Monday, December 31, 2007
Friday, December 28, 2007
the next step was addictive
In the lower left hand corner of Riverhill Cemetery where the lovely lily of the valleys come back each spring, I found the names Benjamin F. Ashe, and Sarah Keen. Town records gave quick confirmation that Benjamin was the Son of John Ashe from Midlothian, Scotland, and his wife from Buckfield, Sweet Polly Richardson. But I wondered who Sarah was. According to the death records in town, she was born in Oxford, Maine 1837. Next stop the history room at the public library. The 'Annals of Oxford' named many Keens, and sure enough Sarah was there too, right toward the bottom of page 215. Her father was Simon S. Keen (1813). I find it extremely satisfying when things make sense and tie together. I think discovery is a basic pleasure, and is alluded to in Proverbs 25 when it says, ' the honour of kings is to search out a matter'. The same day, on the 2nd floor of the library, in what they call 'the cage' due to the fact that the area was kept locked with a chain link fence door, I also found two Keen/Keene Genealogies. I couldn't find Sarah's name, but, whoo hoo, Simon was there! Now I had two previously compiled resources to pour over. How very cool. And as an added little bonus I soon found out the record traced us back directly to Richard Warren of the Mayflower, through his daughter Ann. Not bad for a couple of hours of research.
Thursday, December 27, 2007
A Renewed Interest
Frances Young, Wilmuth Berwick, Gerald Berwick, Eva Huthinson, EvelynTripp.
During the summer of 1998 I went through a season of reevaluating my life, taking stock of where I had come from and where I wanted to focus my energy. Part of this process included a renewed interest in family history. I spoke to relatives, visited family gravesites, and visited the local library. Now in an effort to share what I uncovered through my amateur research, I decided to give this blogging thing a go.
I started at what I thought was Chases Mills Cemetery, but found out is actually Riverhill. I remembered coming here every memorial day with my mom as a small child, learning to walk gingerly around the graves of people I could not see and had never met, though their blood runs through my veins. I could sense my mother loved and held these in high regard. I remember the carpeting of tiny flowers that profusely covered a good deal of the upper left hand corner of the little old cemetery where my maternal Grandmother, clearly my mother’s most treasured departed one, rested peacefully. My mother called them May flowers and inevitably quoted, “April the showers bring May flowers”. When she was still with us I found her repetitive quotes annoying, especially as a teen. Not so much theses days.
Ever faithfully blooming down in the very lower left hand corner of the weary yet charming old graveyard, I intensely desired to pluck up some the sweet lily of the valley, but I understood it was forbidden to take flowers away from this place, and the tiny flowers appeared just the same every year. The rose bush was just as constant a friend, and every spring time blossomed delicately pink with the deeper pink buds. I loved he tiny buds the best. These were directly in back of the larger important looking headstone middle way down the same left hand side of the yard. I am surprised at the resiliency and enduring genetic heritage of such plants. The pink rose bush had always been there as long as my mother could remember, and in the spring of 2007, my three year old granddaughter saw them there. Revisiting the peaceful place after my mother’s passing eleven years earlier, these memories were my guide in that summer in 1998.
Aunt Martha and Aunt Eva both confirmed to me that although nothing but fragrant bunches of lilacs along with fresh faced daisies in coffee cans marked their graves seasonally, directly across from Grammy Emma and Grandfather Frank, Emma’s mother and father, Julia Marie Burns Ashe, and Walter Ashe were also laid to rest. So who were the rest of these marked graves that seemed significant during the childhood visits?
I took down the names and dates and it wasn’t long before I figured out five generations of Ashes were buried here. My mother, Evelyn Phoebe Berwick Tripp, since 1987 had joined the rest. Evelyn’s mother and father, Emma Bertha Davis Ashe Berwick, along with her husband Frank Bazil (Basil?) Berwick. Emma’s mom and dad with no grave markers at all were Walter R. Ashe and Julia Burns. Julia’s relatives are buried in Hebron, Maine, while Walter’s are, ah ha!, down in the lower left hand lily of the valley corner, Benjamin F. Ashe and Sarah Keen. Then the rose bush people were John Ashe, etched proudly on his tombstone is the phrase, “born in Scotland”, and Polly Richardson, apparently equally proudly, was “born in Buckfield”.
I started at what I thought was Chases Mills Cemetery, but found out is actually Riverhill. I remembered coming here every memorial day with my mom as a small child, learning to walk gingerly around the graves of people I could not see and had never met, though their blood runs through my veins. I could sense my mother loved and held these in high regard. I remember the carpeting of tiny flowers that profusely covered a good deal of the upper left hand corner of the little old cemetery where my maternal Grandmother, clearly my mother’s most treasured departed one, rested peacefully. My mother called them May flowers and inevitably quoted, “April the showers bring May flowers”. When she was still with us I found her repetitive quotes annoying, especially as a teen. Not so much theses days.
Ever faithfully blooming down in the very lower left hand corner of the weary yet charming old graveyard, I intensely desired to pluck up some the sweet lily of the valley, but I understood it was forbidden to take flowers away from this place, and the tiny flowers appeared just the same every year. The rose bush was just as constant a friend, and every spring time blossomed delicately pink with the deeper pink buds. I loved he tiny buds the best. These were directly in back of the larger important looking headstone middle way down the same left hand side of the yard. I am surprised at the resiliency and enduring genetic heritage of such plants. The pink rose bush had always been there as long as my mother could remember, and in the spring of 2007, my three year old granddaughter saw them there. Revisiting the peaceful place after my mother’s passing eleven years earlier, these memories were my guide in that summer in 1998.
Aunt Martha and Aunt Eva both confirmed to me that although nothing but fragrant bunches of lilacs along with fresh faced daisies in coffee cans marked their graves seasonally, directly across from Grammy Emma and Grandfather Frank, Emma’s mother and father, Julia Marie Burns Ashe, and Walter Ashe were also laid to rest. So who were the rest of these marked graves that seemed significant during the childhood visits?
I took down the names and dates and it wasn’t long before I figured out five generations of Ashes were buried here. My mother, Evelyn Phoebe Berwick Tripp, since 1987 had joined the rest. Evelyn’s mother and father, Emma Bertha Davis Ashe Berwick, along with her husband Frank Bazil (Basil?) Berwick. Emma’s mom and dad with no grave markers at all were Walter R. Ashe and Julia Burns. Julia’s relatives are buried in Hebron, Maine, while Walter’s are, ah ha!, down in the lower left hand lily of the valley corner, Benjamin F. Ashe and Sarah Keen. Then the rose bush people were John Ashe, etched proudly on his tombstone is the phrase, “born in Scotland”, and Polly Richardson, apparently equally proudly, was “born in Buckfield”.
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