It’s important to know your people. Knowing gives you a better understanding of yourself- who you are and why you are. The knowledge of your people, those before you and with you, is like a treasure chest. It’s a chest full of jewels to be opened and admired. We hold these jewels of remembrance dearly to our hearts and share them with others.
Recently, I had the honor of finding and marking the lost grave of my great- grandmother. Before we get into that story, let’s start with her story. In 1937, Ludora was 32 years old living a migrant farmer’s life with her husband, Henry. The couple had two daughters- my grandmother and her sister, Ruby. It’s almost impossible for us to imagine their lives. Everything they owned fit in a wagon. They moved with the work living in “camps”. As the name suggests, daily life held no modern conveniences- no plumbing, refrigeration, or even floors. Ludora made her home wherever the family traveled in a tent, or shanty, dirt floors, and hauling water.
At this point in Ludora’s life, she was pregnant with her third child. The family was living in a camp alongside a Louisiana river. There are a couple of versions of why she died, but the only truth known today is that Ludora, heavy with child, passed away much too young and far from home.
Now Ludora’s people were rooted in western Arkansas. It was as good a place as any to bury her. Grief is not a luxury a poor man, or his children, can afford. Ludora’s body was sent by train back to her people in Arkansas and accompanied by a distant cousin. Her family buried her in the family cemetery. We still don’t know if there was much of a funeral, or any at all. From most accounts, those closest to her including her sister were living in other parts of the country and relying on the folks back home to see the burial complete.
My grandmother grew up from the age of 11 under the care of her father, new stepmother, and her Granny Willis knowing only that her mother had been buried in Arkansas. Later in life, she visited that family cemetery, but could never find her mother’s grave.
Another generation came up. My mother and her sisters had been told about Ludora, their grandmother, by their mother and aunt. They, too, visited the cemetery and even found the funeral home who handled the burial, but the grave was not to be found.
All of this was unknown to me as I came across a record about my great-grandmother’s burial. When I realized how close she was to where I lived, I knew I had to go there. As I pieced together Ludora’s story and realized how this had affected my grandmother’s life and subsequently mine, I was determined to visit her grave and honor here the only way I knew how- flowers and passing on her story.
Armed with directions, names, and dates we set out to visit Ludora’s grave. Nestled in the Ouachita Mountains, Hot Springs is a gem of a tourist town. Driving around Hot Springs, we found our little country road. Another ten miles down the back roads brought us to the prettiest, little cemetery in the middle of nowhere. The wrought iron arch naming the cemetery was just as I’d expected. Now Steele Magnolias seldom go adventuring alone. This day I had my mom, one aunt, my two sons, and a cousin’s daughter with me. I gave the younger kids a paper with Ludora’s name and dates on it telling them that it was a treasure hunt- find her tombstone to win. We scoured every tombstone on that hot, summer afternoon, but couldn’t find Ludora. I was surprised at how disappointed I felt.
I kept telling myself that Ludora wasn’t actually there. It was clear she was buried in an unmarked grave, but this was just her earthly resting place. We knew her story. Our children knew her story. That’s what was important. I couldn’t shake it. This woman deserved better. My grandmother, if she’d been able, would have done better for her mother.
It took several phone calls to cemetery trustees, consulting cemetery maps, and another trip to re-walk the grounds, but we found it. We found Ludora’s resting place. I felt like I’d won the SuperBowl. We all gathered around feeling victorious to have found her, sad at her untimely death, and hurt that she’d lay there for so very long unknown to the world.
As usual when faced with tragedy, a Steele Magnolia stands a little taller, shows her ironclad will, and gets busy fixing things. We set about the cemetery that day looking for scattered stones to mark the site. Rocks were lined around the grave, and flowers pulled from the fence line. A flat slab was found to serve as a makeshift tombstone. We used markers scavenged from the van to list her name on the stone. In all, it was a temporary mark until we could remedy the situation, but at least the world would know her precious name when they passed that way. I sent up a heartfelt thank you to God for allowing us to find her.
Making the hour and a half drive home that day, my emotions bounced from joyful and victorious in having found her to sadness thinking of her hard life and how it had ended. It took a few months, but we did go back with a headstone to place at Ludora’s grave. In giving her grave a permanent marker, we were able to pay tribute to not only Ludora, but my grandmother who had never had the chance to stand at her mother’s grave.
A Steele Magnolia knows from whence she came.
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