A small cemetery on the windy plains of eastern Colorado has family significance. There’s a Robert Green, who died in 1920, when he was only three and a half years old, was my dad’s older brother. Only my dad was born in 1923, so he never met this brother.
My dad’s family lived in the nearby town of Branson; my grandmother taught school and my grandfather ran the local bank. The one-two punch of the Depression and the Dust Bowl led my grandparents away from Colorado to the northern part of the Texas Panhandle, where my grandmother still taught school and my grandfather cobbled together a living doing anything he could fine. But they left their little son in that Colorado cemetery.
Then in 1944, my grandmother’s mother, who’d come out from Pennsylvania to be near her daughter, passed away and was buried in that same windy place.
And so it was that we we to see the dead ancestors, to revisit my hazy memories of tales often told.
at the cemetery
You know how I am – if there’s a cemetery nearby there’s a very good chance that I’ll want to stop and explore it. And so that’s why we took a break from driving around some urban lakes in Minneapolis – the cemetery was RIGHT THERE.
And it wasn’t exactly like we ignored the lakes – the western edges of the cemetery offered a lovely view of the lake now known as Bde Maka Ska (Previously it was Lake Calhoun, and maybe that name change is in limbo.)