturday like this, but I came out to tour your farm instead!” Virgil laughed a little, then suddenly bellowed loudly, deep from his diaphragm, through a raised, cupped hand. It startled me a little, but when I turned toward the direction of his call, I saw a herd of Angus and Hereford cows, up to their hocks in a still pond.
They began walking toward Virgil, as he continued to call them. “Oh, wow…they’re awesome.” I said. Virgil continued to call the herd with his trademark “whoop,” as they drew closer. I was amazed by the command he seemed to have over these animals, and how they responded to him with trust, at least until they spotted the “stranger” at Virgil’s side, which made them all freeze in unison. Livestock was Virgil’s livelihood, but I was also witnessing a man, content and at peace with his passion. I couldn’t shake it, that scant trace of envy.
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| Virgil's Herd |
We walked back together, returning to the kitchen where Thea was waiting. We sat at the table again, and I continued to drill the Claussens about their history with the farm. Virgil mentioned to me that his farm was widely known as “The Old Hoops Place,” figuring that “Hoops” was the original titleholder to the farm. Though he had heard my uncle’s name somewhere before, he wasn’t certain of the context. Virgil reached into a cabinet in the kitchen, and produced an antique leather binder that held together a stack of scrolled legal-sized documents. I knew instantly what he was about to share. Virgil handed me the original Abstract of Title to the farm, and I dove into it like an 8-year-old on Christmas morning. I leafed the many layers of pages pages back to the first, and earliest document.
“Dated March 1st, 1876. Recorded April 13, 1878, at 2pm Book “M” of Deeds, page 437-8. Consideration: Granted.
The United States of America to Henry I. Banks Homestead Certificate No. 1689 Application 12017. To all whom these Presents shall come, Greetings:
The United States of America to Henry I. Banks Homestead Certificate No. 1689 Application 12017. To all whom these Presents shall come, Greetings:
Whereas, There has been deposited in the General Land Office of the United States a Certificate of the Register of the Land Office at Salina, Kansas, whereby it appears that pursuant to the Act of Congress approved 20th May, 1862, to secure homesteads to actual settlers on the Public Domain, and the acts supplemental thereto, the claim of Henry I. Banks, has been established and duly consummated, in conformity to law for the South East Quarter of Section Thirty-four, in Township Thirteen South of Range Four West, in the District of Lands subject to sale, at Salina, Kansas, containing, one-hundred and sixty acres according to the Official Plat of the Survey of the said land returned to the General Land Office by the Surveyor General.
Now Know ye, That there is therefore, granted by the United States unto the said Henry I. Banks, the tract of land above described. To have and to hold the said tract of land with the appurtenances thereof, unto the said Henry I. Banks, and to his heirs and assigns forever.
In Testimony whereof, I, Ulysees S. Grant, President of the United States of America, have caused these letters to be made Patent, and the seal of the General Land Office to be hereunto affixed. Given under my hand at the city of Washington, the first day of March, in the year of our Lord one tgousand eight hundred and seventy six, and the Independence of the United States, the one hundredth. (SEAL). By the President. U.S. Grant, By D. D. Cone, Secretary
I looked up at Virgil and Thea from the binder and said, “Do you know how incredible this is?” “I’ve got goosebumps right now, this was signed by Ulysses S. Grant!” I wondered aloud how Henry must have felt, in comparison when he received his approval from the former Commander of Union Forces that he once served under. I expressed my thanks and enthusiasm to Vigil and Thea, “This is an incredible find that shows Henry Banks as the original landowner.” I politely asked if I could capture a few photos of the documents. Virgil obliged. There were 19 pages in all, that mentioned Henry’s name, and it became obvious that Henry and Tilla Banks were both just as busy selling off parcels of their land as they were at farming. The final transaction on page 19 was dated March 15th, 1888, recorded on the 17th at 5:20 pm. An 80 acre parcel, more or less was sold to Alice E. Edie for the consideration of $2,000.00. Signed, Henry I. Banks, a widower. “Did I read that correctly?” I thought.
“This is very interesting,” I mumbled, as Virgil and Thea looked on. I was under the impression that Uncle Henry and his wife had divorced before he remarried and moved to Texas. Clearly, I had assumed incorrectly, but I was excited to have a new mystery to unravel. By this time, I had become hopelessly addicted to the chase.
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| Thea, Virgil, and Zip |
Virgil gave me driving directions to a small cemetery where Henry’s mother, Cynthia was supposedly buried. Meanwhile, Thea had disappeared into the house, but returned promptly with a Tupperware tub filled with German Pound Cake. That earned Thea a hug. Her homemade treats would sustain me all the way back to Colorado, and save me from the ill effects of off-ramp fast food. Danke für das Mittagessen, Frau Claussen.
Virgil expressed once again how he enjoyed my visit, and I shook his hand firmly as I hopped back into my Ford. I promised that I would stay in touch, and keep him posted on my progress with my book. I drove down the gravel driveway, and exchanged a friendly wave with the Claussens, as I made my way South toward the old Ohio Township, to hunt for an obscure graveyard, and hopefully my great, great, great grandmother.
I enjoyed my brief visit with Virgil and Thea, and was leaving with much, much more than I had when I arrived. The drive from Denver was worth every flat, lonely mile, though I was overcome with an intuition that Virgil and Thea rarely had visitors. Just the same, I was honored to have been a welcome guest in the home of such a wonderful couple with such an amazing history, even if it was just for one afternoon.
Cynthia’s stone was not hard to find. I knelt down beside her stone to read the heartfelt inscription. It read:
“How we miss the dear Mother. How she cared for my infant days. How she guided me over life’s sands. How peaceful she went to the Heavenly home.”
Hers was a lavishly designed 4-sided marble monument, adorned with floral embellishments. Cynthia had passed away on April 19, 1877, which aged her stone 134 years, and I was amazed at how well it had held up, season after season. I hoped that the stone I had on order for Uncle Henry would prove to be as robust.
I snapped a few photos of the family stones, including that of William Banks, who was Henry’s brother. I had previously identified William’s farm on my antique map of Pleasant Valley, which was just a mile or two Northeast of Henry’s land. He had obviously remained in the Salina area, while Henry decided to pick up stakes after the death of his wife, Tilla. I looked carefully around the small cemetery for any sign of a headstone that may have been erected for Tilla Banks, but all present monuments were spoken for.
It was getting late in the day, and the sun was flirting with the horizon in the West, so I wedged myself in behind the wheel of my Ford Focus, and set my GPS for Denver. My flight home to Austin passed by quickly, since I spent the entire trip noodling some notes in my journal, while the details were still fresh in my mind. When I arrived home, in Austin an envelope was waiting from my cousin in New Hampshire. I tore it open anxiously, and flipped through the stack of pages, identifying them as Henry’s widow’s affidavits for Henry’s Civil War Pension Benefits.
Little did she know, but with the details about Henry’s past that Emma Bowlus-Gain-Banks-Crawford outlined in her request for government assistance, she was equipping me with a significant volume of facts that I thought would require many hours of hit-and-miss investigation. The specifics of Uncle Henry’s story had taken some years to piece together, but for the first time, I was confident that I was getting very near to closing the circle.
It was getting late in the day, and the sun was flirting with the horizon in the West, so I wedged myself in behind the wheel of my Ford Focus, and set my GPS for Denver. My flight home to Austin passed by quickly, since I spent the entire trip noodling some notes in my journal, while the details were still fresh in my mind. When I arrived home, in Austin an envelope was waiting from my cousin in New Hampshire. I tore it open anxiously, and flipped through the stack of pages, identifying them as Henry’s widow’s affidavits for Henry’s Civil War Pension Benefits.
Little did she know, but with the details about Henry’s past that Emma Bowlus-Gain-Banks-Crawford outlined in her request for government assistance, she was equipping me with a significant volume of facts that I thought would require many hours of hit-and-miss investigation. The specifics of Uncle Henry’s story had taken some years to piece together, but for the first time, I was confident that I was getting very near to closing the circle.
Hi cuz,
ReplyDeleteAnother interesting chapter, can't wait for the paper back edition.
Fascinating how much he looks like your grandfather Millenaar even though there is no DNA in common.
Ken Vanden Hoorn