I managed to find the small cemetery, which is about 1 acre in size. It was way, way, way out in the middle of nowhere. There is nothing but farmland around it. It seems to be the only thing left of the town of Truett.
I knew from Google Street View that there would be a gate to get through once I turned off the highway, but I was unsure whether it would be locked or not. Fortunately it was not. I went ahead through the gate, but I still have no idea whether I was on private property or not.
I drove through the gate and went about a 1/2 mile down a dirt road, which was less a dirt road and more a set of wheel ruts in the ground. It was admittedly an eerie thing to be doing. Finally, I found the cemetery.
I would estimate there were about 60 graves in this cemetery. I was quite excited to finally find a headstone for my great-great-grandmother Tatum, and with so few graves I figured it would be easy. My hopes were soon dashed as I discovered that about half of the graves had no name on the gravemarkers. Those markers were really just slabs of limestone plunked down to mark the grave. I walked all over the cemetery visiting every spot at least twice, and was disappointed to not find her.
Some of the graves had these small, rusted metal placards which were placed there by the memorial service company in Winters, such as the one below. They were mostly illegible as the elements had rusted away the words. I even tried to take an etching from my pencil and paper across them. I had no luck with that. Nonetheless, I imagined that one of these could belong to my great-great-grandma Tatum.
Finally, there was a small, mysterious building in the back of the cemetery. I figured it was some kind of storage shed, so I poked my head in to check it out. I discovered that it actually housed two graves side-by-side. It was infested with wasp nests and spider webs, so I was hesitant to go in. However, I wanted to make sure I didn't leave the cemetery without being absolutely sure I couldn't find my ancestor, so I gathered my courage and went in. I read the placard on one of the graves and it was not her. The topsoil over the other grave was sunken down about 1-2 feet in places, and I didn't dare try to check that one out. Way too creepy. Unfortunately I didn't snap a picture of the inside of the building.
I finally resigned myself to the fact that I wasn't going to find her grave, but I still took a moment to soak in the location and the experience. The only sounds I could hear were the wind, the occasional bird, and the dry grass crunching under my feet. Way, way out there on a quiet and lonely parcel of land in west Texas my great-great-grandmother is laid to rest. I took comfort in knowing that my grandmother had preceded me in daring the wilds of west Texas. She must have been a tough, strong, and incredible woman. As vast and wild as that location is today, in the earliest decades of the 1900's it must have seemed like the edge of the world. As I scanned the horizon and admired the plateaus and cloudy skies, I wondered what life must have been like for her on those plains. Unencumbered by the comforts of modern technology, she knew a very different world than the one we now have. A much quieter world, for sure.
The dozens of nameless grave markers, as well as the dozen or so infant graves, were a somber reminder that, as we read in the Bible, "all flesh is grass". We are born, we live, and we die. If we are lucky we will be remembered. There are innumerable people who have lived incredible lives who are now lost to us. We don't know them, but they were once as full of life, joy, sorrow, and passion as we are today. Will I end up in a forgotten grave someday? Will my descendants wonder about my life? Will a great-great grandson or granddaughter feel inexplicably compelled to find my grave? What will they imagine my life was like?
I'm grateful for the peace that the gospel of Jesus Christ brings to me in searching for answers to these questions. None are forgotten by God. He knows them, loves them, and we too will know them someday.
I'm grateful to have the resources to do this work. Doing family history can sometimes lead you to unexpected places, both physically and spiritually.
