The gravestone of my great-great-great-grandfather, Joseph Binney, and his wife, Eliza, is unremarkable: made of rough fieldstone, spotted with lichen, and of average size for the time. But it denotes the oldest known resting place of my Binney ancestors, which is one of the reasons I have travelled over 3,500 miles to stand in front of it. The other is that I’m on a mission to soothe Joseph’s restless soul.
My husband, Billy, has come with me to the cemetery at St. Martin’s Church in Liskeard, an ancient market town in Cornwall, England, and the place I consider my ancestral home. I’ve asked him to be on camera duty (“with the Nikon, not your phone”); it’s a job I know he will both enjoy and take seriously.
A mid-July day in Cornwall feels a lot like a late-April day in Massachusetts, where Billy and I live: grey, misty, cool. It’s not raining now, but the overgrown grass is wet from last night’s dousing, and after walking through it, the hems of my bootcut jeans are damp, too. The air has that earthy smell that comes after a driving rain.
The headstones here in the nineteenth-century part of the cemetery are packed together, nearly shoulder to shoulder and back to back. Presumably once set straight, most of them now lean forward, backwards, or to the side, as though the folks who lie below are chatting among themselves at a cocktail party.
“Who’s the new girl?” I imagine one saying.
“Never seen her before,” another answers.
The headstone on my ancestors’ grave tilts forward, as though the occupants are leaning in to get a better look at me. I hope I’m making a good first impression. I want to believe they would reach out and hug me with the strength of a million elephants if they could.
I grew up in a happy (enough) home with a loving (enough) family, but the five of us — my mother, father, sister, brother, and I — were an insular group. I never spent a holiday with a grandparent, or got a birthday call or card from an aunt or uncle, or had sleepovers with cousins. As a kid, I longed for all of that. As an adult, the absence of it has compelled me to find out as much as I can about my family history. Some of my forebears have become so real to me that at times I turn to them and their stories for strength and guidance, the way others might call on a trusted relative. My three-times great-grandfather Joseph falls into that category.
In fact, of the hundreds of ancestors I’ve researched, Joseph might be my favourite. (Shhh . . . don’t tell the others.) I’m sure that’s partly because I can trace my last name back to him. But mostly, it’s because he’s been a willing participant in my search for family.
Genealogy can be laborious. Tracking down a single date or address can take months or longer, and sometimes it proves impossible. At times, I get the sense that some of my ancestors just don’t want to be found. They appear to have gone to great lengths to erase any paper trail of their existence, as though they were government spies instead of shoemakers and washerwomen. In those cases, I’m flooded with the same disappointment I felt as a kid when my extended family was out of reach.
This hasn’t been the case with Joseph. In fact, it’s been the opposite. He has shown up in the censuses when and where he’s supposed to, and records of his birth, baptism, marriages, death, and burial are readily available. I’ve also managed to find a couple of newspaper articles that mention him, as well as a jail record with a physical description — from his brown hair and sandy whiskers to his missing upper tooth and the scar on his left thumb.
The information I’ve collected about Joseph has come piece by piece over many years, like letters from a spectral pen pal confirming over and over again that the relationship is reciprocal. His willingness to be vulnerable and forthright with me about the details of his life, along with my willingness to listen, has forged an intimacy between us. At the same time, Joseph’s insistence on being known so fully has carried with it more than a drop of desperation; it seems to me like he is begging to be heard, seen, remembered. I’ve often felt that a fear of being forgotten has made his soul restless. I want to fix that.
I inspect the gravestone more closely. The top half contains information about Eliza, who died first, and is easy enough to read. But there’s a large granite cross buried in the ground an inch or two in front of the stone and half the height of it, blocking access to the inscription on the lower section, the part that relates to Joseph. It feels wrong to be mad at the cross, but I am.
With some effort, I can make out the date he died and how long he lived, all of which I already knew, but there’s more engraved below all of that, hidden behind the cross in the dampest, darkest part of the stone, and I’m desperate to find out what it says.
You’ve picked a fine time to be elusive, Joseph Binney, I think.
I begin hopping from one side of the stone to the other, crouching down, leaning over, hoping to catch the words at exactly the right angle and in exactly the right light. Meanwhile, Billy cradles his camera with his right hand and mashes the grass down with his left so I can see better. Eventually, the words reveal themselves, letter by letter.
“Farewell, dear father; gone but not forgotten,” I say, with the satisfaction of someone who has cracked a wartime code.
Billy moves in to see if he can get a better shot with his camera. He kneels on the wet ground with the viewfinder to his eye, contorting his upper body in ways that look thoroughly uncomfortable.
“I bet that means he was a good father,” I say. Another clue as to who Joseph was. Another letter from my pen pal.
But also, the reference to not being forgotten seems pointed, a confirmation of my suspicions that he’s worried he has been. His children may have made him a promise, but what happened after they were gone? I wonder how long it’s been since someone has stopped in front of this grave, how long it’s been since someone contemplated the words and the man they describe. Fifty years? Eighty? A hundred?
I feel like I have been accepted into an inner circle — the extended family I’ve always wanted — and entrusted with the important task of making good on this promise that was chiselled into the stone so many decades ago. I am honoured to be a part of it, of them, and determined to continue what Joseph’s children started.
I lay my hand on the gravestone to let Joseph know I am here and he hasn’t been forgotten. I hope this is what’s needed to soothe his restless soul.
*****
Over the next few days, Billy and I visit several more places in and around Liskeard that are significant to my family’s history: the building where Joseph ran his bakery and he and Eliza raised their family; the jail where Joseph was sentenced to four months of hard labor after stealing a few bales of hay; the centuries-old church in a nearby village where he was baptized; the site of the iron foundry where Joseph’s son William, my immigrant ancestor, worked before leaving for America.
I try to be present at each stop and to soak in all the information because I know I may never have the chance to see these places again, but I can’t stop thinking about Joseph’s gravestone.
farewell, dear father; gone but not forgotten
The words slide easily and repeatedly through my head, like the refrain from a familiar nursery rhyme.
Joseph had ten children, seven of whom survived him and none of whom had two shillings to rub together. They did not have to pay the expense of having that line carved into stone, but they did it anyway. He must have meant a lot to them.
With a pang of envy, I wonder how often Joseph’s children visited his grave. My own father chose to be cremated. For the last two years, his ashes have sat in a box inside a box on the bottom shelf of a bookcase in my childhood bedroom. There is no gravesite for me to visit, no headstone to touch, no inscription to read. I’ve often wished there was. Maybe then I’d have a place I could go to offload some of my grief when it got too heavy to carry. I’ve discovered that when grief reaches capacity, accessing memories is more painful than it is comforting. In fact, it’s best not to let the memories in at all; the risk of being sucked under is too great.
I find myself imagining what Joseph was like as a father. I picture him in his bakery in the early morning hours as one of his children, lured by the smell of freshly baked bread, peeks around the doorframe and eventually enters the room. Sarah, his youngest daughter, has padded down the stairs from the family’s living quarters on the second floor, and she watches as her father kneads the dough, sweat dripping from his face. He is busy, but not too busy to notice her. He is tired, but not too tired to lift her up and set her on the table so she can see better. When he dots her nose with flour, she giggles. It’s a romanticised take on a dangerous and physically exhausting job, but it’s what I envision nonetheless, maybe because it’s how I imagine my own father would have been with me had we lived the lives of our Liskeard ancestors nearly two centuries ago.
I know that eventually, the unmarried Sarah will become Joseph’s assistant and, in my mind at least, the bond between them will only grow stronger as they work side by side in the bakery. Perhaps she is the one who will suggest including the last line on his gravestone when he dies. But that is all decades in the future. For now, all she knows is that she likes being here, kept warm by the oven fire from the cold outside, and that she would like to spend more time with her father.
I know how she feels. I would very much like that, too.
*****
On our third and last night in Cornwall, after we’ve had dinner and returned to our B&B, Billy and I are sitting in bed while a British quiz show plays on the TV. Chilled from another blustery and rainy day, we’ve pulled out the extra blanket from the bottom dresser drawer and laid it on top of the bedspread. There’s more chit-chatting than quizzing happening on the show, but my mind is elsewhere anyway.
I consider being the family historian a privilege, but it also comes with a certain kind of pressure. No one in my family has shown much interest in my discoveries, which means I often feel like it is entirely up to me to hear the calls of my ancestors. And right now, Joseph is calling me back to the cemetery.
Tomorrow, Billy and I are supposed to spend the day in Plymouth, a stop my sailboat-and-water–loving husband has been looking forward to for months. A return trip to St. Martin’s in the morning will cut into our time there, but when a commercial comes on, I broach the subject anyway.
“I think I need to go back to the cemetery,” I say. “I think there is more for me to do there.” I’m aware, as I say it, that I sound as though I am receiving instructions from the other side, and I don’t care.
Neither, it appears, does Billy. (After 20 years of marriage, he has seen me at my weirdest, and this, it must be said, is not it.) He simply shrugs and says, “Then let’s go back to the cemetery.” I scootch a little closer, wrap my arms around one of his, and rest my head on his shoulder.
The next morning, when we arrive at the back entrance of the church, a black and white cat is lounging on the stone wall at the top of the stairs to the cemetery, looking like a sphinx on his fifteen-minute union break. He greets us with a yawn and a full-body stretch, followed by several loud meows.
“Hi, kitty,” I say in a voice reserved for small animals and babies.
The cat follows us into the cemetery, seemingly interested in the company. He glides across the tops of the thin gravestones in Joseph and Eliza’s row like an Olympic-calibre gymnast on the balance beam, then glances back at me inquiringly. I consider for a moment that maybe the cat has been sent by Joseph. But before I can give it much thought, our feline friend swishes his tail and disappears into the undergrowth on the outskirts of the cemetery.
I’ve promised Billy — and myself — we won’t spend more than an hour here. It’s sunnier today, and the light makes it easier to see the inscription on Joseph’s gravestone, but only a little.
farewell, dear father; gone but not forgotten
The words hit me as powerfully as they did when I first saw them.
I touch the top of the stone, close my eyes, and take a big breath, hoping to create a stronger connection with Joseph. What can I do to help you? I ask him, but he does not answer.
I wander among the gravestones for a while, reading the names and dates and looking for clues that might help me understand why I’ve been pulled back here and what more it is I need to do. But I keep returning to Joseph’s grave. I keep wanting to lay my hand on the stone.
I’m reminded of how, when my father was dying, I could not stop touching him, even though my family has a long-standing history of not showing physical affection. He was often asleep when I arrived at the hospice facility, so I would touch his chest and say quietly, “Hi Dad, just letting you know I’m here.” If he mentioned that his legs ached, I rubbed them. I ran my fingers through his thin, grey hair while he was sleeping, just because. It was like I was making up for lost time.
When the hour is up, I am not ready to say goodbye, but I know I have to. I’m acutely aware of the minutes ticking away, robbing Billy of his time in Plymouth. And anyway, I get the feeling that no matter how many hours I spend here, it would not be enough.
So, I brush my hand across the top of Joseph’s gravestone one last time, then turn to Billy and say, “Okay, we can go now.”
*****
We arrive in Plymouth just before lunchtime. It’s a city with a rich and varied history that includes not only the Mayflower but also Napoleon, World War II, and The Beatles. Our afternoon flies by, and we end our day at the railway station, where Billy and I will catch our train back to London.
As we stand on the platform, I’m punched in the heart by an intense feeling of loss and defeat. I’m sad to be leaving Joseph and South West England behind, much sadder than I think someone who has spent less than seventy-two hours here should feel, and a gnawing in my gut tells me I have failed to complete my mission. I wonder if I will ever return. There’s no reason I can’t, and yet it seems unlikely I will.
The tracks on the other side of the platform lead back to Liskeard. With a jolt of adrenaline, I imagine a train pulling up and me spontaneously stepping aboard. The pull to see Joseph again is that strong. In this alternate reality, I leave my suitcase on the platform and, as the doors close, assure a stunned-still and open-mouthed Billy, “Don’t worry about me. I’ll meet you in London tomorrow.” If I were a character in a movie, that’s what I would do.
But I’m not a character in a movie. I’m a real-life person with a detailed itinerary and a strong desire to step into a fresh pair of underwear every morning. So when our train arrives, I get on.
*****
Almost four hours later, Billy and I check into our hotel in London and ride the elevator — excuse me, lift — up to our room on the third floor. By the time I’ve unpacked my toiletries, washed my face, and pulled tomorrow’s clothes out of my suitcase, it’s time for bed.
This is our fourth hotel in nine days, and it always takes me a night or two to get used to sleeping in a new place. (The light snoring happening to my right reminds me that Billy doesn’t have this particular problem.) It’s too cold, so I bump the temperature up two degrees, but then it’s too hot. One pillow is too low, but two stacked up are too high. The clock’s digital display is too bright, but unplugging it makes the room too dark. Suffice it to say, I’m wide awake. It’s not just my body that is restless, but my mind, too. There are so many things I wish I had done at the cemetery.
I wish I had allowed myself to cry.
I wish I had put flowers on the grave.
I wish I had brought a picture of my father.
farewell, dear father; gone but not forgotten
Suddenly, I realise why the language on Joseph’s gravestone seems so familiar: it reminds me of the way my dad used to sign cards and notes to me when I was growing up. “Dear Old Dad.” He wrote with force, the letters dark and thick, like he didn’t want the ink or the sentiment to become a casualty of time. Beneath his signature signoff was always a Z-shaped squiggle for emphasis.
It’s a happy memory that makes me smile, and the dam breaks as more flashes of the past follow:
- He called me “dear heart” or “sport” (depending on the occasion) . . .
- He groaned when I turned on The Love Boat on Saturday nights, but watched it with me anyway . . .
- He saved our family from hornet nests in the yard and flying squirrels in the attic . . .
- He used to pretend to be a conductor whenever he heard big band music . . .
- He taught me French swear words because that was as rebellious as either of us got.
For the first time in a long time, remembering my father overwhelms me not with grief but with gratitude. My mind and body start to relax. All this time, I’ve thought there was something I needed to do for Joseph, but maybe, I realise, there was something he wanted to do for me instead.
Nearly a decade ago, when I told my dad I was going to start researching our Binney ancestors, he furrowed his brow, perplexed, and said, “Those people are dead. You’re supposed to forget about them.” I didn’t follow my dad’s advice then, and Joseph has reminded me I don’t want to start now.
