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Health & Fitness

Searching for Facts, Clues and Answers

The quest to accurately portray local, regional, national or even personal historical events always has surprises.

There just never seems to be enough time.

I wish I could forsake all of life's day-to-day responsibilities and just immerse myself full-time into what I do best, and what my heart yearns to do most, but life just doesn't work that way.

But for the few brief moments my wife and kids allow me that luxury, I jump at any and all opportunities. This weekend, for about 36 hours, proved to be one of those opportunities.

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I've been working on a book for the past 24 months or so with at least a portion of it connected to the Town of Babylon, my original hometown and hometown of my parents and countless uncles, aunts, cousins and grandparents.

When writing a non-fiction semi-biographical history, of sorts, it's critical to find, reconstruct, pinpoint, and chronologize a seemingly vast ocean of facts and data. Most of us go through life never fully comprehending or being able to assimilate and even empathize with what our predecessors and progenitors endured or experienced in order to bring us to, well, us.

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My journey this weekend included one of the most jam-packed itineraries I've ever dared to construct and because it was ambitious, I asked my father to come along, if for nothing else, then someone to bounce ideas off of. I'm glad I asked him.

Leaving Cape Cod at 4:00 a.m. was difficult enough, but the drive into the heart of New York City was, in a way, intimidating, even after living in the Bronx for two years in graduate school. Navigating with a GPS that seemed to have a mind of its own made me extremely happy I had the foresight to bring along "back-up" Mapquest directions for each stop. First stop? The Evergreens.

The Evergreens Cemetery, a National Historic Landmark, represents to me a comprehensive "ending" spot for the lives of no less than 20 ancestors. I've been anxious to visit this place for the past 24 months but when I arrived I never expected it to be quite so vast and frankly, beautiful. If you can imagine a more serene last resting place for your ancestors, I would doubt it.

To make things more convenient, at least for my quest for answers, the majority of my ancestors interred in The Evergreens are all interred in its Pleasant Hill Section. I was enomrously optimistic driving in, but that optimism would soon turn to frustration. Armed with maps and plot numbers and grave numbers, I practically jogged between the cemetery's ancient tombs, once we figured out the processional order of the grave plots.

The first grave took us some time. Too much time, I thought, to stay on schedule, but when we finally located it, my emotions ran the gamut of good and bad.

We came upon the diminutive, unremarkable granite headstone of Horace Greeley Walsh, my 3rd great-uncle who died in 1907. For years now, his name has stared back at me in our massive, leather-bound family bible, like some sort of ethereal question mark. Who was he and why did he die so young (he died at age 37).

A bartender who ran a "saloon" in the Bronx, Horace Greeley Walsh died of pneumonia. He lived in midtown Manhattan with his young wife and his mother, a widow, Jane J. Walsh. Whatever became of his young wife, Mary, I fear I may never know. As for my 3rd great-grandmother, she lived a long, full life, but to find no marker for her, here, after all this time was exceptionally disappointing.

The grave marker for Horace G. Walsh was equally disappointing, not because of the size and stone type, but because his name was egregiously misspelled on the stone. "How does that happen?" I wondered aloud. Glaring back at me was "Horase C. Walsh" clearly and deeply engraved. According to New York City municipal records, Horace Greeley Walsh, his mother, his brother, and his sister-in-law all were buried in this one plot, but none of their names were there. It seemed like they had just been forgotten.

And so it went for the remainder of every other ancestor I have buried in The Evergreens. Edward Everett Walsh, my 3rd great-grandfather and Horace's younger brother. Edward's wife, Eleanora Dohm Walsh, the daughter of German immigrants. Jane J. Walsh, who came to America aboard the paddle-wheel steamship the Star of the West from Wales in 1855, prior to the conversion of that ship for military use in the Civil War. All forgotten.

But I tried to remain optimistic, after all, I had more than a dozen ancestors left to find and all of them right in the same section of this intense place. The sun beamed brightly and the birds sang and seemed to drown out any and all of the surrounding urban clamor.

I headed for the gravesite of my third great-grandfather, Lt. John C. Walsh (1834-1881) who had died from complications due to having "frosted hands," and had left this entire Walsh family behind too soon, an immigrant wife and her seven children living amid what Walt Whitman called the "blab and pave" and tumult of mid-19th century Manhattan.

Born in Montreal, Canada the son of Irish immigrants, Lt. John C. Walsh made his way down the St. Lawrence River, ostensibly alone, and ended up in Lockport, NY just outside Buffalo. The son of a stone mason, he had enough sense to file for and receive approval from the federal government a US Patent in 1857 for his invention of "an improved gas burner."

In 1861, he was commissioned a 2nd lieutenant in the New York 28th Infantry, was mustered into service in Albany and became one of the famous "Albany Rifles." Perhaps the greatest battle he encountered was in the Battle of Cedar Mountain, or as some called it then, the Battle of Slaughter Mountain, a battle which saw many of his comrades killed in action or taken prisoner of war by the Confederates. He received a battlefield promotion prior to Slaughter Mountain to Full 1st Lieutenant. On March 18, 1863, he was mustered out of service and made his way to Manhattan.

It was there, in 1867, that "Gas Fitter" John C. Walsh, a Civil War veteran, established the Gas and Steamfitters Benevolent Protective Society, the first of its kind in the state of New York for some 300-plus plumbers and gas fitters. He was elected and served as the union's first president, largely in an effort to raise the minimum daily wage of $3.25 for one of the city's fastest growing occupations.

His death, caused by "frosted hands," likely came from overexposure to natural gas or having to work in bitter conditions to support his wife and seven children.

And in spite of having somewhat of a historical impact here was a man who had no headstone. Where his grave was supposed to be -- # 2722 on Pleasant Hill -- was just a bare patch of grass. His son John C. Walsh Jr. and his daughter, Mary Hannah Walsh Noble were also supposed to be buried with him. Would I ever know the truth? From behind a grove of tall, whispering pines, a man approached us and introduced himself - Evergreens "Historian" Donato "Danny" Daddario. Mr. Daddario proved a wealth of information and immediately dropped what he had been doing to aid us in this quest. We even took the opportunity to upright a handful of the many flipped over stones. Too many in my mind. I must say that if there was ever a City of New York municipal employee worth every red cent of his employment, then Mr. Daddario would be that person.

But even he could not provide us with answers as to why there was no headstone for a Civil War veteran. And so, from grave site to grave site the next hour elapsed. We traipsed to another section and another Civil War veteran, my 3rd great-grandfather Charles Louis Haniquet (1845-1910). No stone.

A private in the New York 55th Infantry Regiment, Haniquet received a full Civil War pension for his meagre 30 days of service to the Union Army. With the bulk of the New York 55th off fighting the Rebels, the Federal Government was forced to immediately recruit or draft more men into the 55th in order to help quell the draft riots of 1863. If you recall the scene in Martin Scorsese's incredible masterpiece, "The Gangs of New York," these were the Union soldiers who tried to keep the city from imploding. I understand now why his service was so short and why he never left the city and why he received a full pension for his efforts.

But all there was to mark in rememberance of this man, who grew up fatherless in an unforgiving city, was a patch of grass.

In spite of these minor setbacks and disappointments, time seemed to stand still in this place of resting souls of the men and women who helped build this country. We hopped in our car and headed down Bushwick Avenue, driving down paved but potholed city streets, following the same path of our forefathers. Hope, as they say, springs eternal.

Our next stop was Calvary Cemetery. We thought it would be so simple to get to, but the GPS had us spinning in circles. Mapquest was proving less helpful. We went with instinct and that worked best as we pulled into one of the most overwhelming scenes I've ever experienced. Massive, hulking monuments to the departed lined up one on top of the next. Vast vaults and a neverending sea of marble and granite dwarfed the bucolic New England scenes I had grown accustomed to. The sheer number of tombs here was intimidating and it also caused me to call the main office.

The woman who guided me quickly to where we wanted to go was perhaps one of the nicest people I've met in New York, when I lived there before, and now. She also advised me that I'd have to drive elsewhere to what she called "the 4th Calvary" section in order to find what we were seeking.

And thus, our day was filled with a neverending stream of such pitstops and boyish adventure and discovery.

When it all ended, we were already an hour late for a pre-planned supper with the wife of a long-lost cousin in Shirley, New York, about an hour's drive fromm Queens (for us at least). Planning such an intimate event with someone you;ve never met can be daunting but the enterprise of seeing what family documents and old photos she might have - and indeed claimed to have - overrode any such fears.

And with just a few sheets of old typewritten pages and a handful of aging sepia-toned photos, the answers came pouring upon me, personally, like pleasant rainfall. Combined with a most unexpected, wonderful dinner in her cozy Long Island kitchen, we unmasked century-old family mysteries and saw many faces for the first time.

It was worth every, harrowing minute of driving through a city that welcomed not just mine but millions upon millions of people who wanted nothing more than just a chance to succeed.

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