A Life Well-Lived

He would be 100 today! Feliz cumpleaños, Papi!

What does a well-lived life, one of rich simplicity and love, of sacrifice for family and freedom, look like?

It looks like courting his sweetheart...

(Abue & Papi, 1945)

...and loving her all his life. 

(in 1984)

It meant putting heart into his work...

(at La Gravi, his workplace in Cuba)

...and finding joy in his work at home...

(In Cuba)

(In Spartanburg) 

...being gratified by God's creation. 

(Across the street from his Brookside Rd home in Spartanburg)

His life was full of friendships...

(In the 1970's with Dora and Andrés Cruz)

(Celebrating with the Fernandez family in 1964)

(Stopping for lunch on the way to Miami in 1973, with Andrés Cruz)

(Visiting with Jeremy's Granny Beulah Wilde at her home in

Greenville, SC, Feb. 2000)

He loved to have fun... 

(Varadero Beach, Cuba, 1935)

(Sometime in the '80's, our annual party for Cookie)

(Clowning around with brother-in-law, Chichi Genova, at Ghost Town)

(Abue & Papi with Jeremy and his parents, Sept. 2000)

He was devoted to his family...

(Aug. 1962, Caracas)

(Same group, 1978)

(My Papi & me)

(Baby Frankie came to visit)

(Sharing a paper, 1992. Notice Papi's chair...it's familiar to those of

you who spend time around my dining room table. Happy are those

who are able to share Papi's famous chair!)

(Frankie with Abue & Papi, Nov. 25, 2000)

He enjoyed celebrating... 

(One of Papi's birthdays, probably 1979)

(His last birthday, Oct. 16, 2001)

(At Brookside Rd., I believe his last Christmas, 2001)

He was proud of his home...

("The house we built in 1952, Jovellanos")

...and just loved to be alive! 

(With his brother-in-law, Osvaldo Diaz)

(I've always loved this photo of Papi and me!)

(The front steps at Brookside Rd., with Cookie. How I miss

them both...Oh, how I wish I could reach back in time through this photo!)

It's okay to look back, to unwrap the precious memories God gives us. It's right to thank Him for a life well-lived, that I got to witness and be a part of it, to be loved by this humble, gentle, courageous, caring man. It's bittersweet to reminisce about what once was, that will never be again, but to give thanks that I am who I am because of who he was. 

Tears flow because I still miss him and what he stood for; I miss his voice, and his readiness to eat anything sweet. I miss his whistling (now I do it for him), and his singing random tunes. I miss his love for animals, and his willingness to fix anything. I wish he could have known my girls...he'd have been crazy about them. His memory lives on through my stories...it lives through all of us who loved him.

(1952)

(Sometime in the '80's, happy as usual, out in nature)

This gardenia is growing from another bush that was planted by Papi. 

A tiny offshoot was transferred from SC to my yard in Hendersonville, NC,

where I now enjoy seeing it grow. It's wonderful to care for it and 

delight in it as Papi did. I can't wait to see it bloom!

Thank you, God, for a baby boy named Antonio Jiménez Blanco, born October 16, 1916 in Havana. You gave us a rare treasure, and we celebrate him today!

  

Grasping at Straws for Chester

Over the past few months I've uncovered a lot about Uncle Chester. If you're unfamiliar with him, read back a bit and be fascinated. I think the true captivation for me with my great-grandfather's older brother is that I can't bear for him to be forgotten. He died at a mere 22, unmarried, with no one but Burtnett descendants like me to carry his blood and remember him. And that's what gets me most: Chester has no one to remember him. I feel it my duty to bring back to life all I can about him, because his life mattered, and he still matters to me.

I'm not on Ancestry, simply because I have trouble parting with money. However, I decided to spend some bucks on an "official," honest-to-goodness copy of Chester's death certificate. I had to go through the Pennsylvania Department of Health and answer all sorts of questions about my background in order to prove who I was. I thought, these folks don't mess around with legal documents! (And this one is 110 years old...why would anyone care about it except me?!). Anyway, I got to thinking that I probably could've found it on Ancestry and should've joined, considering I paid one third of the cost of membership just for this one piece of paper. But, hey...now I have a real, certified copy. (I justify it that way).

Yes, I did already have practically all the information I wanted on Uncle Chester. After all, the "mystery" behind his untimely death was solved with the Tribune-Democrat article, right? Not quite. There's one tiny part of Chester that's driving me crazy, that I can't seem to nail down: his middle name. "Chester B. Burtnett," I read everywhere; it's on his tombstone, in the article about his death...but what on earth does that middle-initial "B" stand for?! Surely the death certificate would provide closure.

I ordered it close to three weeks ago and paid more for UPS service than I did for the paper itself, simply because through the postal service, it could've taken up to three more weeks to arrive. A few days after I ordered it, I saw Chester in a dream. I asked him what the "B" stood for, and he said, "Burke." Just like that, no frills, no beating around the bush. I thought, "Burke" sounds funny alongside "Burtnett," and that name has never come up in my research before.

Today, the UPS man put a thin envelope into my hand, and I didn't even go inside to open it. What I saw stopped me in my tracks, but in a sad way. The certificate told me nothing new, absolutely nothing; the "B" was still a "B," mystery unsolved. My sorrow comes from the fact that the certificate was filled out in Latrobe, PA, by a stranger who left a lot of basics as "unknown," simply because he didn't take the time to find out the answers. It's as if he had to sign off on the death because it was his job, and not much more thought was put into it. Poor Chester.

Because this is a true copy of the record, I'm not at liberty to photograph it. However, here are some of the details included (everything underscored was written by the doctor, and below, by the undertaker):
Place of Death.
County of Westmoreland
Borough of Latrobe
FULL NAME Chester B. Burtnett

PERSONAL AND STATISTICAL PARTICULARS
SEX Male  COLOR White
DATE OF BIRTH June 1884 [This makes me mad! He was born May 24, 1884!]
AGE 22
[Now, for Birthplace, Name of Father, Birthplace of Father, Maiden Name of Mother, and Birthplace of Mother, the doctor wrote "unknown." This breaks my heart. I already know the information, but Chester's death certificate should have all these details on it; he's worth it!]
OCCUPATION Brakeman

MEDICAL CERTIFICATE OF DEATH
DATE OF DEATH June 25, 1906
I HEREBY CERTIFY, That I attended deceased from --- 190---to----
190---that I last saw h---alive on------190----and that death occurred, on the date stated above, at 4:50 pm. [There is a line drawn on each blank denoted here by the dashes, indicating that the information is not applicable.]
The CAUSE OF DEATH was as follows: 
Injuries by being run over by train on Pennsylvania Railroad.
Contributory Accident
(Signed) Charles A. Wynn M.D.
June 26, 1906 (Address) Greensburg 

THE ABOVE STATED PERSONAL PARTICULARS ARE TRUE TO THE BEST OF MY KNOWLEDGE AND BELIEF
(Informant) Jno. F. Stader
(Address) Latrobe, PA

PLACE OF BURIAL OR REMOVAL Wilmore, PA
DATE OF BURIAL June 27, 1906
UNDERTAKER John F. Stader  ADDRESS Latrobe, PA

Filed June 26, 1906
W. Osborne
      Registrar

And that's the death certificate. Although I'm glad to have it, I feel let down; not for myself, but for Chester, that neither the doctor nor the undertaker took the trouble to fill in the particulars about his parents. I will do it for him:
BIRTHPLACE Cambria County, PA
NAME OF FATHER William Keesey Burtnett
BIRTHPLACE OF FATHER Cambria County, Pennsylvania
MAIDEN NAME OF MOTHER Martha Allenbaugh
BIRTHPLACE OF MOTHER Pennsylvania

I'm sorry, Uncle Chester; it's the least I can do. I will continue the search for that mysterious "B!"
On another note...

What about this beautiful photo of my great-grandfather, Harry Burtnett, with his schoolmates? How many people are blessed to have such a picture from a great-grandparent's childhood?

All I know about this group is that it had to be around 1895, and it was at the school in the area of  Summerhill, Cambria County, PA. I submitted this delightful treasure to the genealogy group of Cambria County on Facebook in hopes that someone could identify the location, or maybe find an ancestor of their own. Surprise! A dear lady wrote me back that she, too, has Burtnett blood. We discovered that her great-great-great grandfather (Daniel Burtnett) and mine (Peter Burtnett) were brothers! Do the good times ever stop?

No, they don't. See, my whole motive for digging out this photo had to do with (you guessed it!) Chester. I remembered the picture, and thought that since children of many ages attended school together, then perhaps I would find Uncle Chester in the photo, too. After all, he was four and a half years older than young Harry. If Harry was around five, then Chester would be pushing ten in the picture. 

Maybe I'm grasping at straws for Chester, but I want so badly to believe I see him. Do you see him, too? Notice the two boys in the very back, a little right of center, between the windows. I think Chester might be the one on the right. 

Is there a resemblance?

Every fiber of my being believes there is.

Incidentally, just as a goofy aside, those who know my husband will get a kick out of this. Look back at the photo; did you notice the pair in the first window: a young man next to an older woman who was probably a teacher? Look again at that young guy, very closely:

Does this fella look like Jeremy??

Sometimes genealogy can take us to the Twilight Zone!

The good times really do not ever stop!

Until the next one!

What Happened to Chester? Part 2

At the microfilm machine in the Johnstown, PA library, my heart was pounding in my ears. It seemed to take forever for me to scroll the reel to the June 26, 1906 edition of the Tribune-Democrat. I was a little let down already at the lackadaisical attitude of the librarians. They weren't impressed at all by my Chester story, acting as if folks from North Carolina stroll in every day in search of dusty articles about long-lost relatives. As the reel advanced, I imagined everyone in the place could hear my heart. I was getting closer to June 26. After so long, after many years of wondering about Chester, I was about to solve the mystery.

Suddenly, the heading was upon me: THE DAILY TRIBUNE--JOHNSTOWN, TUESDAY EVENING, JUNE 26, 1906. I stopped, expecting that Uncle Chester had made the first page. No, he wasn't there. I moved to the next page...not there, either. I scrolled on; still nothing about dear Chester. I started to feel a tad panicky; didn't the people at that Tribune office 110 years ago care at all about Uncle Chester and his accident? Where was it? The library archives index had listed Chester's name as being in this edition of the paper, so it had to be there.

And then, at the top of a page, in stark letters, I saw: KILLED BY A TRAIN. I exclaimed to my family, "This is it!" I then experienced the unexpected sensation of hesitation; did I truly want the sorrowful details of dear Chester's death? You know the ultimate answer.



THE DAILY TRIBUNE--JOHNSTOWN, TUESDAY EVENING, JUNE 26, 1906.

KILLED BY A TRAIN---Cambria County Railroader Met His Death at Latrobe--BUT TWENTY-TWO YEARS OLD.

Chester B. Burtnett, with Crew Out of Conemaugh, Lived but Short 

Time After Having Been Hurt While Making a Coupling--His Father Was 

Last Year Supervisor of Summerhill Township and Lives Near 

Beaverdale.

   Chester B. Burtnett, a Pennsylvania Railroad Company brakeman out of Conemaugh, was fatally injured while making a coupling on his train at Latrobe late yesterday afternoon. He lived only about fifteen minutes after having been hurt. The remains were prepared for burial by Undertaker Stader and will be shipped to Wilmore, this county, this afternoon.
   Burtnett's run was on what is known as "Pg. 51," or "Local West," from Conemaugh to Pittsburgh one day and return the next. Yesterday he was with Conductor S.H. Brallier and was on the westbound run. The train was doing work at Latrobe when the accident happened. When in Conemaugh Burtnett stopped at Hall's restaurant and boarding house.
   The unfortunate young man was but twenty-two years of age and unmarried. He had been in the employ of the P.R.R. Company since February 8th of this year. Mr. and Mrs. W.K. Burtnett, the young man's parents, are well-known residents of Summerhill Township, Mr. Burtnett having served as Township Supervisor there last year. The parents lived in Beaverdale until yesterday, when they moved to a farm they own some three miles out in the country from the lumber and coal town.
   Chester Burtnett's remains are, it is said, to be taken overland from Wilmore to the old Burtnett homestead in Summerhill Township, at present occupied by William Allenbaugh and interred in the home cemetery near that place. Other surviving members of the family, besides the parents, are two brothers and a sister, all at home.


Upon printing the article, my daughter wanted to hold it, and I told her to guard it with her life! My mind was spinning and unable to grasp the full meaning of all the details. In that moment, I was so relieved to have it in my possession, and so overtaken by the reality that I finally had the information, that I neglected to search further and see if there were other articles about Chester. I guess the only thing to do will be to go back!

The article does leave some items to be explained. First of all, Summerhill Township is only a few miles outside of Johnstown, PA, which is about 32 miles from Latrobe, the site of the accident. Conemaugh is a township at Johnstown, in Cambria County, about 90 miles east of Pittsburgh. My great-great grandfather, W.K. Burtnett, was "town supervisor" of Summerhill, which probably was an elected position that entailed overseeing the activities of the town. 

The job that caused Chester's death, "coupling," is the process by which train cars are linked together. Although still dangerous, the job in 1906 was extremely treacherous. At that time, coupling involved using a link and pin, which had to be dropped in place as train cars were pushed together. It was possible for a man to be crushed between cars, or to be dragged and killed by a car that might begin moving too soon. 

The article notes that in addition to Chester's parents, "two brothers and a sister" were at home. These would've been my great-grandfather, Harry Burtnett (age 17 at the time), Earl (age 10), and their sister, Alda, around age 14. There were three older sisters: Eva, Annie, and Ada, who, by then, were married with children of their own. 

After the library, we embarked on another adventure: going to Summerhill, and finding Mt. Olive Cemetery, where Chester is buried. I have seen this sign so many times on the Internet, and could not believe that I was actually standing beside it. 

Anyone who is interested in history sees cemeteries as a treasure. While most people think of them as scary or morbid, my husband and I could walk through one for hours, marveling at the stones, loving the quiet reverence for lives once lived. God gives and takes away, and one day we all will die. Cemeteries are a fascinating key to unlocking the mysteries of our ancestors. In this case, my visit to Mt. Olive was only another way to draw closer to Chester and honor his memory.

Summerhill is literally in the middle of nowhere. I realized immediately that the way it looks today is probably much unchanged from how it looked in 1906 when Chester was laid to rest. The day of our visit was windy, with a temperature around 30 degrees. I had seen the headstone in an Internet image many times, but nothing compared to seeing it in person:

The stone reads, "Chester B., Son of W.K. & Martha Burtnett, May 24, 1884-June 25, 1906"

The family viewed the stone, we took photos, then they retreated back to the van for warmth. I knew I could brave the cold a little longer. As the wind hit my face, I drank in the serenity and beauty of this place. I practically heard the horses' hooves on that dark day almost 110 years ago. I imagined W.K. Burtnett's expression of sorrow and despair, his arms around poor mother Martha as they both shed hot tears for their boy. The horse must have slowly clambered up the hill, casket riding behind, as Harry Burtnett and Chester's other siblings stood motionless, in shock and unable to fully process what was happening. "How will we carry on?" they must have all been wondering. "What will we do without our Chester?"

A young Harry Burtnett and his father, W.K.,
c. 1906.  This is how they would have looked
at the time of Chester's death. 

They stood right here, I thought as I breathed in the frigid air, in this exact spot. Young Harry, W.K., Martha, little Earl, even Uncle Irvin Allenbaugh from the photo...they all stood in this place, under this same sky, their hearts despairing, and tried to absorb the blow of Chester's death. They all stood in that location and probably didn't hear a word the minister said. I imagine it was all they could do to get it over with.

I knew I needed to do something, but what? There had to be more to being here than just standing at the grave, then hurrying out of the cold. I wished I had thought to take flowers, but I hadn't. Out loud, wind whipping, I prayed, "Lord, I thank You for Chester's life, and for enabling me to come here today. Thank You that I can remember him, and for helping me learn about him." Then, in case he could somehow hear me too, I added, "Uncle Chester, I'm so sorry about what happened to you. I'm so happy to be here today! I love you."

And in that moment, it struck me that for countless years, probably no one has been to the cemetery to visit Chester. I was sorry for that, but grateful to break the streak. It doesn't have to be that way. I also had the satisfying sensation that God, the Orchestrator of this whole process, was seeing and was glad.

It was hard for me to leave. Uncle Chester had been lying in the grave for 110 years, and after years of waiting and wondering, I had only been standing there for five minutes. It seems kooky, but I admit I felt bad leaving him there. If the cemetery were down the road, it would be one thing, but who knows when I'll make it to Summerhill again?

Incidentally, Uncle Irvin Allenbaugh is buried at Mt. Olive also, in an unmarked grave. W.K. Burtnett's obituary claims that he, too, is buried there, although the cemetery's old name, Coleman, is mentioned. Another mystery is that W.K. is not actually listed among the people laid there to rest. We have several relatives in the Mt. Olive cemetery, but Chester is the only Burtnett I saw.

Chester's is on the right.

The cemetery is on a hill, and Chester's headstone sits at the top, weathered with age, and a little sunken. It seems to be by itself, away from the others. The view from it is breathtaking. 

The view from the back side of Chester's grave.

Taking in one final view, I tried to grasp all of it: a battered photo with a name on the back, years of wondering, Aunt Erma's letter, traveling all the way to Johnstown and then Summerhill...all to meet my Uncle Chester in this tranquil, sleepy, yet exhilarating setting. I wanted to tell them all how sorry I was; I wanted to see W.K., Martha, and all the rest, and tell them that their family still cares about Chester. I wanted to see Harry Burtnett, "Pop" as I remember him, and hold his big hands, and ask him to tell me stories about his brother who died so young. I wanted to assure the family that Chester's life mattered, that he is worth remembering. There's not much to Summerhill, yet my roots are here, and I feel the fullness of it.  I can't wait to go back.

Next time, I'll bring flowers.

What Happened to Chester?

In posts on this blog, I've referred to "the album," one that I inherited from my grandfather, Jack Burtnett ("Peepeye"). I could spend a lifetime investigating the photos within, identifying my relatives and their friends, and looking up information about each one. The album in its entirety is a priceless treasure, but this specific photo has become my favorite:

When I first acquired the album, I noticed the "Over" that my grandfather had written across the top. Because of its fragile condition, I had to take care to pull this picture out of its corners and see what Peepeye  had written on the flip side:

I knew who "Pop" was: my great-grandfather, Harry Burtnett. Who was Uncle Irvin Allenbaugh? And I knew that Pop had had a younger brother named Earl, but who was Chester? This was at the beginning of my genealogy ventures, when I knew almost nothing about the Burtnett side of my family. What would make it very challenging was that my grandfather, his sisters, and of course, their parents, were all deceased. Almost all I had to go on was Peepeye's good sense in having written on the photo, and providing me with names. I turned to the Internet for help.

Over many years, I discovered only one valuable bit of information about Chester: he had died young. I found online that he was born on May 24, 1884, and had died on June 25, 1906. He was a mere 22 years old. Pop was born November 12, 1888, and had died when I was ten years old, in July of 1986, living almost to the age of 98. "Uncle Earl," as the family refers to him, was born in October, 1895, and died in 1984, at the age of 89. I had also heard that Pop had several sisters, and my Dad even remembered them from his childhood. The only sibling with whom I was unfamiliar was Chester. What had happened to Uncle Chester?

The good news is that I was able to learn that Irvin Allenbaugh was indeed the uncle of Pop, Chester, and all the rest. His sister, Martha Allenbaugh Burtnett, was their mother. The Burtnetts and Allenbaughs lived in Cambria County, Pennsylvania, near Johnstown, in Summerhill Township and some tiny surrounding towns. This sort of information started out, as I said earlier, only with my knowing that Pop had been from Pennsylvania. It's amazing what one can discover on the Internet by typing in a name and a state. 

I've also wondered why Uncle Irvin and Chester had this photo professionally taken together. Maybe they both wanted to be photographed, and putting their money together enabled them to spend less. I imagine they were close, as Irvin wasn't too much older than Chester, although he was his uncle and not his brother. I picture them dressing in their finest attire, collars starched, shoes shined, and making the trip from the farm to Johnstown to be photographed. Chester wears the expression of one who took the picture session seriously, and I love the slick look of his hair. He obviously took extra time to comb it just so, in order to look his best for the photo.

Over the years, I have come up short about Chester's death. I found a photo of his tombstone on the Internet through Find a Grave, and knew it was at Mt. Olive Cemetery (formerly Coleman Cemetery) in Summerhill Twp. I knew I had the right Chester Burtnett, because the grave said, "Son of W.K. and Martha," and I knew that those were Pop's parents. Pretty good information, but it always dead-ended there. I have spent years itching to know why Chester died so young, and resigning myself to the fact that I may never know.

I knew that I could always turn to Ancestry.com, but I've never joined. Anyone who does genealogy will tell you that half the fun is the thrill of searching. I had a feeling that someday, somehow, I'd find clues that would lead me to the truth about Chester. I was right! The clue came in the form of a letter, one written by Uncle Earl's wife, Aunt Erma Woodburn Burtnett.

One day a few years ago, my Dad showed up with a folder of old letters, newspaper clippings, and the like. It was a lot of stuff to go through in one sitting, so I looked at it here and there. Erma Burtnett had been married to Uncle Earl, and in August 1986, was still alive and well in Deerfield Beach, Florida. The letter was written to my grandparents to offer condolences upon hearing of the death of Pop.

At the time I acquired this letter, I had already been investigating the mysterious Uncle Chester for probably ten years. I began reading it with no expectation, without Chester on my mind. This is the excerpt that stopped me in my tracks and took my breath away:

"Harry's death marks the end of that Burtnett generation. Most of them lived beyond the 'three-score and ten.' Ada was 79, Eva-95, Annie-96, Alda-73, and Earl, 89. Earl used to speak of an older brother Chester who must have been between Annie and Harry. [At this point, I completely stopped breathing]. He worked on the RR and was killed in an accident about 1906. Their father, W.K., was devastated by his untimely death. Then shortly after that their mother, Martha Allenbaugh, died. W.K. died in 1932--he was 76."

After all that time, after so many years of searching and having no way of finding out short of paying money for access to archives, here was what I had been waiting for! I could have been knocked over with a feather. It was as if Aunt Erma were speaking to me from the dead (she died in 1996), laying out pieces of information that had been mysteries for me for so long. I read the letter again and again, and that particular paragraph even more times. Even now typing it out, I still find it hard to believe that the answers are written out so clearly.

The problem with information like that laid out by Aunt Erma is that it left me desperate to know more. Now I knew how Chester had died: a railroad accident. But I wanted details! Where was he? How did it happen? What was he doing? How would I find out? Genealogy research is like that; you find one needle in a haystack, then itch to find the next one. I now had a vested relationship with Uncle Chester, and had made it this far; I felt I owed it to him to keep putting the puzzle together.

Newspapers in 1906 left little to the imagination, as I knew from research. If there were an accident or other unfortunate incident, writers spared their readers no details. The Cambria Freeman was the local newspaper out of nearby Ebensburg, PA, and is available transcribed online. I looked, and looked, only to end up frustrated with no more information about Chester. No accident, no obituary...nothing. I discovered that the Johnstown, PA library has issues of its paper, the Tribune-Democrat, going back to the 1800's. They charge money to look it up, print it, and send it, but I feared I would be unable to communicate exactly to the librarians what I wanted. This seemed too big a deal to just "send off" for something.

There was only one thing to do. Meet me next time at the microfilm machine on Main Street in Johnstown as I sift through the June 26, 1906 evening edition of the Tribune-Democrat!

Esther's Story, Part 2

Here are more translated memories from my grandmother, now age 96, picking up where we left off:

These are distant memories that are conserved in my mind, although many can't believe it. I was baptized at age six months at the Church of the Ascension in Jovellanos by the priest, Pedro Pablo Gratton. My parents were there, and my uncle Jose Martinez, married to my Aunt Lucila; also, my Aunt Ofelia. The driver who took us to Jovellanos was Rafael Rodriguez, who everyone knew as Nené. After some years had passed, Nené told me about the day of my baptism. In later years, Nené worked for the administrator Eligio Suarez, as a substitute driver for Cejas. I can still imagine Cejas, skinny, with black hair. It was an open air car from 1920. The main office of Soledad [referred to as El Central Soledad] was American property; it belonged to the Compañia Azucarena Atlantica del Golf (a sugar mill). All the employees were paid in dollars.

Esther Quintero Jimenez,
 the author of these stories

The house given to my father was, upon entering the sugar mill through a wide entryway, located on the right. There were four little houses; the fronts of two little chalets were seen when going to the sugar mill, and two wooden houses, one smaller than the other in front of ours, but also beside it, on another little path. We lived in one of the little chalets, with a long, wood porch. There was a door and a railing at four or five steps that led to a little stone path. There were gardens beside the houses. We were separated by beautiful gardens from the road that led to the entrance of the sugar mill, and in their plants and flowers was a statue of a man, I never knew whom.

To the right of our house, coming down from the porch, was a bent coconut tree. Florinda, a very light-skinned mulatta who worked in our home, would take us down the stairs every afternoon, and I remember perfectly how we would shout, "Mama, we're going to the bent coconut tree!" For us, it was a big trip.

In back of the little houses was a large cement area of water pipes that were used during the hours of operation of the sugar mill. It was huge, all cement, and surrounded by tall walls. It was square, and on the cement floor, there were tall blocks, each one with four or five large pipes that turned very fast, putting out warm mist. That water would go all the way to the yard of the little chalets, but it was a small amount and caused no harm. When the period of work at the mill ended for short times, everything was dry, and children would go to that area to play.

All my life I have remembered that at only age four, I dreamed that a barrel was in the yard of my house. In my dream, I saw it full of water, and the little heads of my sisters, Cleofé and Olga, with their bows in their hair, floating in that water.

Little Cleofé and Olga with their mother.
Notice their hair bows!

There were two other small, short houses, which were the first ones on the right, as one entered the way to the mill. I remember that in the smaller one lived two little girls, like us. One was named Wilda, and the other Sobeida la Roque. I don't remember their parents or anything else about them, but I still remember them as if I could see them. In the other house lived a couple with a daughter named Emelina Zubirats; she had black, straight hair and bangs. Cleofé remembered more about those people, and told me that Emelina's mother would take them for walks. One day it started to rain and the mother said, "Cleofé, walk faster," and Cleofé's feet hurt terribly from walking so fast.

Next time, we will hear about the baptism and birth of other Quintero siblings. It is my goal to translate each page that my grandmother typed, but it is slow going. Cuban Spanish is full of colloquialisms and expressions that can be difficult to translate, so it takes time. 

The Photo That Changed Lives

It all started with this photo and its corresponding note, written in my grandfather's handwriting, then corrected in blue by his sister, Jane:

Two weeks ago, in the post about Peepeye's birthday, I wrote about my grandfather Jack Burtnett's album and how I believe it's my duty to treasure and keep it. As promised, I did spend some time with it in honor of what would have been Peepeye's 100th birthday. The feeling that came over me was one of lament, that I would never know these fine relatives long dead, and what a shame it was that I have all these pictures yet know not what happened to many of the people or their descendants.

Then I came to the photo above with the note stuck there long ago by Peepeye and Jane. Who can help but spend extra time studying such an extraordinary group? I knew who Alda was: the sister of my great-grandfather, Harry Burtnett (Peepeye's father). That made her Peepeye's aunt, and my Dad often still mentions Aunt Alda and what a character she was. Howard was her husband, and through research I knew his last name was Mangus. Kermit, Theda, Amber, and Neal were their children, and they lived in Cleveland, Ohio. The back of the photo told me that it was taken there in 1943.

I looked at these four cousins of my grandfather and longed to know them. What kind of people were they? What ever happened to them? Eaten up with curiosity, I headed to the computer and searched for each one, in order. Kermit Mangus was born in 1914, and Theda in 1915, so they are deceased, and I found that Amber was, too. However, after a little time, I saw that Neal Mangus is alive and well in Florida. I'll give him a call, I thought!

And call him I did. To my delight and to his surprise, we chatted for the better part of an hour. I found this 88-year-old gentleman, the good-looking 16-year-old in the photo, utterly charming. In his western Pennsylvania accent, he told me funny and helpful things about himself and the Burtnetts. When I asked him about Alda, Harry, and their siblings, he recalled, "They all had stark white hair. We'd have reunions once in a while. They all were very nice...all very religious."

About life in Johnstown, Neal said, "We lived right by the river, slaughterhouse, and junkyard...it was a great neighborhood where a kid could get in trouble!" The family left Pennsylvania when brother Kermit landed a job in Cleveland, and helped his father, Howard, get one as well, during a time when work was hard to find. Neal remembered staying on for a year with his sister, Theda, while the family got settled in Cleveland. When he was a boy, Neal lost his younger sister, Jean, who was only three. He said, "We both had pneumonia, and she died in the bed right next to me." My heart ached for Aunt  Alda to have gone through that. 

Aunt Alda & Uncle Howard Mangus, shortly before his death in 1951.

My grandfather's cousin, Neal, is a winsome man. We agreed how happy we were to have found each other, and that we will communicate often. All of this happened on Peepeye's birthday, and I couldn't help but think he'd be excited to know I had found a Burtnett relative. But that's just the beginning.

Neal encouraged me to speak to his son, Dave. Again, I had to make a call and identify myself as a long-lost relative, and again, I was received warmly. Dave took the time to talk to me for almost an hour, too, and recommended that I call Theda's daughter, his cousin, Karen Crawford, who also lives in Neal's town. At that moment, my heart was filled to overflowing, so my contact with Karen came a few days later. All through this, I mused over the fact that it all started with a photo and a post-it note.

Karen is one of Theda Mangus Hammond's two children; her brother, Rodger, is older. She was forthcoming with information and willing to share all she knew. She and her Uncle Neal see each other often. She described Alda so I could learn more about her: a "character," as my Dad had told  me, who lived in Johnstown after Howard died, until her death from cancer in 1964. 

A tremendous piece of the family puzzle that Karen helped with has to do with Amber, sister of Theda, Kermit, and Neal. Not only did Alda lose Jean and another baby, but in the early 1950's, she lost her daughter, Amber, to an untimely, tragic death. At the time of her death, Amber was married to Bill Saum and had two sons, Ken and Gregory. Ken was a young teenager, but Greg was only a baby. I studied the photo and marveled at this family that endured such hardship, the family who, at the time of the photo, had no idea of the trials to come.

Bill Saum remarried, Karen said. After telling me a few more details, she asked, "Remind me again where you live?" When I said western North Carolina, she responded, "Ken's son lives in Asheville!" I couldn't believe it. Did I really have a third cousin this close in proximity? Did my poring over Peepeye's album, singling out this photo, seeing the post-it, calling Neal, Dave, and Karen...really lead me to a relative practically in my backyard?

The short answer is, yes! In all this research, I am becoming adept in finding people, an amateur sleuth of sorts. It turned out that I found my cousin, who lives next door to a friend of my husband! Within minutes of my sending an email with the long details of who I am and how we're related, his wife wrote back! Not only were they ecstatic to hear from me, but we planned to meet the following weekend!

When we met the Saums yesterday, it was as if we had known each other all our lives. We were all wanting to know each other and be known. Because of his grandmother's death so long ago, Kevin Saum had not known her side of the family well. Until yesterday, he had never even seen a photo of Amber. His lovely wife and I looked on with lumps in our throats as Kevin gazed at the photo in the album, and many more. What a blessing it is to bridge the gaps that have been open for so long!

Need I say again that all of this started with the album my grandfather loved so dearly? It had led to two third cousins and their spouses in a kitchen, looking at a crumbling book, sharing stories about loved ones long gone. Amber is worth remembering; what we did and are doing honors her, as well as our other departed loved ones. It's never too late to pick back up. Family ties can never be broken as long as members are willing to strengthen them again.

With Kevin Saum

This post is extra long because the circumstances just keep getting better! After the Saums left, I texted Dave Mangus this photo and told him about me finding Kevin within 25 miles of my house. He said he was in Sarasota visiting Neal, and proceeded to send me copies of old family photos, including two more of Amber. One of these was taken the same day as the famous photo that started my searches! Now Kevin and his siblings, father, and uncle have pictures of the grandmother and mother they lost. I believe God is using this to help and grow us all in many ways.

The photo from Dave Mangus, the same day as the one in the album.
Back: Kermit, Neal, Bill Saum.
Front: Hazel Mangus and her children, Kermit Jr. and Jeanne, Howard and Alda Mangus, Theda and her son, Rodger, Amber and young Ken.

Who imagined that looking through the album would produce such fruit? Who knew how many Burtnett descendants are out there, glad to be found? Who knew that Kevin's family and mine would form an instant connection? I like to picture my great-grandfather, Harry (known to us as "Pop"), and Kevin's great-grandmother, Aunt Alda, delighting in this reunion of a family long grown apart. I wish I could tell Peepeye all about it, and that he could talk to his cousin Neal. I wish Amber knew that she is not forgotten. What a privilege it is to bring us all back together.  

"I will restore to you the years the locusts have eaten." (Joel 2:25)

Thank You, Lord...I can't wait to see where this will lead next.