Потеря бабушки и семейное паломничество: внук ищет корни в могильнике предков

While walking amongst the tombstones with Grand Uncle William “Elmer” Portzline in Liverpool Union Cemetery — overlooking the Susquehanna River — this mild-mannered freshman made a discovery that stopped him cold. Not only were seven generations of his family buried in that hallowed ground, but they also founded the little hamlet, named for Liverpool, England — their ancestral home. We stood before the largest family plot — ten graves across three generations of Huggins — marked by a towering monument at the cemetery’s heart, where locals had been buried since 1808. The members of this family were distant relatives of the town founder — John Huggins Sr., Esq. Beyond the granite obelisk, this avid history buff spotted the grave of Rebecca Jane Weldon Huggins — his great-great-grandmother, who raised his grandfather and brother until they ran off to become cowpokes on their Grand Uncle Jacob Louis “Cass” Huggins’ cattle ranch in Depression-era Texas. My second great-grandmother’s family roots could be traced back to Plymouth, Massachusetts when my tenth and eleventh great-grandparents — John and Elizabeth Tilley Howland and John and Joan Hurst Tilley, respectively — sailed across the Atlantic Ocean aboard the Mayflower. Standing there with my own personal tour guide, I decided to become the self-appointed family genealogist. Just four days earlier, we received the tragic news of my paternal grandmother’s passing in a late-night telephone call from Uncle Carl Price. Following a cerebral hemorrhage, Evelyn Mae Portzline Price lay in a coma for three weeks at Kenmore Mercy Hospital in Buffalo, New York before Jesus took her home on Saturday, October 18, 1980. No stranger to death — funeral parlors felt like a second home to this preacher’s kid — her passing hit me hard. She was the first of my grandparents to take the trip into the Great Beyond. After the blond-haired minister announced his mother’s passing to the congregation Sunday morning, we departed for her hometown of Liverpool — nestled along the river’s edge in northeast Perry County. We stopped at a nearby shop, the familiar doorbell jingling as I followed Dad inside to grab several copies of Harrisburg’s The Patriot-News, which carried Grandma’s obituary. From there, we made our way up U.S. Route 15 to the home of her cousin and husband — Grover Cleveland “Cleve” and Harriet “Hattie” Linn Hoffman — settled in the heart of the small village as the sun dipped below the horizon. “Land sakes,” declared Hattie, holding the screen door as we came in from the cold. “After such a long trip, I bet yous are plum wore out and ready to hit the hay — so let’s get that luggage upstairs.” “Once yous get settled in,” she continued, giving us young ones a peck on our cheek. “I’ve got iced lemon pound cake in the kitchen that will hit the spot before crawling under the covers.” Shortly after eating a slice of heaven accompanied by a tall glass of milk in the elderly woman’s blue and yellow kitchen, I brushed my teeth before hopping into an antique bed with my big brother John. Listening to the pitter-patter of rain on the roof overhead, it didn’t take long for us to drift off into dreamland, peppered with fairy dust from the Sandman. Upon arriving at George P. Garman Funeral Home on Front Street — facing the longest river on the East Coast — I laid eyes on my Pennsylvania cousins for the first time since last Thanksgiving in Buffalo, New York. With a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach, I suddenly realized our annual trip to the Empire State — to celebrate our ancestors’ arrival in the New World — had come to an abrupt end. Grandma Price’s passing would bring about many changes to our family, including our treasured holiday gatherings with loved ones on the Price side. “Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes,” Rhett Butler Price noted, giving me a great big bear hug. “I was just thinking of all the fun we had together last Thanksgiving and couldn’t wait to get into some more mischief this year.” “I guess those days are gone,” I lamented, tears streaming down my face. “Since Grandma’s no longer with us, we’ll have to start a brand-new tradition with our own families.” “Come on now, Marcus Welby, M.D.,” the community college freshman expressed, wiping my tears with his finger. “From all the board games and pillow fights to acting out dramatic scenes and stealing Grandma’s Thanksgiving pies, you’ll always be my partner-in-crime; and we’ve got enough memories to last a lifetime.” As most of the four-generation family made their way to Liverpool United Methodist Church on Market Street for a luncheon after the graveside service on Wednesday, I set off on a scavenger hunt with my grandmother’s only sibling — searching for our ancestors’ tombstones. “Jacob and Catharine Deckard Huggins are your third great-grandparents,” Uncle Elmer mentioned, pointing out their headstones. “While they’re buried with six of their offspring, they had eleven children in all; but most of their daughters are buried with their husbands in various cemeteries in both Dauphin and Perry counties.” Holy Toledo! I can barely fight over the bacon at breakfast with three siblings — how would I survive ten? “Your Pap Price could tell you a million stories about his Grand Uncle Jake,” he continued, motioning to a grave on the front row. “A cattle rancher who dabbled in oil — he paid for this entire family plot, all the stones, and the monument in the middle.” “And, of course, your second great-grandparents, Charles and Rebecca Weldon Huggins, who helped raise your grandfather, are buried on the back row next to several of their stillborns,” he added before moving along the gravel path. At the end of the family history lesson, the 64-year-old gentleman showed me the final resting place of his grandparents, William and Sarah C. Myers Portzline, another set of second great-grandparents. “My Grandpap Portzline was a sergeant in the Civil War,” he stated, running his hand along the top of the engraved granite stone. “Captured during the Battle of the Wilderness in May 1864, he spent the rest of the war in a North Carolina prison camp.” I had no idea one of my ancestors fought in the War Between the States. On our way back to my grand uncle’s car, he told me how he and his big sister used to frolic amongst the tombstones as if it was their own personal playground when they were kids. Traveling down the gravel road leading out of the cemetery, I imagined my grandmother as a young girl chasing after her little brother through the granite and marble headstones while playing a game of tag. With a smile on my face, I thought, “Grandma Price is finally back home where she belongs with her kinfolk.”