ancestors – In the Woods

the seeking for is all that’s left them

9.12.26 ~ Elm Grove Cemetery, Mystic, Connecticut

Death leaves Us homesick, who behind,
Except that it is gone
Are ignorant of it’s Concern
As if it were not born.

Through all their former Places, we
Like Individuals go
Who something lost, the seeking for
Is all that’s left them, now —

~ Emily Dickinson
(The Poems of Emily Dickinson, #1066)

It is often said that grief comes in waves, and I would add that some of those surges are more intense than others. On September 12th I finally made it up to Connecticut to the cemetery to see installed the flat granite grave marker I designed and ordered for Tim and me. Traveling with chronic radiation proctitis isn’t a pleasant experience, to say the least, but I felt compelled to make an effort to see for myself our final resting place.

Elm Grove Cemetery is an exceptionally beautiful cemetery running along the Mystic River, and the view from our ancestral plot is lovely. It was established in 1853, and my 2nd-great-grandfather, William Martin White (1836-1925), purchased a large plot for his family. He had buried there his former father-in-law and mother-in-law, Robinson & Lydia Hill; his own parents, Austin & Lucy Ann (Thompson) White; his grandparents, Oliver & Lydia White; and his 16-year-old son, James Courtland White, who died from a gunshot wound. William lies buried there with his second wife, Martha Bennett. We don’t know where his first wife, Ellen Hill, my 2nd-great-grandmother, is buried, or whatever happened to her after they were divorced in 1876. When Larisa inquired she learned there was still space enough to bury our ashes there, too, since I am a direct descendant, and could prove it. Tim & I spent most of our married life nearby and so this seemed like the perfect place for us to end up.

Part of the rural cemetery movement, of the mid-nineteenth century, Elm Grove represents the Victorian approach to eternal rest in a park setting of rolling hills, brooks, and trees, showcasing ornate sepulchers decorated with flowers, willow trees, crowns, and trumpeting figures.
~ Elm Grove Cemetery Association webpage

It was a bittersweet day, as so many wonderful things happened but of course, I deeply missed having Tim to share them with. My son and daughter-in-law, Nate & Shea, had driven me up and after we visited the cemetery we met my sister and brother-in-law, Beverly & John, at an old favorite family seafood shack, Dad’s Restaurant, in Niantic. To our surprise, it had been beautifully renovated in our absence! The new deck for eating outside was higher than the old one, so we could see over the elevated railroad tracks out over Long Island Sound. Did I mention the weather was perfect that day? And they have the best fish and chips in the world, in my opinion, and I enjoyed every morsel.

After our lunch Nate took Shea to visit her relatives while Beverly, John, and I took a long nature walk through a marsh and up and down the beach it led to. Later, we wound up at Eastern Point Beach, “our beach,” and sat for a couple of hours on the bench where Tim & I used to spend our summer evenings. I went wild taking pictures of the gulls. (450 pictures on the camera for the one day!) The day already feels like a distant sweet dream now. I hope to write two more posts with pictures of these two adventures soon.

I chose the Dickinson poem above because I think she used the word homesick aptly to describe what grief can feel like. But the home we yearn for, our person, is gone, missing as if he never existed. And I could identify with the second stanza, feeling lost, as I visited some of the former places we so often used to be at together. I think I will never stop seeking Tim. Last night in line at the grocery store I was overcome with a strong urge to turn to him and rest my head on his shoulder, as I often did, and to receive a comforting hug. (Grocery shopping has ever been exhausting for me.) I never know when another wave will sweep over me. But I’m glad I went and have found some peace from being there.

by myself

It was during the pandemic that Tim & I started to include the First Harvest (Lughnasa, Lammas) in our celebrations of the eight festivals of the wheel of the year. Sunflowers were in full bloom at Buttonwood Farm in nearby Griswold, Connecticut and we decided to make going for a long walk through the huge field of them our tradition. Since moving to North Carolina three years ago I have been floundering, trying to figure out another way to mark the passing seasons. And now I’ve lost my companion.

For the first six months after Tim died I was in shock. As I’ve started coming out of that anesthetized state I’ve been finding ways to live with the reality of my new situation in life. He was the absolute center of my life. I won’t go on about how much I miss him but I have noticed something unique about this grief. When I lost my parents I still had my life with Tim to return to for comfort. Life returned to normal, nothing changed in my household or daily routines after they died.

It feels like “everyone” now has gone back to their own lives, in their own houses, where nothing in their daily lives, plans, and routines has changed. Not so for me. A friend pointed out to me that widows in Victorian times wore black for two and a half years and there seems to be a good reason for this. It may well take that long to adjust to this and it’s good to remind others that while they have a life to return to, mine is forever altered.

Tim expressed similar feelings to me when his brother died in our house, after living with us for the last nine months of his life. He said the grief hit him harder and longer than when his parents died. And he thought it had everything to do with the fact that his brother had been living so intimately under the same roof with him.

I’ve been making some comforting changes in my new life with myself. I went back to practicing yoga, osteoporosis be damned. I skip the spine-twisting moves and am feeling so refreshed, more grateful and at a peace. Tai chi was okay, but it just didn’t do much for me. Sometimes I realize that I am still grieving my loss of health and living by the sea, as well as missing Tim. I find comfort listening to great music on WMVY radio, streaming from Martha’s Vineyard. Doing familiar old jigsaw puzzles reduces anxiety very quickly for some reason.

There is a sunflower field down here, but the bloom time is off for Lughnasa, and it occurred to me the other day that it is in a city park. We never got there to see it and perhaps one deterrent was the idea of driving into the city just didn’t appeal, no feeling of connecting with Mother Earth the way the drive into the countryside did.

I’ve made my peace with celebrating the Wheel of the Year by myself, at least for most of them. I now have a jigsaw puzzle for each of the 8 festivals and movies for some of them. I watched Dancing at Lughnasa for the first time since 2020, when I first had the movie idea. And I plan to go ahead with my annual winter solstice gathering with family and friends.

The two things that have been the most difficult to find a way of doing without Tim are blogging and working on our family history. I hope to write about my halting progress with those endeavors in the coming months.

But for now, I’m sharing the puzzle I started on Lughnasa and finished this morning, as well as some pictures memories from past First Harvest trips to Buttonwood Farms. I will give myself this one journey around the Wheel of the Year, starting here, to celebrate with my puzzles and my memories. Then I will probably go back to simply the combining of paintings with words to mark the eight festivals.

We are the Flower — Thou the Sun!
Forgive us, if as days decline —
We nearer steal to Thee!
~ Emily Dickinson
(The Poems of Emily Dickinson, #161)

whenever we’re not looking

5.11.26 ~ Race Point Beach, Provincetown, Massachusetts
photo by Jon

In May I took a whirlwind trip to Cape Cod and Connecticut to scatter and bury Tim’s ashes. Five intense days of sharing memories and enjoying the family and friends and activities that Tim used to love. It’s taking me a while to recover but I’ve decided to share a few pictures here to help me remember.

On May 11th, 27 of us headed out to Race Point Beach in Provincetown where I scattered some of Tim’s ashes on the beach where he spent many of the happiest days of his life. Tim’s brother Dan shared stories of their childhood adventures in P’town. And many in the gathering took turns spontaneously sharing their favorite memories. Moments after I scattered Tim’s ashes, we heard the particular call of a laughing gull flying overhead, gently reminding me of Tim’s wonderful sense of humor.

While we were there we took advantage of the opportunity, with all of Tim’s remaining brothers gathered, Dan, Matt, Jed, and Josh, to scatter some of their father’s ashes. Erik had died back in 2008 and also had close ties to Provincetown. And Tim’s cousin Allegra scattered some of her mother’s ashes there on the sand, too. Her mother was Tim’s beloved Aunt Delorma, who died in January, only three months after him.

We all have such happy memories of vacationing at the family home in Provincetown. The current owner of 180 Bradford St. was very gracious to allow us to leave two memorial blown glass hearts in the garden. Allegra sculpted them, with some of their ashes inside, the red one is Tim’s.

The next day, Fran, Allegra and I had an amazing family history adventure, locating 72B Commercial St., where Tim and Dan’s 2nd-great-grandparents, Elijah & Zipporah Rodgers had lived. When Tim and Dan were kids they were taken to the house and met the widow of his great-granduncle, Capt. Neadom Oscar Rodgers (1876-1953), Aunt Lil, and Neadom’s son Oscar. (Oscar was Aunt Lil’s stepson.) Allegra was also taken there, as a very small child, on a separate occasion. Tim showed me the place on our honeymoon but my memory of its location got very fuzzy.

As we were checking it out a man came down the grass-covered lane it was located on and, after explaining who I was, I asked him a few questions. One thing led to another and the next thing we knew we were sitting in the dining room of an elderly neighbor who has lived there his whole life and remembered Aunt Lil Rodgers and playing in the lane. Aunt Lil died in 1979. The information we got from him led me to find more information about the house and its occupants online.

That afternoon I took a walk on Beech Forest Trail with my sons and nieces and nephew and some of their spouses. (No one in my generation was up for the hike!) I told them the story of Tim & me taking this walk on our honeymoon, and how we took it again after getting our first digital camera in 2009. The picture of the squirrel on the sidebar of this blog came from that walk, and was my first taste of enjoying nature photography. Sadly, this time, I, and some of the others, came back with a tick.

I’m thinking the universe may be trying to tell me that fewer nature walks and more genealogy research will be my new direction in life…

At the end of this mile-long loop walk my sons discovered a poem by one of my favorite poets under glass on the top of a picnic table. They brought me back to see it and it seemed like a beautiful reflection of my mood about the changes in focus I’m going through in my life.

For example, what the trees do
not only in lightning storms
or the watery dark of a summer’s night
or under the white nets of winter
but now, and now, and now – whenever
we’re not looking. Surely you can’t imagine
they don’t dance, from the root up, wishing
to travel a little, not cramped so much as wanting
a better view, or more sun, or just as avidly
more shade – surely you can’t imagine they just
stand there loving every
minute of it, the birds or the emptiness, the dark rings
of the years slowly and without a sound
thickening, and nothing different unless the wind,
and then only in its own mood, comes
to visit, surely you can’t imagine
patience, and happiness, like that.
~ Mary Oliver
(Can You Imagine?)

…to be continued

commonplace books

Commonplace books are essentially collections of any written material the owner finds interesting, all in one place. The most typical pieces of writing they contain are quotations, chosen because either their phrasing or the content resonated with the compiler. But throughout history, recipes, facts, jokes, pieces of gossip, and even housekeeping advice have all made their way into what inevitably becomes a hodge-podge project reflecting the owner’s values and interests.
~ Marla Mackoul
(Mental Floss, September 30, 2025, “How to Keep a Commonplace Book: The Renaissance-Era Practice That’s Making a Comeback”)

I had never heard of a commonplace book before reading an article found in my newsfeed one morning, although I had unknowingly stumbled across a few of them in the piles of paper inherited from our families. Light bulb moment! There is actually a term for these personal collections. Tim’s great-grandfather collected jokes and humorous cartoons from newspapers and newsletters, and an unidentified ancestor copied by hand reams of religious poems, presumably for personal reflection.

When I was a young mother I used to enjoy looking back over my photo albums every year or so, savoring the memories the pictures of growing children brought back to mind. I don’t keep photo albums any more, but it seems my blog has taken their place because now I enjoy looking back over my old posts to remember things I have seen, especially on my walks. And it is also a place I like to collect quotes and poetry and art that resonate with me. So it seems that’s what this hodge-podge blog has evolved into, a digital commonplace book/photo album.

Back in 2012 I recognized one direction in which this blog was heading. (selecting and collecting words) Surely a commonplace book is what Emerson had in mind when he wrote:

Make your own Bible. Select and Collect all those words and sentences that in all your reading have been to you like the blast of trumpet…
~ Ralph Waldo Emerson
(Journal, July 1836)

In her article Mackoul mentions quite a few famous men who kept this type of journal: Aristotle, Marcus Aurelius, William Shakespeare, Victor Hugo, Thomas Jefferson, and John Locke. Commonplace books were found in ancient Greece and Rome, and after the printing press was invented, the practice became very popular during the Renaissance and Enlightenment.

Now knowing what a commonplace book is I understand that my desire to capture and organize knowledge and art is timeless. And rather than just consuming the ideas of others, I have a great way to share them with my readers!

making progress

Beverly (9), Skipper (new Sheltie puppy), Barbara (10)
off-season on a Dennis, Cape Cod beach, 1967

On Monday I finished boxes #9 and #10 of the 14 family history boxes I’m going through. #9 had taken about a month, but #10 only took an afternoon, being mostly books which were either shelved or dispatched. Above and below are two of the photo treasures I found. So many fond memories taking our Shetland Sheepdog, Skipper, to the Cape to visit my grandparents! Too few pictures!

I was able to identify my Ukrainian immigrant grandparents (William & Katherine) in the picture below, standing on either side of the porch steps. This was the funeral for their son, Jon, who came to America with his mother when he was only 5 months old. He died at age 9 of appendicitis. The little girls in front of the coffin are my aunt Lil, who was 4, and my aunt Jean, who was 6. Auntie Lil lived to be 101 years old when she died, and she often remembered her beloved big brother, who would share whatever candy he had with her. (My father was born 3 years after Jon died.) I have no idea who the other people are in the photo, but my guess is that they are members of the church they attended.

Funeral picture for Jon Stephen Chomiak (1909-1919)
younger sisters Lillian Elizabeth and Augusta Jean standing in front of coffin
parents William & Katherine standing on either side of steps,
behind the older unidentified girls, March 1919

A picture of Jon was posted here: Augusta Jean & John Stephen.

a second cousin, twice removed

Saturday afternoon I opened box #9 of the 14 family history boxes I’m going through. In it I found this magazine page, torn from the August 1915 issue of Harper’s Bazaar. The portrait sketch of Miss Helen Hamilton was done by Harrison Fisher, an American artist born in 1875 in Brooklyn, New York, known for his illustrations of women.

Turns out Helen Hamilton was a second cousin of Tim’s grandmother, Allegra Hamilton. They were great-granddaughters of Benjamin Hamilton (1792-1880). Helen was about 19 years old in this sketch. She went on to marry Frederick Vincent and Allegra married Tim’s grandfather, Karl Rodgers. I wonder how well they knew each other, as Helen lived in California and Allegra lived in New York. I don’t know most of my second cousins.

This box is densely packed with newspaper clippings, correspondence, and research notes from Tim’s great-grandmother, Gertrude Hubbard. It’s going to take me a long time to get it organized! That’s okay, though, I’ve got a long hot summer ahead of me.

Meanwhile, I’ve been enjoying the cardinals singing in the wax myrtle tree outside my kitchen window every morning.

content to bloom

Down in a green and crowded box
A modest pansy grew
Its stalk was bent it hung its head
As if to hide from view.
And yet, it was a lovely flower
Its colors bright and fair,
It might have graced a rosy bower
Instead of hiding there.

Yet there it was, content to bloom
Its modest tints arrayed,
And there it spread its sweet perfume
Within the silent shade.
Then let me to the window go
This pretty flower to see
That I may also learn to grow
In sweet humility.

~ Author Unknown

I found this poem back in August, written or copied by hand, on a slip of paper hidden between other papers in one of the family history boxes I was diligently sorting through. I don’t know if one of our ancestors wrote it or if they copied it down from some other source. Naturally, I thought it would make for a great post when pansy season came around.

Well, I was still pondering how different the seasons are down south here, after experiencing apple picking for Lammas Day instead of on the Autumn Equinox. I was in for another big surprise. It turns out pansies are considered cool season annuals in North Carolina, and they bloom from fall through spring! They are usually planted from late October through the month of November!

Then I remembered noticing last fall that the local nursery was selling pansies right alongside mums. Another memory surfaced, too, seeing pansies in flower boxes along the sidewalks back in January 2019, when we were down here visiting. It seemed like they were out so early, but they had probably been there since November.

These discoveries are leading to a paradigm shift in how the wheel of the year looks to me. So I decided to be a careful observer for a year or two, letting my old assumptions go and gradually finding a new way of thinking about (and celebrating!) the seasons.

Pansies for All Souls’ Day? In honor of an ancestor who loved and wrote down this poem? Why not? “Learning to grow in sweet humility…’

facing the growing darkness

The inspiration of nature can help us deal with death and endings, gifting us with the courage to let go and the strength to carry on. The pain and uncertainty may be no easier to bear but the release of autumn asks that we trust in the process, bravely facing the growing darkness without ever knowing if the light will reappear.
~ Maria Ede-Weaving
(The Essential Book of Druidry: Connect with the Spirit of Nature)

in the slanting light

10.18.24 ~ Pritchard Park
Chapel Hill, North Carolina

There’s hardly a spot of color on the hardwood trees in our yard, but the light is glorious, as it always is in October, and the signs of fall are unmistakable. ….. Always, when nature works as nature must, there are joys for every grief, a recompense for every sorrow. ….. Night falls earlier with each passing day now, but the recompense of shorter days is the glorious light of October. I wish you could see what happens to the magnificent colors of berry and bird and flower in the slanting light of October.
~ Margaret Renkl
(The New York Times, October 14, 2024, “Growing Darkness, October Light: A Backyard Census”)

These pictures were taken on Friday morning, the day we stood in line at the Chapel Hill Public Library to vote. Afterwards we took a walk on the trails in the woods surrounding the library. North Carolina has early voting, something new to us. Before we left Connecticut we had voted in favor of bringing early voting to our old state. I wonder if it passed. Our habit was to get up early on election day and get to the polling place before it opened. We were always near first in line.

Something new for the citizens of NC is having to show a photo ID when they check in to vote. We always had to do that back in CT. It’s so interesting getting to know the different ways the governments of different states run things, something I never thought about before, having lived in only one state my whole life.

As I stood in line I reflected on how encouraging it was to learn that our 39th President, Jimmy Carter, made the effort to vote while in hospice care at the age of 100. He was the first president I ever voted for. My thoughts also returned to the sacrifice so many of our ancestors made for us in the Revolutionary War, so that we could have the right to vote today. As the granddaughter of Ukrainian immigrants on one side and the descendant of several Mayflower passengers on the other, my complex place in American history has always fascinated me. While appreciating the myriads of reasons Europeans have crossed the Atlantic over the centuries to make better lives for themselves here, I also feel deep regret for the harm they have caused to the original people who lived, and still live here.

When we moved down here I started looking for southern nature writers who might help me get acquainted with my new environment. I’ve become a big fan of Margaret Renkl, who lives in Tennessee at the same southern latitude as we do. Her lyrical writings resonate with the seasonal observations I’m experiencing here. I’ve read three of her books, checked out from the same beautiful library where we voted, and enjoy her occasional editorials in the New York Times.

I tried to capture some of the slanting light of October to match Renkl’s words. This is our second autumn down south and the way it is unfolding feels much more familiar now, it’s starting to feel more like home.