Category: Musings

While our visit to Niantic this past August brought heartbreak, Hilltown’s “lower” cemetery brought a surprising thrill.

I’d only been to Hilltown once, many summer ago. Taking my grandfather to the resting place of his Welsh forefathers that blistering hot day remains one of my favorite memories. The knowledge of where his ancestors came from had been lost along the years, and for a long time it was supposed that William Thomas had been the immigrant or the son of one, since he moved from New York City to Pennsylvania.

“You mean, we came here to Philadelphia in the early 1700’s?”

That’s right, Granddad. We’re rebel colonials.

My dad had not been to Hilltown, and though he is not descended from the Thomas line he, too, is a lover of history. He was particularly curious about the ancient old Penn Oak and where the churches once stood on this site.

The last time I was at Hilltown, I was more interested in the gravestones. I new that a stone monument off closer to the road said that this was the site of the original “lower” Hilltown Baptist church buildings. But this time around, we saw something. Perhaps it’s because my family has gotten into archaeology documentaries recently, and we certainly would never have noticed were it not for the scorching drought. But there, surrounding the monument, were parchmarks. Lines of dead grass where, just under the surface, lays stones.

Gingerly stepping onto a burl at the bottom of dear Penn, I lifted my camera to see the blueprint of the most recent structure to have stood here, on the very land that Elder William built the first log church meeting house.

And, peeking out from tufts of dead grass, we even found the cornerstones:

Call me superstitious, but this is one of those cemeteries that has character. Maybe it’s the ancient stones, or the ancient Oak. But it captivates, and in some odd (and creepy) way, doesn’t want you to leave.

Standing among the gravestones of Elder William and his children, I recounted to my parents some favorite legends about these folks. About how Elder William purportedly foretold the future on numerous occasions, including the fates of several of his children. And when I told of how his youngest son was found strangled in his doorway and the murder never solved, a resounding CRACK came from a tree at the far back corner of the cemetery. There was hardly any wind. I couldn’t help but smirk.

The cemetery of Christ Lutheran Church (what I’ve always called “Niantic”) will always be special to me (yes, this is a weird statement). It was in this cemetery 25 years ago that this genealogy obsession began: racing about with my uncle, 4th-grade composition notebook in hand, writing down the names and dates on every headstone bearing the name “Fox.”

Situated on Niantic Road in Barto, PA, amongst rolling farmland and an endless sky, it is now on the way to the home of the same uncle when we visit the area. But it’s been decades since we stopped by. This past August as I piloted the car, I felt compelled. We would be late to dinner, but I had to stop to visit the grave of John.

I could see in my mind where he and his parents are buried, at the back of the church, and strode that way confidently. Unthinking, my feet took me right to the back wall of the church where – of course, I realized – their gravestones were not. My feet or intuition or something had taken me to where they used to be buried, before the expansion of the building necessitated their move. A few paces away, I found their stones, but my amusement at being drawn to their former resting place melted into the deepest sadness as I found their stones. In an instant, I sat, and wept.

Of the thousands of gravestones I have stood before, I have never sat, and I certainly have not wept.

As my parents and brother walked up, I wondered aloud what curse must be upon this family. First, the patriarch Israel dies, and young John presumably took up arms in the Civil War in his father’s stead. Then his first day of battle becomes his last when he is beheaded by a cannonball. Interred with his father and later joined by his mother in the family church’s cemetery, the family is moved when the building expands many years later. At at some point, John’s headstone is struck by lightning not once, but twice, necessitating iron bars to hold it together.

And now, Israel’s stone has broken and fallen, and Catharina’s has been snapped off at the ground, likely caused by a careless landscaper. On top of this, the stones are so dreadfully worn since my last visit they are nearly entirely illegible.

This is why I do this work. It is inevitable that stones will become sand. Recollections will die. But if I can put these names and stories into black and white, and speak these names again, at least their memory can live in some way.

These are not the only broken or worn stones in the yard. Their stones are low quality sandstone and someday will crumble; that is inevitable. But their lives were so tumultuous. Why must their rest be?

My brother helped lift the heavy stones and we tried to re-place them in a more respectful manner. I aim to reach out to the church to see about what it would take to place a small, new marker at this plot so that their names, at least, are restored.

The photos below highlight the wear on the stones in the last two decades. Photos from my page about John and the Find-a-Grave listings for John, Israel, and Catharina just 10-15 years ago are much more legible.

It has been about 25 years since I first wandered through a cemetery with a marble composition notebook in hand, scanning the headstones for certain surnames to scribble down. While discovering numerous lines, thousands of names, and many perplexing and remarkable stories over the decades has been a thrill, I think only genealogists really understand the exhilaration that is the experience of following the ghosts, as it were, of one’s ancestors. To stand where they stood and experience a semblance of life as they did.

And I unexpectedly had one of those moments this June when a visit to an alpaca farm in East Greenville when my family and I found ourselves not only on old Krauss land, but in a Krauss farmhouse.

Awhile ago while scrolling through Google Maps to see where the earliest Krauss’s land on what became Kraussdale Road may have been, I noticed a pinned location: “Kraussdale Alpaca Farm.” Well, I like alpacas, and I had a newfound love of crocheting – and alpaca yarn is a dream to work with. So when we visited in June for my mom’s first mother-of-the-bride dress fitting, I reached out to the owner to arrange a visit.

Our GPS led us to the driveway of a stately old farmhouse, a two-story home likely from the nineteenth century. Its ornaments and size must have made it a mansion for its time. Maggie, the owner of the farm, greeted my parents and brother and I and introduced us to a number of the alpacas grazing in an area beside a barn which was perhaps even older than the facade of the house. We learned that Maggie grew up on “Krauss land” in a “Krauss haus” and how happy she was to purchase this Krauss property as well. She lovingly and longingly talked about the beautiful cat iron Krauss fence that ran along the road, and which has been repeatedly damaged by careless drivers failing to navigate the near hairpin turn (though, in a battle between modern car and 1800’s cast-iron fence, I’d think the fence would emerge the victor).

We ventured into the portion of the home that is the farm’s shop, replete with alpaca-themed novelties (the plush my parents got is a squishy dream), garments, alpaca wool roving, and a wall of yarn I quickly raided.

It was only in the last year I discovered that both my parents are descended from immigrant Anna Krauss (see “Everyone Marries the Schwenkfelds” on this page). And so what a treat to be able to look at my parents and say, “your ancestors build this home.”

Heading back along old Kraussdale Road’s winding turns and hills, the fields on either side remain dotted with sizable farm complexes, sprawling red barns, fields beaming green with crop, and modern equipment tending the rows. This land was first cared for by countless Indigenous people who through the mechanism of colonialism were displaced – this is something I must remember as I research and write about my ancestors who first settled in this country. When the Krauss family began farming this land I wonder if they knew that three centuries later their fields would still be feeding local families, and that modern townsfolk would speak of the Krausses with such veneration.