Bambi, Bambi

Except for a section of wrought-iron screen fencing along the upper street side—totally useless for keeping anything in or out—my garden is open to all. The wild critters were here long before we came along—preemptive rights, I think is the legal term—and they depend on the pond across the road below our property during the hot summer months in the Sierra Nevada foothills. It seemed only neighborly to preserve an unobstructed path for them to access the water.

It didn’t take long, though, for the deer to discover my garden affords a much closer water source, a straight-sided, two-level ornamental waterfall and pool that wrap partway around the back terrace. They also soon discovered I have plenty of fresh, green, growing things to nibble on. Mostly, they’re polite and limit their munching to the plants they like best, the six-foot-tall “carpet roses” and a few of the smaller hydrangeas in the shade garden. The deer don’t do any lasting damage. And they don’t touch my favorite azaleas and rhododendrons, or the daffodils in the early spring. Sometimes they take midday naps in the shade beneath the low-hanging branches of half a dozen redwoods below our meadow, but, otherwise, they generally meander through, have a little snack, then move on to the neighbors’ properties and the larger forested parcels farther up the mountain. I like knowing they’re around.

I first discovered how hospitable the deer find my garden one day years ago while puttering around outside—just pickin’ and pokin’, I call it. I noticed two rather strange leaves sticking up amid the groundcover alongside one of the paths. Furry, brownish points among the mottled green leaves. I stopped in my tracks. The strange leaves twitched, as though ruffled by a welcome breeze. Only there wasn’t any breeze. The small fawn lifted its head just enough to see whether I represented a threat, then nestled back down, folding its ears out of sight against its skull.

I remembered Harriett telling me one time that a mule deer will often hide her young fawn in the thickest foliage she can find, press her muzzle down on top of its head to instruct it stay put, wander off to graze a while on her own, and finally return for the baby a couple of hours later.

“But why doesn’t the fawn just scramble after her?” I asked.

“Right from the moment of their birth, fawns are programmed to obey instantly, without question. It’s a matter of survival. If the does don’t eat, there won’t be milk for the babies. Actually, they’re much better behaved than our own youngsters,” Harriett replied with a wry grin, remembering her own four rambunctious sons.

So this baby hadn’t been abandoned at all, merely dropped off at daycare. I slowly backed away and left it alone, and an hour later it was gone.

One of the highlights of spring in my garden is catching a glimpse of a brand new fawn wobbling along on spindly legs behind its mama as she makes her daily rounds. I usually see several each year. The spring of 2016 was no exception. One morning in early May, through the French door in the library, I spotted a doe and her new baby down in the Cedar Circle. I slipped outside for a better look. As I drew closer, Mama didn’t panic but moved slowly down the rock steps into the meadow. Bambi tottered along behind. I followed as far as the top step and from there watched as the two disappeared into the shadows beneath the redwoods on the far side.

Already very close to one of my Martha Stewart-green hoses, I decided to give the azaleas some extra water as I’d sprinkled on a little fertilizer the day before. Still gazing absentmindedly at the spot where the deer mama and baby had ambled into the trees below, I reached down for the nozzle with my left hand and at the same time leaned over to turn on the spigot with my right. Suddenly I got the fright of my life! On top of the neatly coiled hose, only inches from my hand, was something strange, round, and dark. I shrieked and jumped back, certain it was a coiled baby rattler and I was a goner. But it didn’t strike. It didn’t move at all, just lay there, motionless, looking like a wet, partially deflated football with mottled white spots.

Gradually my heart stopped pounding and my breathing slowed to normal. This fawn was much smaller than the first, no more than ten minutes old, still wet from the doe’s tongue where she’d eaten away the amniotic sac. Bambi Two!

I knew enough to leave the newborn alone, that the doe would return for it, so I went back into the house and continued to watch through the window. Sure enough, twenty minutes later mama came back alone. She licked the tiny creature all over and tried to nuzzle it to its feet, but it was so weak it couldn’t hold its head up, let alone stand. Mama left again.

Over the next several hours, she returned three more times but still couldn’t get the baby to its feet. It shuddered every few seconds but still didn’t lift its head. It occurred to me that the fawn needed nourishment to gain strength, but if it couldn’t stand, it couldn’t access the doe’s teats. I watched and fretted. Another hour passed.

Certain now that mama had abandoned this pint-sized infant, I couldn’t just sit by and do nothing. In the kitchen, I pulled out my Pyrex one-cup measure and poured in an ounce of evaporated milk, an ounce of warm water, and a couple of drops of Karo syrup. I found an ear syringe in the bathroom, swished it in rubbing alcohol, and washed and dried it. From the ragbag in the laundry room, I grabbed an old towel and headed for the Cedar Circle.

At first I thought the baby was dead, it was so still. Then it quivered, and its tiny sides rose and fell a time or two. I sat down on the ground, carefully wrapped the towel around the fawn, pulled it onto my lap, and began gently massaging it all over. In a few minutes the baby’s eyelids fluttered. “It’s okay, it’s okay,” I murmured softly as it fastened its gaze on my face. I saw no fear, only trust. With my left hand, I lightly grasped Bambi Two under its chin and nudged the ear syringe between its square white teeth. Big teeth for such a tiny baby. At first the milk dribbled out the sides of its mouth onto the towel, but as I kept stroking its throat with my thumb, finally it swallowed once, then twice. Then several more times. I continued gently caressing the baby all over until it fell asleep, then left it there atop the coiled hose, wrapped in the towel, and went back inside to make a phone call.

When I returned to the Cedar Circle twenty minutes later, Bambi Two was gone, leaving behind the towel nest. I began to search, first the rest of the Cedar Circle and then the Shade Garden. Climbing three more rock steps toward the utility corner—home to our air-conditioning unit and woodpile—out of the corner of my eye I caught sight of the baby, collapsing on the ground even as its mama disappeared around the corner of the house. Again, I wrapped the baby in the dish towel, massaged it all over, and fed it another ounce of formula.

By now it was late afternoon, time to make dinner and tend to other evening chores. Convinced I’d done all I could, I wrapped the baby up one final time and went inside for the night, wondering if I’d ensured its survival—or poisoned it with my makeshift formula.

The next morning the towel was there, but not the fawn. Had a coyote gotten it, or the bobcat some neighbors had reported seeing?

The story of Bambi Two spread quickly up and down our street. Everyone kept watch. After ten anxious days, Suzanne from next door ran over at dusk to tell me they’d just seen a mama deer with two fawns, one much larger than the other, crossing their front lawn.

I was elated! Hubby and I celebrated with a bottle of champagne.

It Takes a Village

Several weeks after the birth of the Bambi twins, I was seated one sunny morning in the breakfast room, paying bills and tending to the mound of paperwork that routinely accumulates on my desk. You know, activities like addressing birthday cards, reading again the most recent submissions of writer friends from my critique group, inventorying and updating a list of cleaning supplies in anticipation of my next trip down to Costco. The phone rang. It was Steve, our next-door neighbor.

“Hey, Pat. Say, I’ve just been out on the driveway—gonna wash my car—and I heard something strange coming from your backyard. Like a baby crying or something. Did you guys get a new puppy, too?”

“I wish,” I replied, “but no, no new puppy or kitten. I didn’t hear anything when I was out earlier with my coffee, but I’ll go out and have a look.”

I crossed the kitchen and stepped out through the French door onto the back terrace to listen. I heard only the gurgle of water cascading into the lower pool of our water feature and the whirr of humming-bird wings as several Anas swooped around the nectar feeder, attacking one another and vying for dominance. Somewhere in the distance, a Stellar’s Jay squawked. Nothing unusual.

Then, out of the corner of my eye, off to my right I caught sight of a doe and fawn just disappearing quickly through the Cedar Circle and down into the Shade Garden. I headed in that direction, but by the time I got there, they had bounded down the rock steps and disappeared into the redwoods. I proceeded on around the house to the front, but still I heard nothing strange. Maybe Steve was mistaken. Maybe what he heard was coming from Jay and Bonnie’s, his neighbors on the other side. They had a new labradoodle pup.

I strolled down the street in the direction of Steve’s driveway, but he met me halfway. “I just heard it again,” he said urgently. “It’s definitely a distress call. Something’s wrong.”

By now Steve’s wife, Suzanne, had come outside, too, and the three of us hurried, single file, through the wrought-iron gate into our backyard to investigate further. As we rounded the garden shed, we all heard it, a piercing, high-pitched cry, definitely coming from below the back terrace. Fanning out in different directions, we listened intently. There it was again! We all heard it!

Suzanne was standing closest to the pool. Suddenly she screamed. “Here it is! Here it is! It can’t get out!”

In the shadowy corner of our pool, a small fawn floated limply, droplets of blood dribbling from beneath its chin and spreading over the water’s surface. In a flash, Steve reached down with both hands, grasped the dripping baby, lifted it gently out of the chilly water, and placed it on the flagstones. Its eyes were shut tight and it shook uncontrollably.

Racing back into the house for a towel, I wrapped the shivering baby, pulled it onto my lap, and began rubbing it all over to restore circulation, just as I’d done with the newborn fawn right after its birth only a few weeks before. Was this the same baby? Was this Bambi Two?

Soon its dark eyes fluttered open, but there was no fear, only relief. As I continued the massage, gradually the violent shaking subsided into a gentle heaving of its mottled, spotted sides. Now we could see how Bambi Two had struggled. I blotted the abrasions under its chin where the skin had been scraped raw on the brick coping of the pool.

As Suzanne ran home for her camera, Steve and I speculated about what might have happened. The mama must have come to drink from our pool, accompanied by her two mismatched fawns. Perhaps the larger fawn had been able to successfully drink also. But the littler one, Bambi Two, with its shorter legs, must have had a harder time and ultimately tumbled in, then couldn’t get out. Who could tell how long the baby had thrashed about in the water as its anguished mama stood helplessly by, unable to do a single thing, despite its beseeching cries, to save her drowning baby?

 

Suzanne returned and snapped this picture. Then I wrapped the fawn in the towel again and continued stroking its head and ears until it dozed off, finally safe but completely exhausted.

After sharing a cup of hot tea and catching up on other neighborhood news, Suzanne and Steve returned to their chores, and I to mine. Every so often, I went back out to check on the fawn and scratch its ears. Still, it exhibited no fear. Two hours later, Bambi Two was gone

Crow-Baby, Cry-Baby

Several weeks ago, on my routine early morning bathrobe-and-coffee-cup patrol around the garden, a series of raucous cries shattered my reverie, noises not terribly unlike those of the tiny fawn who once fell into our straight-sided ornamental pool and would have drowned had it not been for its frantic shrieks for help.

Instantly alert, I listened for a few moments and then began to prowl my paths in an effort to locate the source of the present cries. Determining that the sound was coming from somewhere in the tall meadow grass below the main rock retaining wall, I headed in that direction, only to have the air go silent. I stopped and stood silent, listening. Nothing. Nothing for more than a minute. I retreated to a shady area and sat on the stone bench at the base of the ancient cedar to listen again.

The cries resumed, at first mournful and plaintive, but gradually escalating to an ear-splitting screech. Once more I ventured down into the meadow. Again the air went silent.

I don’t have time for this, I thought, and returned to the house to put my coffee cup in the dishwasher and throw on my gardening clothes. My list of chores was long. It included fetching the dolly from the garage to move a dozen heavy sacks of soil amendment, well-rotted manure, and potting soil from the back of my SUV to the spots where they were needed. I grunted and tugged the dolly up and down runs of rock steps connecting the different levels of the garden, steps built many years ago with my own hands, but with no regard for how difficult they’d be to navigate with a loaded dolly. I was only vaguely aware of the squalls coming from the meadow area. I couldn’t ignore the cries completely, though. If you’re a mother, you know that feeling.

Again I ventured down into the meadow, and again the cries stopped. But now my quest had become a mission. I retreated once more to the shade of the old cedar and plopped down on a moss-covered boulder to take up my vigil.

Presently a huge black crow appeared overhead, silhouetted against the bluest of skies as it swooped in narrowing circles and landed near the top of a ninety-foot Ponderosa pine just beyond the meadow’s lower boundary. Moments later it flew away. At first I paid no attention to the crow. I kept my eyes riveted on the meadow grasses in my effort to determine the source of the distress cries. Then I heard it again. I looked up. Finally I understood. The crying baby wasn’t a fawn at all, but a crow-baby fledging from its nest high up in the pine. I relaxed. Nothing was wrong. I’m not needed here. I went back to my chores.

For two weeks I listened to the crow-baby and watched this rite of passage. At first crow-mama fed the chick in place, returning every five minutes or so, gradually lengthening the intervals to ten, then fifteen. In between snacks, crow-baby yelled, its lungs obviously developing at a faster rate than its wings.

But now crow-mama began landing on another branch a few feet away, challenging crow-baby to work a bit for its meal. Oh, how it screeched, its voice indignant and demanding. If you’re a mother, you know that behavior too. I was disappointed that she held out for less than fifteen seconds before she flew back to the nest and shoved the morsel down the chick’s throat.

Late that afternoon crow-mama finally convinced the reluctant chick to try a four-foot mini-flight to a nearby branch. So far, so good. Then she hopped to another branch ten feet away. But crow-baby was having none of that. On its own, it flew back to the safety of the nest and again took up its raucous lament. What a cry-baby! I decided the chick had to be a male. I could imagine crow-mama’s exasperation as she flew off in a wide arc over the neighbor’s property and didn’t return for nearly an hour.

Several days of rain and wind kept me out of the garden. When next I caught sight of crow-baby, he was flapping his wings hard and chasing crow-mama from the nest to the six-inch candle atop another Ponderosa pine twenty or thirty feet away. The two birds were nearly the same size now. Good for you, crow-baby. You’re finally getting the hang of it. But when mama encouraged her youngster to try another hop, crow-baby’s courage vanished. He returned to the nest and refused to budge. Soon he was yelling again, but crow-mama flew away and stayed away the rest of the afternoon. Serves the kid right, I thought.

The next day, I saw crow-baby practice a couple of times alone, flying from the top of one pine to the next, but never more than twenty feet from the nest. At his insistence, crow-mama continued bringing him his meals. Late that afternoon the two of them finally flew off together.

Over the weekend, I worked in the garden in welcome peace and quiet, glad to have witnessed the conclusion of this miracle of nature. I didn’t see a single crow. Nor did I hear any. Probably they’ve all flown down to Pioneer Park to mooch scraps from the picnickers gathered there to take in the weekend outdoor concert.

Monday passed uneventfully. I had errands to run.

Yesterday was Tuesday. I went out early to plant two azaleas I’d gotten on sale Monday afternoon at my favorite nursery. What? What’s that? Screech, screech, screech! That crow-baby was back, perched on the edge of the nest and yelling his head off.

Should’ve changed the locks.

Who Needs Video Games?

From a clematis-covered pergola a dozen feet outside the window over my kitchen sink hangs a hummingbird feeder. I planned it this way. Nature’s garden gifts often come in the form of fleeting moments; if I’m not Johnny-on-the-spot to experience them, pffft, the opportunity is gone. The intimate world of the hummingbird feeder is like that. I cannot arbitrarily decide that “I want to see something wonderful, so I’ll take ten seconds out of my cluttered day and watch the garden.” It doesn’t work that way. But I have structured my surroundings so that, even as I tend to routine chores, within my field of vision are the spots where the magic might occur: the birdbath, the birdhouse, the hummingbird feeder.

Last night, an early spring storm pounded our community. Two inches of rain fell in less than an hour, imperiling unprepared drivers and knocking the buttercup-yellow faces of the daffodils along the freeway right down into the mud. Storms as heavy as this one, like late-season freezes, may do some damage, but the morning after—as though Mother Nature were offering an apology— often dawns brilliantly, enhancing every facet of the landscape. The air is nippy, not icy cold but invigorating, pulsating with new life and new possibilities. Colors boast psychedelic intensity, reflected in each raindrop that clings to a leaf or swelling bud. Deer, squirrels, rabbits, lizards, frogs, and a dozen bird species emerge from their shelters in search of breakfast and, more urgently, a mate.

This is one of those mornings, fairly glittering and pulsating with possibilities. As I stand at the kitchen counter grinding coffee beans, my attention is focused outside. Suddenly the sun picks up movement at the hummingbird feeder: a flash of copper, glowing like a hot coal, gone in an instant.

The regulars at my feeder are Anna hummingbirds, the females generally a dull, uninspiring greenish-brown but the males adorned in bright green with an otherworldly headscarf of iridescent hot pink. I see them all the time. They’re my friends, so predictable that the males will chirp loudly and swoop down and hover in front of me in the garden when the feeder is empty. Well, I call it a chirp; I understand they actually make the sound with their tail feathers as they fly a hundred feet into the air and then plummet at dizzying speeds back toward the earth.

But this isn’t an Anna. I watch intently. There it is again, that brief fiery glow of copper! Then a third time, hovering in the sunshine near the feeder. It’s smaller than an Anna, the color of a newly minted penny.

More than thirty years ago, my close friend and garden mentor, Harriett Hendrickson, taught me about Rufous hummingbirds. The most belligerent of all the hummers, they hold the title for unparalleled maneuverability. The Rufous are also migratory, traveling thousands of miles each season from their winter habitat in Texas, Louisiana, and northern Mexico to their preferred breeding grounds in western Canada and Alaska. In the spring, some of them follow a route that passes through the Sierra Nevada foothills in early April, and in late summer they head south again by a more easterly route, over the Rocky Mountains.

So the timing is right. It’s April 10th. My garden visitor is a Rufous.

As I watch, an Anna male darts toward the feeder. But the Rufous will have none of it. Though much smaller than the Anna, the feisty orange newcomer ruthlessly drives the Anna off, swooping and diving in a fury of whirring russet-colored wings, then returns to keep watch from a branch of the pink clematis vine covering the pergola, just beginning to leaf out. Over and over, the Anna returns and they skirmish, but each time, the Rufous wins the dogfight and triumphantly returns to his post on the vine to guard the feeder. He’s a selfish little beast. I never see him take a drink, but he’s not about to share his prize.

After fifteen minutes or so, I tear myself away from the ongoing war and serve breakfast, put in a load of wash, and then sit down at my computer to try to write. Suddenly, the Anna male is hovering just outside the window above my desk. Without warning, he darts forward and actually pecks on the window! Just a brief peck, but unmistakably meant for me. “Can’t you do something?” he seems to implore me. “It’s our feeder! That trashy orange pipsqueak doesn’t belong here! Can’t you make him go away?”

The action of the Anna confirms what I’ve long suspected; he actually is communicating with me! Except for crows—and maybe eagles and hawks—I’ve never heard much about the intelligence of wild birds, but I’m certain now they can and do try to interact with humans. As with most of the delightful gifts from my garden, all it takes is a bit of observing and listening—and keeping the feeder clean and well-stocked.

Two days later, the Rufous is gone. The Annas are peaceably dipping their needle-like beaks into the nectar of the feeder, two and three at a time. Do you suppose I got the credit?

Where is Ellen Birdsell?

In writing about genealogy, I originally planned to devote a segment to each of the strong women from whom I descend—partly the nuts and bolts of the research itself, but focusing more on their character and personality as I’ve come to know them, who they were as individuals. One or two of them were influential and left an indelible mark, albeit small, in the annals of history. Others were adventurous and markedly independent for the times in which they lived. All seem to have had traits in common—incredible strength, stubbornness, outspokenness, an iron will, and just plain gall—traits I suspect have been passed down to me through inherited DNA. While most of them probably had more enemies than friends, I find these women fascinating, and I looked forward to writing their stories.

Given the news of the past few days, however, the ongoing reports of Hurricane Harvey wreaking massive destruction on the south Texas coast, an obscure, nearly invisible great-great-grandmother on my father’s side has elbowed her way into first place. She was the wife of Lockwood William Birdsell, about whom I have a goodly amount of information, but she wasn’t particularly notable—at least not that I’ve been able to discover—and official census records about her are ambiguous. In most, she’s called Ellen Birdsell, but sometimes she’s called Helen Birdsell. She and her family were actually counted twice in the 1860 census in rural Texas, only days apart, yet one record suggests she was born in 1832 while the other says 1834. Both state she was born in New York. The 1880 census, taken in San Antonio, suggests a birthdate of 1836 in New York, of Irish-born parents. The 1900 census says she was born in Ireland in March 1829 of Irish-born parents and came to America as an eleven-year-old in 1840. Though plausible, I’ve never been successful in locating an immigration record, so I don’t know if she came alone or with family, or if any of this is even true. The death certificates of several of her children give her maiden name variously as Ellen Shener, Ellen Glenn, and Ellen Wren. I have no idea who her parents were despite years of pursuing possible leads that ultimately led nowhere. She remains an enigma, one of those ancestors called, in the language of genealogists, a “brick wall.”

I believe Lockwood and Ellen probably married in New York in 1848, though I have no proof.

The Republic of Texas was annexed as the 28th state of the United States on December 29, 1845, and I have found Lockwood on an Agricultural Census Schedule dated July 8, 1850. By the 1860 census, the couple had five children, all allegedly born in Texas, although one obscure record claims the oldest, daughter Mary, was born “at sea” in 1842, an unlikely date. They were living in Karnes County, fifty miles south of San Antonio, where Lockwood had purchased 160 acres of land and was raising cattle and horses. I surmise Ellen was a typical hard-working frontier wife and mother, but I cannot know this for certain. In the early 1860s, Lockwood no longer owned the land but was still raising stock.

When the Civil War broke out, Lockwood—a New York Yankee, by all accounts—was conscripted into the Confederate Army and saw action for six months as a private assigned to Company G, 8th Texas Infantry, also known as Colonel (Alfred M.) Hobby’s Regiment, which distinguished itself in the battles of Corpus Christie and Galveston. By early 1864, Lockwood was “sick in Goliad Hospital,” according to official military records, and finally in August of 1864 he is listed as having “deserted in Karnes County.” A family legend fleshes out the story: “Lockwood was drafted into the Confederate Army, but never received any pay. With a wife and a houseful of children depending upon him for support, when he became ill and was confined to the hospital in Goliad, he simply got up from his sickbed and walked home. He was captured once and was going to be shot, but he escaped and was not captured again.”

The defeat of the Confederacy in 1865 did not bring peace to Texas. Indian depredations were once again on the rise, and there was widespread unrest. Lynching of freed slaves was not uncommon and often went unpunished. In an effort to gain control—of the Indians and of the many still-defiant Texans—the United States government created a string of military posts to protect rural settlers. One of these was Fort Mason in Gillespie County, north of San Antonio, where a Frontier Battalion (Companies A and B) was established in 1870 under the command of Captain Franklin Jones. Lockwood served two and a half months as a lieutenant in Company A and was discharged on November 11 of that year. This Frontier Battalion was disbanded a few months later, replaced by the newly formed Texas State Police; Lockwood served for a number of months with the 1st Brigade at Galveston, earning $60 per month.

During the 1870s and 1880s, Lockwood’s name appeared in San Antonio city directories, working as a teamster or express man. In 1883 he purchased residential property in the “Maverick Addition,” and then in November of 1891 sold it to his wife Ellen for one dollar. On that deed he is described as “of Garland Co., Arkansas,” suggesting that Ellen and Lockwood had separated. Ellen remained in San Antonio and was twice listed in city directories as “widow of Lockwood,” a more respectable status at that time than being separated or divorced.

Another surviving deed dated March 1894 reveals that Lockwood Birdsell “from Hot Springs, Arkansas” purchased for $200 a property in Rockport, Aransas County, Texas. He soon returned to Texas to occupy this house because in August of 1899 he applied for and was granted a pension based on his Civil War service, stating in the application that he had lived in Rockport for five years and owned a small home, but was otherwise indigent. The application does not mention Ellen, but at some point prior to the 1900 census, Ellen rejoined him there.

On September 8, 1900, a hurricane slammed ashore from the Gulf of Mexico. There was little warning and no defense. In the early morning, high tides were evident, then heavy swells began to appear, but the blue sky prompted a confidence that nothing out of the ordinary was about to occur. Most residents had seen these storms before and weren’t worried. By mid-morning, rain clouds took over the sky and the wind began to pick up. By mid-afternoon, the hurricane hit with an intensity and fury that only increased through the night. By the next morning, the storm had passed and the sun shone brightly, but the devastation was complete.

This hurricane remains, in terms of human life, the worst natural disaster in America’s history. The primary force of the hurricane struck Galveston (a port built on an island a few miles northeast of Rockport), completely wiping out that city and killing 8,000 of its 38,000 residents, but the force of the storm spread death and destruction up and down the Texas coast. No record has been found of Lockwood selling the little house in Rockport. I suspect it was destroyed.

At some point Lockwood returned to San Antonio to live with a married daughter until his death in December 1908, at the age of 92. He was buried in City Cemetery No. 3. His death certificate indicates he was a widower.

But what happened to Ellen? Death certificates were not required in Texas until 1906, and even then compliance with the new law was sporadic and slow in coming. Repeated inquiries by mail to Aransas and Bexar county officials turned up no information at all.

Finally, in 2015, under the auspices of Find-A-Grave, I found an answer. The Rockport City Cemetery had recently been surveyed and the results posted on-line. In that cemetery, the surveyors located a small metal marker inscribed only “Mrs. Birdsell, February 1903.” Despite knowing so little about this great-great-grandmother, at least I finally knew when and where she died and where her remains were laid to rest. In March of 2016, on the 113th anniversary of her death, I ordered red roses placed on her grave. That act brought peace and closure. Or did it?

According to yesterday’s news reports, the town of Rockport has been completely destroyed by Hurricane Harvey’s 170-mile-an-hour winds. All residents have been evacuated, and further catastrophic flooding is anticipated. Will Ellen’s grave marker survive, or will her bones be washed up and scattered in a sea of mud, once again disappearing without a trace?