52 Ancestors: Week 5: "A Breakthrough Moment" - Update on my search for Nanny's beach-going friends

Just an update on my search for the families of the young people pictured here. 

The young girl kneeling on the right is my grandmother, Clare Henry-Earle. This image was found in one of her scrapbooks. There were actually 2 copies of the image, one of which was labeled. It is so very helpful to label your photos. Label them. Actually, print photos and then label them. No one seems to print pictures anymore. They are all just on our phones. Anyway...

Two weeks ago I tracked down the children of the Santa Maria sisters. One of the kids, Jill, provided me with some information she found online for the unfound boys in that photo.

Through her details, I have now shared this picture with the family of Ed Peter. Thank you, Jill, Ed's daughter thanks you as well.

That leaves me just three more families to locate; those of Claude Arnaud, Joseph Willis, and Ed Heinlein.

Thus far everyone has been very grateful to see a picture of their parent or grandparent as a teen, young and having fun. 

52 Ancestors: Week 4: "A Theory in Progress" - Nanny at the Beach

I don't know if it is so much a theory, really, as it is a "Project in Progress."

In 2023, my paternal grandmother, Clare Henry-Earle, the last of my grandparents, passed away at the age of 94; we all called her Nanny. Two years later, in late 2025, my aunts have put my grandparents’ house on the market.

I believe my grandfather purchased the house shortly after returning from military service in WWII. He was honorably discharged on March 25, 1946. Do the math and that is about 80 years that the house has been in the possession of my family. 

The home, pictured below, was constructed in 1942 but I am not aware of anyone else owning the property between the time of its construction and my grandfather’s purchase. I think the Earles have always owned it.

That yellow sided house on the right? That is where my mother grew up.

Anyway, I tell you all this because the sale of the house came with quite a bit of unloading. When a family sells a house after eight decades, it isn’t just a move, it’s an excavation. Eighty years in one place accumulates a lot of life. During the clean-out, my uncle gave me several of my grandmother’s scrapbooks from her youth. 

Nanny promised me her family photos because of my love for family history, but when I opened the albums, I found something else unexpected. The pages were filled with faces I didn’t recognize, teenagers, mostly. Nanny’s high school friends. Some were labeled. Most were not. Although I wish I had gotten family photos, my first thought looking at these was simple: Someone out there, who knows these people, and would love to have these photos too, just as much as I do. 

So I started with the names I had found noted on the back of a few of the photos.

The first person I searched for was Dotty. 

Here is Dot hoisting my little grandmother up on her shoulder, clearly at the beach, and distinguishably Jones Beach circa 1945.

I found Dotty pretty quickly, alive and well, still on Long Island. Through social media, I connected with her children. Dotty is visually impaired and couldn’t help me identify most of the people in the photos, but she did point me to her younger brother, Ed.

My uncle and I had the great opportunity to sit down with Ed and his family and go through the albums together. As we turned the pages, Ed brought the photos to life, naming faces, sharing stories, and painting a picture of what it was like growing up in Uniondale in the 1940s. At one point, he even mentioned that my grandfather had planned to buy Ed’s childhood home, but circumstances were such that it just didn't pan out.

One person Ed spoke about at length was Billy from Chaminade, a local Catholic high school. Billy became my next mission.

Billy has passed away, but I was able to connect with his family. When I shared a photo, his daughter immediately said, “That’s Uncle Stan.” Uncle Stan wasn’t a biological uncle, but a beloved high school friend of her father’s.

That sent me back to the albums. I searched for more photos of Billy and Stan, and to my delight, there was a duplicate of the image and on the back it was labeled. “Uncle Stan” turned out to be the grandfather of one of my sister’s best friends, Jenny O.

We already knew that Nanny and Stan had gone to high school together. I think we learned that around the time that my sister got married; Jenny was one of my sister's bridesmaids. What I didn’t know was that Nanny and Stan had been part of the same close-knit circle of friends, pictured below.

My grandma is the girl kneeling on the right. Billy is the guy kneeling in the middle. Stan is the guy standing on the left with his arm around the girl on the far left.

Now if only I could find descendants of the others - Gloria Newton, Joan Santa Maria, Claude Arnaud, Joe Willis, Joyce Santa Maria, Ed Peter, and Ed Heinlein. I'm looking for you! Each would have been born in the late 1920s, early 1930s and gone to school in and around Hempstead, NY. 

I know that other people might flip past those faces that aren't "mine" but these aren’t just my grandmother’s lost memories, these were people who at one time mattered deeply to her. Now I feel responsible for these images. I want to share them with the people who would appreciate them. 

Maybe one day I will find each of their families and string them all back together. Maybe we could even gather and recreate the photo at the spot where these teenager's once stood at Jones Beach. I think that would be just as fun as the joy these kids seem to be sharing back in 1945.

52 Ancestors: Week 3: "What This Story Means to Me" - Charles Henry's Clock

In my last post, I mentioned the clock that once belonged to my great-grandfather, Charles Aloysius Henry (March 26, 1896 – June 14, 1949). It came out of his place of employment, John J. Lake & Sons, a paint manufacturer located at 88 Atlantic Avenue in Lynbrook, New York. The clock  has much more than sentimental value, it carries weight of my family history.

Long before this blog ever existed, I had an experience that gave the clock great significance.

A close friend of mine has a sister who is a medium. I’ve written about my experience with Mary once before, and I’ll say upfront: regardless of how you feel about psychics, and believe me, I understand the skepticism, this woman is no joke.

Until I sat down with Mary, I had never had a reading. What she said to me that day was extraordinary. She spoke about things no one outside my family could have possibly known, details that were deeply personal and rooted in my family’s history. And yes, I’m fully aware that nearly everyone who’s impressed by a psychic says the same thing: She told me things no one else could have known. I get how that sounds.

At one point in the reading, though, she paused and broke from the stream of the conversation said, “Who has the clock?”

The clock?

I’m fairly certain I rolled my eyes—maybe not outwardly, but definitely in my head. I remember thinking, Everyone owns a damn clock. Out loud, I said, “I don’t know.”

She looked at me and replied calmly, confidently, “Yes, you do. I can hear it ticking. It's a pendulum clock."

"Oh," I said, "that could be my grandmother's clock."

She said, "But she doesn't have it. Who has the clock?"

"Oh, well, she gave it to my Uncle Allen."

"That should be your clock," Mary said.

I harrumphed. "Yeah, you tell Allen it's my clock."

Then she asked again, "Whose clock was it?"

"Ah, my grandma's."

"No," said Mary. "Whose was it before her?"

"Um, I think it was her father's."

And then she said the most incredible thing. She said, "I smell paint." 

She paused, as if listening to something I couldn’t hear. "Did he make paint?"

Not was he a painter.

Not did he paint.

Did he MAKE paint?

Um, yes, he freakin' made paint.

It wasn’t until after the reading that I asked my grandmother about the clock’s history. Quietly, almost offhandedly, she confirmed it had come out of John J. Lake & Sons, where her father worked making paint.

What has stayed with me wasn’t the shock of the accuracy of what Mary said, it was the feeling that objects, ordinary, unremarkable things, carry presence. Memory. Connection. Instead of a steady, ticking, that clock is a steady reminder that the people who came before us are never all that far away.

Clock from John J. Lake & Sons

Charles A. Henry painting his home in Uniondale.

52 Ancestors: Week 2: "A Life that Added Color" - Charles Aloysius Henry (March 26, 1896 - June 14, 1949)

This week's theme is supposed to be about a record that added color but after last week's post, my cousin Sean asked a few questions about our shared family history that made me think of my great grandpa Charles Aloysius Henry and his life and color. 

15 Fenimore Avenue, East Hempstead, Long Island, New York, was the address where my Henry great grandparents lived. It eventually became 15 Beck Street, Uniondale after the town came through and renamed some streets. There is still a Fennimore Avenue in Uniondale but it isn't the street my grandma grew up on. The Henrys lived on present-day Beck Street. According to my grandmother, that name was chosen because the oldest living person on the street at the time was Mrs. Beck. That change had to have occurred very close to 1950 because I see Mrs. Beck living at 24 Fenimore in the 1940 census but then in the 1950 census she at 24 Beck Street. However, in the 1950 census the Henry's address appears as 15 Fenimore. I now wonder if segments of the street were renamed at certain times. Hmm. I'm not sure but yes, Sean, 15 Beck Street (pictured below) was 15 Fenimore Ave.

My great grandfather Charles Henry built this house from a Sears Roebuck catalog kit. Some people leave behind oil paintings or framed photographs. Others leave clocks on living room walls, sturdy houses, and memories tinged, quite literally, with paint.

Charles Aloysius Henry was born on March 26, 1896, in Richmond Hill, Queens County, New York. He was the eldest child of Victor Henry (June 1874 – June 23, 1908) and Annette Hinch-Henry (February 22, 1868 – March 2, 1952), and from an early age, responsibility found him. Of the six children born into the Henry family, he was one of only three that survived to adulthood. 

• Charles Aloysius Henry (March 26, 1896 – June 14, 1949), my great grandfather
• Mary “Annie” Henry (December 8, 1897 – April 6, 1899)
• Jane Veronica Henry-Edsall (November 14, 1899 – May 19, 1982)
• Victor Henry III (July 10, 1902 – September 15, 1940)
• James Henry (June 24, 1904 – July 16, 1905)
• Robert Henry (February 7, 1906 – February 10, 1906)

Charles Henry circa 1900

Of my great grandparents, I think I look most like Charles.

At three years old, his parents buried his sister Mary "Annie" (she shows up with two names), and when Charles was 9 years-old, they buried two boys. When Charles was just twelve years old, in 1908, his father Victor committed a very scandalous murder-suicide. Overnight, Charles became more than the eldest son, he became the man of the house.  At 44, the family received a disturbing knock at the door at 15 Fenimore from local law enforcement informing them of the drowning of Charles's 38 year-old brother, Victor.

Anna and Charles in front of 15 Fenimore Ave, East Hempstead, winter 1944

During World War I, Charles served in the U.S. Army, and was stationed at Camp Gordon in Georgia. He never saw combat overseas. After the war, he returned to Queens and married Anna Marie Sauer (July 19, 1899 - May 8, 1986) on June 6, 1921 at the Gate of Heaven Roman Catholic Church in Ozone Park, Queens. Together, they began what would become a lively, busy household filled with six children, projects, and plans. A family of his own came with the need for stability and a place to put it all. In about 1945 he ordered the Sears catalog house pictured above, a prefabricated home that was shipped by railroad and then assembled by the buyer. 15 Fenimore was solid and practical, much like the man who raised it.

Richard Henry and Charles Henry in front of 15 Fenimore, Winter 1944

Anna Sauer-Henry fetching the mail. A clear shot of the house in the background, Winter 1944

You wouldn't know it today but property was large enough to support a small farm. There were vegetables, livestock, and, most memorably, goats and rabbits. Charles became president of both a goat club and a rabbit club, local organizations dedicated to self-sufficiency and health. Goat’s milk, the family believed, was superior to cow’s milk. Here is a photograph of my grandma Clare and her sister Jean grinning proudly as they hold the baby goats. 

Clare Henry-Earle and Regina "Jean" Henry-Drew with kids.

Professionally, Charles was a paint manufacturer. He rose to the rank of manager at John J. Lake & Sons, a company whose products quite literally coated the surfaces of everyday life. Paint is an odd thing when you think about it, it preserves, protects, and hides flaws. It seals wood against rot, brightens dull spaces, and gives old structures new life. The John J. Lake & Sons Company clock hung in my grandmother’s living room for decades, ticking away the hours long after Charles himself was gone. That clock still exists. It was passed down to my Uncle Allen, and is promised to be mine some day. I see it as a quiet relic of a man who spent his life making things endure.

WWII Draft Registration Card for Charles Henry, April 26, 1942

There is a cruel irony in the way Charles’s life ended. On June 14,1949, at just 53 years old, Charles died of peritoneal cancer, a rare cancer of the abdominal lining. His family believed the illness was linked to prolonged exposure to industrial paint chemicals at his job. The very materials that supported his family may have shortened his life. Charles died only months before the birth my father, his 5th grandchild.

He was buried in Holy Rood Cemetery in Westbury, New York; his work done, but his house still standing and his clock still ticking.

52 Ancestors: Week 1: "An Ancestor I Admire" - Annette "Annie" Hinch-Henry (February 22, 1868 - March 2, 1952)

I tried to do the 52 Ancestors in 52 Weeks Challenge last year but the days got away from me. Instead I turned my attention to writing a series of essays on each of my direct ancestors back to, and including, my great-great grandparents. I then compiled those essays into a book to someday give to my nieces and nephew. 

I noticed that the further I went back in time the shorter the essays got. I didn't really have stories about my great-great grandparents as individuals, as opposed to my parents and grandparents who I knew and experienced things with in my life. 

So when I think about my ancestors and whom I admire most, I wonder what I really know about most of them. Do records really tell us much about a person's character? How much do  those documents really tell us about a person’s inner life, or the way they endured the events that shaped them?

That being said though, I have always thought my great-great grandmother's life story would make for a great movie, though. I've written about her before. I think Julia Roberts could play her in the movie. See the resemblance?

Annette "Annie" Hinch-Henry was born in Barnamelia, Ireland near Hackettstown, kind of close to where County Wicklow touches County Carlow.  She was born on February 22, 1868 to James Hinch (about 1816- January 29, 1886) and Jane Kavanaugh-Hinch (unknown - about 1875 in Ireland). 

James and Jane had six children: 

•     Jane Hinch (about 1859 –  unknown)
•     Hannah Hinch-Nugent (December 25,1859 – July 7, 1925)
•     Mary Hinch-Kehoe (May 10, 1864 – June 17, 1947)
•     Annette "Annie" Hinch-Henry (February 22, 1868 – March 2, 1952)
•     James Hinch (July 1, 1870 – about 1884)
•     Sarah Bridget Hinch-Stoothoff-Rhodes (June 25, 1873 – January 4, 1965).  

The Hinch family knew loss. Annie’s mother appears to have died around 1875, leaving those six children behind. Annie’s brother James, would never reach adulthood. Family lore said that young James drowned in a river. I didn't question it, but when my cousin Pete and I visited the National Archives in Dublin in 2018, the records told a much sadder story. The only death that fit was for a thirteen-year-old boy named James Hinch who didn't drown in a river but rather died in a workhouse from diphtheria on September 27, 1884. I think that is him but I am only confident that Annie left Ireland having already buried her mother and a brother.

Shortly after that boy's death, Annie’s moved across the sea. There is a passenger list that may record her arrival in New York on June 6, 1885, traveling with her father, James, and her younger sister Sarah aboard the HMS City of Chester into the Port of New York at Castle Garden. Their surname is indexed as “Hench,” and the only sibling listed is Sarah, not Annie’s older sisters, Jane and Hannah, which makes me a bit uncertain that this is them. Still, if it is them, Annie would have been seventeen when she stepped onto American soil at Castle Garden and sadly, only a few month later her father died on January 29, 1886. James Hinch is buried in St. Monica’s Cemetery in Jamaica, Queens, beside his brother Charles Hinch (about 1817 - January 24, 1895). Annie was not yet 18 years old when she buried her other parent.

Annie was 27 when she married Victor Henry II (June 1874 – June 23, 1908) on June 18, 1895 in New York. They had six children in their 13 years long marriage: 

• Charles Aloysius Henry (March 26, 1896 – June 14, 1949), my great grandfather
• Mary “Annie” Henry (December 8, 1897 – April 6, 1899)
• Jane Veronica Henry-Edsall (November 14, 1899 – May 19, 1982)
• Victor Henry III (July 10, 1902 – September 15, 1940)
• James Henry (June 24, 1904 – July 16, 1905)
• Robert Henry (February 7, 1906 – February 10, 1906)

Only three of their children lived to adulthood, Mary died as a toddler and their two youngest sons died in infancy.

Then on June 23, 1908, Annie's life shattered publicly when her husband Victor committed a very scandalous murder-suicide involving Annie’s first cousin, Mary Hinch-Cassidy (March 1862 – June 23, 1908). The details are complicated, painful, and deeply entwined branches of the Hinch and Henry families. Annie was left a widow with young children, carrying a grief that was both intense and very publicly shameful and yet, she endured.

After everything she had lost, Annie continued to give. While her children were still young, Annie took in orphans. I recall my great uncle Bobby, Annie’s grandson, speaking about one orphan in particular; Eddie Reed (August 12, 1921 – December 7, 1937) who appears in the 1930 census in Annie’s house. Eddie died while in Annie’s care and the loss just devastated her. Apparently, she had taken Eddie to the doctor complaining of abdominal pains. They performed an appendectomy on November 19, 1937. He continued to complain of pain afterwards but the doctor didn’t believe Eddie, they thought he was faking his pain to avoid school. Days later on December 7, 1937 Eddie died at Jamaica Hospital. He was just 16.

I found Edward Reed’s death certificate at the New York City Municipal Archives; Queens Death Certificate, 1937, document #8434. His mother’s name may have been Catherine Reed; his father is unknown. Anna Henry is listed as his guardian and she is buried with him at St. John Cemetery in Middle Village, Queens, New York.

I suspect that Annie received a good deal of support from her family following the death of Victor; if not financially, at least emotionally. I had heard one story in which she had to put her children into an orphanage but fought to have them returned to her when she learned they weren't being fed well. I know her sons and daughter cared deeply for their mother in her later years as well, opening their homes to her again and again. In fact, in the 1950 U.S. Federal Census, Annie was living with her then recently widowed daughter-in-law, my great grandmother, Anna Marie Sauer-Henry (July 19, 1899 – May 8, 1986) in Uniondale, Long Island, New York at 15 Fenimore Avenue; the house my grandmother grew up in. When Annie passed on March 2, 1952, though, she was living with her daughter Jane in Pearl River, New Jersey.

I don't know her voice or her laugh. Did she laugh? She must have laughed. I don't know what else could have sustained her through so much loss, but I know she crossed an ocean; buried her parents, siblings, five of her six children, and her husband; she survived scandal; opened her home to foundlings with nowhere else to go; and was remembered with love by the people who did know her. For someone I never met, I admire her a great deal for her perseverance. 

"What's in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet." But would it, Will? Would it really?

Sometimes a person in your family tree is just a name and dates; and yet somehow you develop an image of them in your mind's eye. Perhaps you have a location where they once lived, so you might have some context to develop the image, notions based on period dress and/or hairstyles. When you start to dig into the documents they left behind, vital records and census records add little to the picture really. Maybe their chosen profession tells you something about their character or gives you a glimpse at their day-to-day lifestyle. I often find myself wondering if certain ancestors looked like their descendants that I know, or even like me. When I stumble across an old family photo in another researcher’s collection, I find myself thinking, Yes, they do look like they could be related or, No, that doesn't look like an Earle. 

What truly brings an ancestor to life are the stories; the oral histories passed down through generations or written recollections, if any exist. Things like their obituary or newspaper articles in which they’re mentioned are really the gems. 

Names alone, though, carry meaning. It’s usually the first thing people learn about someone, and it shapes the way they’re perceived. A name can suggest character and color one's preception until a story is uncovered.

In my own tree I fell in love with the first name of my great-great-great grandmother, Olivine Page-Ethier. How lovely is that? Olivine. It is like Olivia but not nearly as common. It comes from the Latin word oliva, meaning olive, and thus links the name to the olive tree and its symbolism; a timeless emblem of peace and abundance.  Across the Mediterranean, the olive tree nourishes the body and thus its oil fuels daily life. Olivine also evokes the shimmering green mineral of the same name born of volcanic rock that since antiquity has been valued as an element of fine jewelry. It just gives vibes of quiet elegance, vitality, earthy-mother like beauty. I love it. And so I have this preconceived notion about what my 3rd great grandma Olivine must have looked like and been like. And then I found this...

The Daily Telegraph, Quebec, Canada, October 12, 1877

At noon yesterday a woman named Olivine Page, wife of Augustin Either, was arrested at her residence, No. 12, King street, charged by a young woman named Cedulie Rouleau, widow of Joseph Latour, of luring her into an infamous den. The complainant substantially testified that on Tuesday week she left Rapin’s hotel where she had just been discharged from service as a domestic servant, to look for work, but meeting the defendant, whom she was slightly acquainted with, standing at her house door she, in the course of a conversation informed her of the position of which she was placed. The woman Page thereupon pressed her to stay and have dinner, and afterwards appearing to feel the greatest interest in the unfortunate girl’s helpless condition, easily persuaded her to pass the night in her house. During that and the following night she was imprisoned in her room and made to comply with everything her hostess desired, men being introduced into her room each evening. Plaintiff further added that the accused took most of her clothes away and offered her no recompense whatever, treating her as an absolute slave. Liquor was also unlawfully sold to one of the frequenters of the place, defendant having no license. The prisoner, who conducted herself in the most composed manner possible, when these serious charges were being made, denied that such was the case. Detective Riché, who went yesterday to the place indicated to recover the clothes alleged to have been stolen from the young woman, described the place as a low shebeen, the occupants of which have been suspected of selling liquor on the sly for some time. The clothing had evidently been sold, as all he could find was a few rags. Strange to say the police could give no information about the place, and were altogether ignorant of the character it bore. The Recorder fined the defendant $5 including costs, in default $8, or one month’s imprisonment.

Huh?

Yeah, this doesn't sound elegant at all.

Apparently in 1877,  great-great-great grandma Olivine was running a seedy little tavern, that is what a shebeen is, and potentially a brothel. She was arrested there, accused of luring a recently unemployed servant into her home and keeping her as a prostitute. Not to mention she was illegally selling alcohol.  

Now this item below appeared in the Daily Witness on January 26, 1875, nearly three years earlier, under the heading City Items:

- A woman names Olivine Page was accused to-day by her son, Augustine Ethier, of loose, idle and disorderly conduct and was committed to jail till Wednesday for trial by the Police Magistrate.

Wow, Grandma Olivine. Just WOW.

This is in stark contrast to the character of her daughter, Malvina Ethier-Desjardins, my great-great grandmother. In the articles I found which mention Malvina, she is painted as a saintly mother in regard to her son's brush with the law. Malvina, who has a name which to me sounds pretty malificient and dark, resuced her son, Albert Gardner (a.k.a. Almond Desjardins) and his friend, James Kidney, from the New York City Protectory; a Catholic orphange and home for juvenline delinquents. 

Malvina's momma though, Olivine, woah.

. 

Home to Lupinfield Cottage

I am presently engrossed in teaching my summer course on genealogy research for pre-service librarians. It is a short course with a lot to cover so it is very overwhelming, not only for my student but also for me. While I have a little downtime today, while the students are digging into their family research, I want to share about my summer trip back to Twillingate, Newfoundland back in June.

This was my third visit to the tiny tourist town on the northeast shore of Newfoundland where my great grandfather, Abram Thomas Earle, was born on January 13, 1891. With the present day population of about 2100 people, tourism plays a big part in its economy, its claim to fame being that it is "The Iceberg Capital of the World." In spring and summer months, icebergs float past and lodge themselves in it craggy coastline.

My great grandpa Abe immigrated to the Unites States in May 1903 when he was just 12 years old; first by boat from St. John's, Newfoundland to Sydney, Nova Scotia, and then by train to Boston where he presumably was taken in by his maternal aunt, Jane Samms-Whynot (July 7, 1870 - April 19, 1959), and her family.

Abe's father, Abraham Earle (about 1849 - winter 1890), died at sea aboard a ship called The Rise and Go shortly before Abe was born. Then his mother, Sarah Samms-Earle (October 13, 1857 - March 20, 1899), remarried to James Bromley on September 15, 1894. Less than 5 years later, when Abe was just 8 years-old, his mother succumbed to tuberculosis. What Abe's life was like between the passing of his mom and his move to the U.S. is unknown to me.

When I made my second visit to Twillingate in June 2018 with my Uncle Thomas, we stayed in an AirBnB called Pumpkin House on Farmers Arm Road. According to my great grandfather's birth registration he was born on Farmers Arm and so at the time of booking our reservation at Pumpkin House I thought, "Well, this is probably as close I will get to the location where Abe was born. He probably knew who lived in this house and he probably played on this street."

The homeowners of Pumpkin House, Charlie and his mother Nancy, welcomed us like family. Charlie had just purchased another house on Farmers Arm Road, not far down the road. Below, Pumpkin House is circled in yellow and the "new" property is circled in red.

One morning, Charlie called Uncle Thomas and I down to his new property. Once there he rolled out his deed for us and there in the corner of it, it stated that the home had been the property of John and William J. Earle. 

John Earle (August 11, 1863 - May 8, 1913), a fisherman and shipbuilder, was Abe's much older first cousin; 28 years older. William John Earle (January 14, 1889 - September 9, 1959), a generation below Abe, was actually 2 years older than Abe, almost exactly to the day, and was the man responsible for building the addition on the back of that home which now contains the kitchen and dining room space.

Since our visit in 2018, Charlie and Nancy have renovated the Earle family home into another beautiful rental property now known as Lupinfield Cottage. During the years Charlie has shared with me, and through social media, the renovation progress and the many precious finds; markings on the walls, children's scrawling in cabinets, and a pocket watch he unearthed in the yard. 

On this visit to Twillingate with my Uncle Allen and Aunt Rita, we had the beautiful opportunity to stay in the home that was originally built by Cousin John Earle.

It is hard to put into words the profound feeling of walking on the very land where you know your ancestors once walked. For me there is a deep, indescribable emotion that rises in me. I often become suffused with an aching reverence and overwhelming connection to lives long gone, yet somehow still very present in the soil beneath my feet and the walls that surround me.

I didn't know Abe. He died about 7 months before I was born but I know Abe was there on Farmers Arm. I don't know if he ever stayed in his cousin John's home or what nearby structure he may have resided in, but he was there and now so was I.