My file folder on Uncle Henry Banks was now bulging at the seams with notes, photocopies, scribblings, and photographs of places, and family members, fellow soldiers and acquaintances that Henry had most likely encountered during his short life. Still, I could not place a face with his name. The description in his ILLINOIS CIVIL WAR DETAIL REPORT: “Age: 24, Height: 5’ 9”, Eyes: Gray, Complexion: Light” was all I had to imagine, but it wasn’t enough to justify my continuation. I would have happily settled for a group photo of the 102nd Illinois Volunteers, which I could study, with the satisfaction that his face was perhaps one of many, posing proudly in uniform alongside his comrades, but despite my many efforts to obtain it, I was denied that wish as well.
Weeks passed, and I had exhausted all obvious avenues of exploration, going as far as to correspond with some of my older relatives, and those who descended from Henry’s second wife, Emma Bowlus through her subsequent marriage. At one time, I had people in four states, simultaneously sifting through dusty photo albums, old family letters, and shoeboxes full of nameless faces, hunting for Henry Banks, but despite their empathetic cooperation and shared excitement, all had come up empty. It was getting more difficult for me to continue my quest without a photograph, and my enthusiasm began to wane. I could conjure only a blurred image of Henry’s face, based on the growing collection of photographs of his mother and siblings, which I had indirectly acquired. It was suddenly, and decidedly evident that the idea of tracing Henry’s steps any further was seemingly imprudent. Though I purported to be an expert in the Banks family genealogy at the very least, my venture to graduate to the rank of author was now under great scrutiny by my worst critic. Myself.
One winter evening, I opened my laptop, and began looking through my expanding family tree on Ancestry.com. It was apparent that had it not been for the discovery of Henry’s bible, I would not have found so many family connections that were now interwoven through branch after branch of the Banks family lineage. With a previous familiarity that was obscured by rumor and conjecture, the details were all falling into place, and I knew exactly how I fit into the big picture. With the help of Ancestry.com, and other sources, I had made direct ancestral connections with two colonial patriots who were documented as serving in the Revolutionary War, a Mayflower passenger, and the daughter of a Mohawk chief.
As I prepared to shut down my laptop, with the intention of setting my project aside —perhaps indefinitely— I responded to a fleeting idea that popped into my head, with a sort of knee-jerk impulse. Remembering that Henry’s mother, Cynthia Banks had been a Quaker minister, I wondered if anything had been published about her online. I typed her name into my browser, just out of curiosity. In response to my query, a brief quotation from an obscure blog stood out from among the other listed results:
“As I've researched my background, I've found fascinating people who lived quiet, yet courageous lives. My great, great grandmother Cynthia Irish Banks inspires me with her ability to keep going after her husband died, leaving her with 10 children, five of whom were dependent on her.”
—Posted by Mary Emma Allen at 9:35 AM
I quickly identified Mrs. Allen as a published writer living in New Hampshire, who also happened to be my cousin by way of Henry’s older brother, Willis. It didn’t take long to explore her many entries posted online before I finally located her email address. It was attached to a posting of Mary’s that dated back a few years, so it was doubtful that her email address was current. Mine had changed numerous times over the years. Just the same, I fired off an introduction to her, with hopeful anticipation, and staggered off to bed.
Hello Mary.
Before I write too much, I wanted to see if this is still a good email for you. I found your email address in a very old post on the internet.
I too am a descendant of Cynthia Irish Banks, and am in the middle of writing my first book about one of her sons, Henry.
Please contact me, and let me know if you are receiving email here.
Thank you!
Steve Enyeart
I arrived home from work the following day at about 5pm, and raced to my iMac to check my email. I had been preoccupied at work throughout the day, thinking about the cryptic introduction I had sent to Mary Allen the night before. How fascinating it would be to make contact with another writer in the family, who not only had an obvious interest in her “Banks” roots, but attributed her tenacity to the widowed matriarch, her great-great grandmother, Cynthia.
As all other “coincidental connections,” this attempt to reach out to yet another complete stranger was met with prompt and enthusiastic response. I had no idea at the time how valuable this contact would become, in piecing together the details of Henry’s life, both during and after the Civil War.
Hello Steve,
Yes, this is still a good e-mail for me. I'm delighted to connect with another cousin descended from Cynthia. I didn't realize Henry Ira Banks had any children. I'd only heard of the wife he was married to when he died. Recently, I found some more info about him and it appeared he had a first wife when he lived in Iowa.
What do you have of his early life, Cynthia's ancestry, and Henry Ira's Civil War service? I grew up in NYS, near where Cynthia was born and lived before she moved to Iowa, after her husband's death. She was an amazing woman, and I'm researching her with the idea of writing about her...at least for family background. Whenever I encounter difficulties, I think of Grandma Cynthia and how she kept going midst bstacles.
I've made contact with descendants of Henry's brothers William and Daniel. I'm descended from Willis who was my paternal grandmother's father. The information I have is that Henry Ira is buried in Baird.
Mary Emma
After reading Mary Emma’s cordial response, I smiled, took a deep breath, and stretched out my arms, crossed my fingers, and cracked my knuckles, preparing to type my way into the beginning of a wonderful exchange with my distant cousin. Though I had to correct her misconception that I was Henry’s direct descendant, all the other information contained in the body of her email was dead-on accurate.
Mary Emma...
Thanks for getting back to me so soon.
First, I’m not a direct descendant of Henry’s. His brother David Irish Banks was my grgr Grandfather. David’s son, Willus was my gr Grandfather.
An item that Henry made while he was in the Civil War fell into my possession, and I could type up the whole story for you, but I would rather just attach a pdf that I prepared a while back when I began gathering facts. (file is attached, along with an excerpt from my first draft of a book I’m writing)
At the beckoning of friends and family members, I am writing a book about my search for answers. This is my first attempt at writing, and it has really become incredible therapy for me. After looking at some of your work, I’m certain that you understand where I’m coming from.
During my research, I have found photos of Cynthia, a photo of a Sampler she stitched as a teenager, and a photo of the home that I believe was the Banks family residence in Putnam County. I will send these files to you if you wish.
I am VERY interested in the facts that you have regarding the Banks family history in New York, and their exploits as farmers in Kansas, where they settled in the 1870’s.
I’m rambling.
Please see the pdf, and give it a read when you have a few minutes.
So nice to make your acquaintance!
Please stay in touch!
Sincerely,
Steve Enyeart
I exchanged a few more notes with Mary, and finally, we decided to speak on the phone. I called her at her home one evening, and we exchanged notes about our Banks family roots for approximately 30 minutes. I was bubbling over with information, and I was so excited to share it with someone who could relate to, and benefit from it, that I could scarcely get the words out of my mouth fast enough. As I attempted to articulate the numerous connections and discoveries that I had made since Henry’s bible dropped into my life, I was unaware that as I rhapsodized, Mary had been thumbing through a photo album that had belonged to her grandmother. She politely interrupted me, and uttered a phrase that left me dumbstruck.
“I’m looking at a photograph of Henry Ira Banks. It is signed by him, and is dated 1872.”
I went silent for a few seconds, overwhelmed by the impossible fortuity that once again seemed to grace this quixotic mission of mine.
“And here is another,” Mary pronounced, before I could conjugate a single word. “He is younger in this photo, leaning against a tall table.”
Bonus!
“Mary,” I said quietly, and stern,
“if I could get copies of those photos, you will be my new best friend.”
Mary laughed. I remember a familiar tonality in her laughter that I tried hard to dismiss, but I could not ignore the unmistakable lilt in her voice, which echoed with a calm and comforting temperament. We spoke for a few more minutes, promising to stay in touch.
In that same evening when I had considered resigning my position as Henry Banks’ chronicler, I was given a marvelous gift, which was the final missing piece that would enable me to continue. I didn’t need a building to fall on me, or the sky to open up to a chorus of angels and harps. It was incontestable. I was encouraged to finish what I had started, simply because I had to, and though the reasons were vague, I hoped that I would somehow benefit from the experience, or that somewhere, sometime, someone eventually would.
Checking the mail one afternoon, I found a manila envelope nesting the typical stack of bills, catalogs and direct mail ads. Despite the uncharacteristic 90º conditions of a January afternoon in central Texas, I tore open the envelope on the hood of my SUV, because the anticipation was just too much. The envelope was from Mary Allen, and its contents included scanned copies of two vintage photographs featuring Henry Ira Banks. A broad smile spanned across my face, as I was finally introduced —face-to-face— to my great-great uncle Henry.
I studied the first photograph, which was a full-length likeness, featuring a lean, late-teen, or 20-something, fair-haired, well-dressed young man in a long coat, satiny vest complimented by a neatly-fastened bow tie. Wearing square-toed dark leather boots with a high sheen, both his expression and posture exuded a certain degree of pride, standing tall, resting his right hand on a small table, which was festooned with a garish brocade tablecloth. A simple wooden chair with a shiny varnish was placed halfway into the frame, I supposed for visual balance. It was difficult for me to discern whether the photo had been taken before, or after Henry’s service in the Civil War. (Though this photo had been labeled with Henry's name, it was later proven to be his younger brother, Egbert.)
The second photograph was a headshot, and offered more detail of Henry’s features, the most prominent of which, were his steel gray eyes. He seemed less alert, and noticeably more tired in the photograph. His eyelids drooped slightly, and his gaze seemingly was fixed on a distant subject. Of course, he was not the agile youngster that he appeared to be in the other photo. He appeared in full, bushy beard, with darker hair than in his earlier photograph. He was dressed again in a suit and vest with a bowtie. Henry’s signature was featured at the bottom of the card that the photo was affixed to, and he had dated the image as 1872, making him about 34 years old when the photograph had been taken. I applauded Henry for placing his signature on the picture, as well as the year. Otherwise, anyone who could qualify to identify his likeness would now be long-deceased.
I thought about some of the old photographs that I had previously acquired from my parents’ photo albums. I recalled one Saturday afternoon, spent in my garage in California, sifting through literally hundreds of their pictures, which were all very interesting, but had no value whatsoever, due to their lack of identification. I wondered if there were other lessons that my encounter with Henry would teach me.
I noticed that Mary’s envelope had a certain heft that begged investigation. Upon inspection, I found a set of stapled pages, which featured neat, formatted text from an inkjet printer. I read the first paragraph, and before I knew it, the sun had set, and I had read all ___pages in their entirety. It was a vast collection of correspondence between Henry, his mother Cynthia, and his brother Egbert. All letters were sent to or from various posts during Henry’s years of service as a Union Infantry Volunteer. Unbelievable!
I placed the photographs of Henry back in the envelope, gathered the rest of the mail that I had strewn across the hood of my SUV, and aimed for home. I parked in the driveway, grabbed my belongings, and stepped up to the porch. I stopped in my tracks, and peeked around the corner to the dense forest of oaks and mesquite, which flanked the property. A bright red cardinal sat atop an exposed branch, calling out to his neighbors across the wooded valley. His vibrant feathers were amplified by what I refer to as “one of those crazy Texas skies” that sends rosy sunbeams piercing through cotton clouds that roll across the hill country at sundown.
As a random response, I took a seat on the lawn, beholding the technicolor scenery passing before my eyes. Just as I had stood at the end of Market Street in downtown Baird, Texas, imagining the same perspective that Henry would have, when he arrived in 1889, I wondered if a descendant of mine would ever sit in my current spot, and in the same manner, observe this panorama 120 years from now. I wondered if Uncle Henry —as he whittled away on his wooden bible in 1862— ever imagined how far his souvenir would travel, through both distance and time, or the impact it would have on a great-great-grand-nephew. Now that I had finally become somewhat formally introduced to the man, seen his face, identified his birthplace, and his final resting place, it was time to begin filling in the gaps.
