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.