More Than the Dash Between the Dates

While scrolling through social media today, I came upon a historical photo that stopped me, triggering a lingering curiosity mixed with sorrow I’ve been carrying around for a long time.

I’ve explained many times how my search for my family history is more about the stories of the people that shaped my family than it is about collecting names and dates, which I’m certain is true for anyone who does more than dabble in genealogy.  I’m particularly connected to my maternal grandmother’s family stories because they seem to have the patina of a good Steinbeck novel:  the grit, the poverty, the family bond.  The Waltons meet the Joads, perhaps.

In particular, the family of my great aunt Jessie has always tugged at my heart.  Aunt Jessie married a man much her senior while she was still a teenager, and by the time they’d been married a decade, the couple had 5 sons and Jessie was pregnant with her first daughter.  They scratched out a living on the flat land of the Missouri Bootheel, near Jessie’s siblings.

By the late summer of 1918, World War 1 had come closer (Jessie’s brother Ben was exempt as a married farmer with a small son), and an epidemic of the flu had been ravaging Army camps.  Much of this probably felt quite remote in a farming community far from anything that could be called a municipality.

I have no idea who fell ill first.  Perhaps a neighbor who later recovered or even a passerby who stopped for a cup of water.  In the 3rd week of October, though, Aunt Jessie’s 3 youngest sons Johnny, Jimmy and Phil, all died, likely quickly.  From historical accounts of the flu that year, they may have been gone so speedily that the young parents hardly had time to absorb the loss.  Either because of the shock or because she was also ill, Jessie gave birth prematurely to little Mildred that same week.

I can hardly begin to imagine the grief.  They were already quite poor, and a neighboring farmer was allowing one of his pastures to be used for burials.  The boys are all buried there, possibly in the same coffin.  They were 7, 4 and 18 months.  Their graves have been unmarked, as is the entire “cemetery” for over 100 years. 

So when I saw this photo today, I thought of those little boys, my grandma’s cousins.  I have no desire to turn this entry or their memory into a political bid, the photo just provided a moment for reflection, to remember all of those lost.