Burying My Dead

Chapter 1 ~ Murphy Gardiner: Reporter, The Oregonian

If you dig through the layers of time, if you put your ear to the earth and listen, the dead still speak, if only in a whisper.

Cemeteries have become all too familiar to me, having buried a mother at sixteen and a child who never took a breath on his own. But tonight the pioneer cemetery known as Lone Fir would be a place of festivity, not tears.

"I’m sending you on The Tour of Untimely Departures. We’ll run the feature in the Living section." My editor, Gus, was easing me into my new job at The Oregonian, and I was grateful.

Without police around, she explained, vandals crept into the cemetery on Halloween night, toppling headstones like they were bowling pins. Security was a drain on city coffers. But Portlanders are resourceful. If you can’t keep the bad guys out, they figured, invite the good guys in.

So there I was, along with hundreds of costumed celebrants, protecting these hallowed grounds and treating myself to a bit of quirky fun. Our cemetery guide was a fresh-faced young blonde with a loose French braid and a flowing white dress. She walked a dozen of us along a path lit by golden luminaries flickering in the breeze, introducing us to Portland superstars like Hawthorne, Lovejoy, Dekum and Northrup whose names I had come to know only as streets in my newly adopted city.

The glimmering path eventually led us to the night’s entertainment: an engaging if somewhat ghastly trio.

The first ghost was a colorful figure named Mike Mitchell, a jig dancer who was run over by a horse and buggy at the tender age of thirty-two. Mike emerged from behind an old Douglas fir, arriving by his humble headstone disheveled and woebegone but still ready to perform for old times’ sake. We were all entranced by his lively footwork when a bell tolled and Mike disappeared back into the night. Applause at a cemetery? You bet!

Charity Lamb, a sad murderess executed by the state, and a burly bar-fighter named Jim Turk also made spirited appearances. Each sketch was brought to a close with the heartrending toll of a distant bell.

This story was going to write itself; if my enthusiasm couldn’t bring the dead back to life, at least it would give them some recognition. I left Lone Fir close to midnight with the last of the volunteers. The moon was high and bright and the streets quiet – a miracle in itself in this land of rain and beer. I walked home, laptop in hand, a mere half block from the cemetery.

At my front door, Crookshanks, my landlady’s sleek black cat, darted by me into the darkness. Deanna was nowhere in sight and, for the life of me, I couldn’t remember if Crooksie was allowed outdoors. I knew in my gut that a black cat on the prowl on Halloween could be a target for pranksters and drunks, so I abandoned my laptop on the porch and ran after him. The last thing I needed was that kind of drama. I’d been in the Rose City for all of two weeks, and I didn’t want to get on the wrong side of my new housemate.

I caught the amber glow of Crooksie’s eyes as he crossed SE 26th Avenue, his tail just missing a Mini driving by. When he dove under the chain link fence into Lone Fir, I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. It was a comedy sketch gone wild – a black cat at midnight dashing between headstones on All Hallow’s Eve with a crazy redhead trying to corral him. My heart raced as I ran through the cemetery gates. I listened for the little bell that hung from his collar to warn loitering birds that trouble was on the way. No luck. I scanned the graveyard but couldn’t spot him.

Instead, my eyes fell upon a woman in a stylish white coat standing in the dark at one of the headstones. I hurried over, breathing hard, to ask for assistance. As I was explaining my predicament, Crooksie calmly ambled out of the shadows and arched his body against the stranger’s booted legs.

Is this your little friend? She picked him up without hesitation. More like my nemesis, I thought. I could hear him purring in her arms.

After effusive thanks and proper introductions, I realized that my savior, Anji Lee, wasn’t a holdover from the night’s festivities but a visitor. Three white roses bound together with a white ribbon had been placed at the base of a crumbling headstone commemorating the life of one Simeon Small. I couldn’t make out the date he died, but I could read Born in Pennsylvania, March 21, 1842. A fallen tree was carved above his name. Beside him were the graves of his wife and children.

Strange time to pay your respects, isn’t it? The question sounded more intrusive than I intended and I immediately regretted not being able to restrain my reporter’s instincts even for a moment. Fortunately, Anji didn’t take offense.

It’s a long story, she said with a chuckle.

Crooksie began to wiggle. I think we’d better get him back home. Live nearby?

I nodded. You okay carrying him?

Absolutely. It’s good luck.

When we delivered Crooksie back to the safety of Deanna’s house, I offered to walk Anji home.

No need. I’m right up the block – at Dawg Terrace.

In the light of the streetlamp, I realized that she’s drop-dead gorgeous in an unassuming kind of way. She’s about my age and height and twenty pounds lighter (okay, maybe thirty or forty). Razor-cut layers of silky dark hair frame her round face. And she’s got dimples! Damn. If she wasn’t so nice, I’d hate her guts. As she was waving goodbye, I realized I was about to lose a potential friend. And, besides, there was a story I had yet to hear.

I’m told that Sunday brunch is quite the Portland custom. Want to meet up tomorrow?

We agreed to walk down to Zell’s Café. (Drum roll, please: I haven’t covered thirteen blocks on foot since I was a girl.) What a stroke of luck. Anji is quintessential Portland. She’s fostering a rescue dog named Garibaldi, works as a surgical eye technician up on the hill (code for OHSU, the Oregon Health and Sciences University), and what I call rain, she calls Portland mist. She even has a delicate red rose tattoo on her wrist. Her Chinese heritage puts her in 1.4% of the population of this surprisingly white town, but she’s a rare native, with roots stretching back to the 1870’s. Above all, I want to know her long story about Simeon Small.

Actually, it’s a very short story, she confesses over coffee and complimentary scones. It’s more like a mystery. I egged her on.

Even after generations as an American family, allegiance to those who have passed before us is fierce.

This, I could understand. Leaving Grams almost kept me from moving from Missoula to Portland. Even leaving Mom’s grave felt like abandonment.

My three-times great grandmother asked her daughter to venerate the memory of a man named Simeon Small and to place three white roses on his grave. That request has been handed down from one generation to the next.

Like a game of Telephone?

Precisely. By the time the story reached me, there wasn’t much left. We really don’t know what role Mr. Small played in our history. Still, someone in the family is selected to respect her wishes. When I moved so close to the cemetery, it became my responsibility. Anji paused as if obliged to reassess her words. It’s my honor to visit his grave once a year on the anniversary of his death – and again in April during the QingMing Festival.

My, how little I know about Chinese culture, I thought to myself. I’m certain I must have glanced at Anji with a quizzical look. She answered my unspoken question.

We sweep clean the graves of our ancestors. It’s a celebration of spring.

You don’t have any clues about this Simeon fellow?

Not one.

When the food arrived (Anji’s healthy baked salmon and my irresistible German pancakes), the conversation turned to amazing restaurants, dog parks, and the frustrations of finding a man who isn’t afraid of commitment. But I couldn’t stop thinking about her mystery.

Have you done any research? I asked.

A little. But I haven’t had much success.

What about…what’s her name?

Zhou Zhen.

Do you know where she is buried?

Anji let out a little laugh, neither jovial nor cynical but world-weary.

Maybe, she said. I’ll show you on the way home.

We headed back to Lone Fir, pausing at the corner of SE 20th & Morrison.

Here we are. Anji waited for me to take it in.

This? It’s just mud, a little grass, and a lot of ugly chain link. The space is physically close but emotionally detached from the lush cemetery grounds beside it, where century-old trees blanket ornate headstones with autumn color.

This is Block 14. It was part of the cemetery – and probably where Zhou Zhen is buried.

Here? Where? I looked around naively for headstones or markers of any kind. The land is bare.

Her bones are probably underground. Somewhere. This is where the Chinese were buried. Set apart and largely forgotten.

I absorbed the sad history, momentarily ashamed to be a redheaded Caucasian. Chinese bodies were brought here for disposal after laboring to clear trees, lay rail and raise a seawall, after creating businesses and growing produce.

No matter how grand their funerals, the bodies were buried in shallow graves, Anji continued.

But why?

So they would disintegrate faster. After a few years, the bones would be cleaned and returned to their homeland.

All the way to China?

To their villages, where they lay beside – and serve – their venerated ancestors. That custom was practiced periodically – until 1948.

At that time, Anji explained, county officials decided that the highway department needed that particular piece of land for its maintenance department. Go figure. So the land was bulldozed, bodies excavated and sent to China. Four years later, they developed a run-of-the-mill office building. In 2004, the County decided to sell the land and cash in.

They said the bodies were gone. But we weren’t so sure.

We?

Friends of Lone Fir and the Chinese Benevolent Association led protests. They insisted that bodies might still be under the parking lot. So the concrete was removed. Carefully. Then, infrared photography confirmed it. The 1948 excavation wasn’t so thorough after all.

So they stopped the sale?

Anji nodded. Instead of selling to a developer, the county sold its land to Metro. That’s the agency that runs the pioneer cemeteries today.

My, I have so much to learn.

Besides, Anji sighed, women and children were buried deep in the ground. There was never any intention of digging them up. They may have been caregivers all their lives but the ancestors apparently preferred male providers. In death as in life, they were considered second-class.

Weren’t we all? I mustered the courage to say, woman to woman.

I roamed through the rest of Lone Fir solo. Grams asked me to try to find a long-lost relative buried there, so I used that excuse to wander among the graves, reading the etched names and dates and imagining their lives. Tiny headstones mark the remains of infants and children who never had a chance to make their own mistakes, memories of their existence half-buried under a century of dirt and neglect. Their number is sobering. I stepped upon a few unknowingly and excused myself aloud, hoping no one would hear or think me mad. I would expect as much from those who tread on the grave of my stillborn son, left to fend for himself in Montana.

When I arrived home, Deanna was sitting on the front porch, clad in furry boots and a heavy flannel shirt to keep her warm.

Piece of cake? she offered.

She had just turned fifty, old enough to be my mother but so very different that my mind doesn’t even go there.

No thanks. What are you working on?

Cleaning up this old typewriter. Interested?

No expendable income yet, but it’s beautiful.

I admire her enthusiasm. Deanna calls herself a thrifter, transforming trash to treasure and pennies to dollars. Thanks to her advice, I scored a free mattress on Craigslist and a ten-dollar dresser at the Goodwill Bins.

What have you been up to? It didn’t feel like prying – just easy conversation.

By the time I relayed Anji’s story, I realized I had made up my mind. I want to help Anji in her quest to find a link between Zhou Zhen and the mysterious Simeon Small. After all, I’m a reporter. I make my living gathering facts. Untangling concepts. Solving puzzles.

It’s in my genes.

Chapter 2 ~ Simeon Small: Coming of Age

Accidents of birth can guide a man’s destiny: his parentage, his country of birth, the color of his skin. On the surface, Simeon had little to complain about in that department: he was born to a prosperous family in Pennsylvania near the middle of the nineteenth century, and his white skin spelled automatic privilege in a nation in the throes of high-minded debates about the issue of slavery. Still, Simeon faced challenges from birth.

He’ll never mend a fence or shear sheep. Imagine him trying to butcher a cow!

Give him a chance. Abel. Catherine implored. He’s just a boy.

You’ve coddled him from the start. Just look at him!

Catherine gazed at their youngest son, Simeon, and noted the fear in his dark, six-year-old eyes.

You notice only his imperfections.

Abel Small snorted with disdain. When he looked upon Simeon, he saw what was plain: that one leg was shorter than the other, and the ankle turned inward to exacerbate the deformity. That such a specimen could come from his loins was an outrage, and Simeon’s very presence seemed cause for offense.

Simeon’s older brother, John, listened to the exchange with a smug grin. Already, he was growing tall and muscular and wore the surname of Small with a kind of ironic pride. Brother Edward, every bit as brawny, diverted his eyes and kicked the Pennsylvania clover beneath his feet.

He’s good for nothing. Maybe it’s time for you to bear me one more proper male. This farm won’t run itself.

But, Father, I can…

The barn roof needs repair before the cold sets in. Abel’s tone was more admonishment than matter-of-fact, as if this, too, were Simeon’s fault. He turned on his heels, motioned to his able-bodied sons, and marched away.

By Christmas 1848, Catherine was once again afflicted with pregnancy. But instead of producing one last son, she was lost in childbirth, and Simeon left without succor. The care of Simeon was delegated to a procession of maidservants who always seemed to find a husband before the season changed.

The growth spurts of adolescence made little difference. At maturity, Simeon Small stood between five foot one and five foot three. Every introduction was an added indignity. The mean-spirited made outright fun of his name, which seemed so perfectly matched to his stature. The polite pursed their lips.

Every day, John would ask: How’s the weather down there? Simeon formulated pithy retorts but they never passed his lips.

When Simeon was barely nineteen, a blanket of darkness fell upon even the richest land of Pennsylvania. Confederate troops attacked Fort Sumter and Federal soldiers returned fire, launching the country into a conflict Northerners called The Great Rebellion. Although no formal declaration had been issued, President Lincoln called for 75 thousand volunteers to defend the Union. Among them were Simeon’s older brothers, twenty-four-year-old Edward and twenty-one-year-old John, both of whom rose to the occasion without hesitation.

How can you expect me to risk both my sons? Simeon remembered his father pleading, as if his third son were quite invisible.

Really, Father, do you not think it our duty? Brother John possessed a measure of self-confidence that Abel respected, but he was not easily swayed on this day.

I think it your responsibility to take care of this farm, Abel said gruffly. And I think this fighting is ill-advised. He left them to their youthful excitement, muttering, Damn imbeciles should have voted for Stephen Douglas.

I wish I could go with you. The words were spoken quietly, intended only for Edward’s ear.

Father will need you now, Edward offered optimistically. Simeon snickered, for a lifetime of his father’s disinterest was not likely to change. Edward knew as much, and put a hand on Simeon’s shoulder in support.

Simeon recognized his shortcomings. No matter how desperate the Union forces, no captain would want responsibility for a man who could not run. More able-bodied men would have to protect the country from rebellion.

In the absence of his brothers, Simeon remained faithful to the little Methodist Church he had attended since boyhood, a place where he had found solace in congregational singing and the smiles of distant neighbors. These days, the voices raised in song were largely female; one such voice belonged to Lucy Whittington, the new minister’s youngest daughter. Occasionally, Simeon caught her glance, and he imagined she held her gaze for an awkward moment before turning away.

The minister, too, had noted his daughter’s interest, and decided to intervene on her behalf, delaying Simeon with this and that until the congregation had dispersed and they stood alone outside the small church after a Sunday service.

Timidity might be our daughter’s only weakness. She is clearly drawn to you, Mr. Small, and finds you quite handsome, despite… Simeon waved his hand, as if giving the minister permission to leave the sentence unfinished. Her Methodist faith has taught her compassion.

Simeon bristled a bit, for he did not want pity, but when the minister asked him to spend time with Lucy at church functions, to give her a chance to demonstrate her character, he could not deny the request.

Lucy was a wisp of a girl, plain and unassuming. But she knew her mind, overlooking in Simeon those abnormalities others found distasteful. There was no fiery passion between them, but Simeon warmed to her in his quiet way, appreciative of her company on slow, country walks. Before long, Simeon understood: this was his opportunity for a woman, a family, a life outside the stifling Small household. Lucy Whittington was his escape.

By February 1862, they wed. Under different circumstances, the minister would never have considered an engagement of less than a year or a match with such an imperfect groom. But that was before life seemed so tentative, before war swept away the eligible men. At the wedding, even Simeon appeared less broken, so surrounded was he by soldiers returning without an arm or leg left behind on a battlefield.

Missing from the ceremony was Lucy’s brother, Josiah, who had been so named because his father hoped he would burn with the fire of the Lord, but instead found himself among the fiery bombardments of war. He was safe, for the time being, and that was a blessing. Still, the celebration was muted. Simeon’s two brothers were absent and their correspondence scarce. And President Lincoln, in addition to losing Union troops at Bull Run, now mourned the sudden loss of his eleven-year-old son, Willie, who likely died from drinking polluted water pumped from the Potomac River into the White House.

The couple lived with Pastor Whittington and his wife in a small room next to the pantry.

You can earn your keep by shoveling snow and dusting pews, the minister said charitably. You’ll make yourself useful. Furthermore, Pastor Whittington valued his son-in-law’s natural ability to turn a phrase, using him as a sounding board for upcoming sermons.

Simeon was not ungrateful. His in-laws treated him with more respect than his own father had ever shown him. But the quarters were close and his spirit restless.

There had to be more, even for a man of his limitations.

Simeon borrowed his father’s horse and carriage one afternoon, presumably to procure supplies for the Church from the busy town of Pittsburg. It was a trip he had made once before, when he accompanied his brothers to a photography studio where they sat eagerly for their portraits.

Each small photograph was transformed into a carte de visite, a photographic calling card, just 2½ by 4 inches in size, that became popular with men of stature and with those about to risk their lives for the sake of their country. Edward and John presented their cartes de visite, inserted into the recessed pockets of a leather-bound album, to their father, and, secretly, to the girls they hoped would remember them.

Simeon’s return visit to the photography studio was spurred by an article in the Pittsburg Gazette, a reprint of a New York Times review of the first public display of Civil War photography. News had come that thousands upon thousands of Union soldiers were left dead on the battlefield at Antietam, not far away in Maryland. The exhibit by photographer Matthew Brady cemented the carnage into public consciousness.

If he has not brought bodies and laid them in our dooryards and along the streets, the Times reported, he has done something very like it.

Simeon was horrified by the images of war, but he was drawn to the power of photography. On that day, he sat for his own portrait, questioning the photographer at every opportunity.

Allow me to accompany you into the dark room, he insisted. I would consider it a great honor.

He watched closely as the image on the glass came magically to life.

And how is this done? Simeon lifted a stereoscope to his eyes, admiring the three-dimensional images of luscious gardens and urban streets.

Nothing, he admitted to himself, had ever fired his imagination in this way. On the ride home, he began to recompose the world in his mind’s eye, wondering if a camera would ever capture the fleeting nature of a smile or a falling autumn leaf. In his pocket were two copies of his carte de visite.

Months later, in the spring of 1863, brother Edward was discharged, having been injured at White Swamp Oak while serving in Company D of the 10th Pennsylvania Regiment; he returned to the farm, burying himself in the wool of his father’s sheep to distract him from the lingering effects of a bullet to his spine. Brother John returned whole, thanks to a sizable contribution to U.S. Senator David Wilmot, accompanied by a plea for mercy from Abel Small who prayed his middle son would be unscathed and able to take the reins of the family business. John had served in the Battle of Chickahominy River in Virginia, and was welcomed back as a hero; attention-starved women gathered round him like ants at a picnic. A grateful man, Abel continued to build his fortune selling high quality wool to the makers of military sack coats and shell jackets.

But Simeon struggled with guilt, for the Civil War was still raging, and it felt wrong to sit idly by. Although he would never have the speed or agility of his brothers, he had a robust mind and, despite his disability or, perhaps, because of it, considerable upper body strength. The only thing he lacked was the courage to confront his father.

And so, while Edward and John readjusted to normal life, Simeon presented his case and his carte de visite not to his father but to his wife.

I hope you will understand, Lucy. I must contribute – if only as a photographer.

Your role is here, as my husband.

I must find something more, Simeon explained. Some sort of higher purpose.

It was then that she wept, as he had never seen before, until at last, she composed herself. I am with child. You can find purpose in being a father. Her tone was defiant.

The news shook Simeon and gave him pause, but his path was set. For months, he had secretly corresponded with Frederick Gutekunst, Timothy O’Sullivan, and Samuel Portman in hopes of joining a traveling corps of photographers. To be counted among those preserving the images of soldiers before battle and recording each new conflict for posterity seemed to Simeon a great privilege. So when a crew based in the heart of Virginia offered him a position, he excitedly accepted. He neglected to tell Lucy he was heading for Confederate territory. No need to distress her further. He would be only an assistant, carrying the heavy equipment or coating the delicate glass plates with a chemical wash, but it would be an opportunity to study all aspects of the trade.

In light of her husband’s intransigence, Lucy had little choice but to defer.

The sooner, the better, then, she said. I will do my best to be patient.

And I pledge to be home before the birth of the baby.

Days later, Lucy stood stoically between her skeptical parents and bid him a conciliatory adieu. They kissed awkwardly, as if still bristling from an altercation.

Edward offered a silent, lingering handshake. John was too busy with the accounts to say Godspeed. Abel Small noted his son’s departure with a simple dip of the chin. Simeon responded to this indifference by seizing a sturdy horse from his father’s stable with only a cursory message not to blame others for the steed’s disappearance.

The draft board, enacting the law set by Congress in March 1863, had greatly limited the infirmities that were grounds for exemption. By taking his leave, Simeon hoped to spare his father the irritation of paying $300 to the government in lieu of his son’s service – or to spare himself the indignity of his father’s inaction.

Chapter 3 ~ Simeon Small: Shadow and Light

Preparing for his journey south, Simeon cinched the stirrup higher on his left side to match the length of his leg. Despite that adjustment, his back and hips ached mightily, even after a few hours in the saddle. But his horse was true and, for long stretches, the weather fair. He carried enough coin to keep his mare well-fed; they rested periodically to keep both man and beast from collapse.

When twelve hours had elapsed, he removed the bridle and tied his horse to a sturdy tree, but he dared not leave its side for fear of thievery, trying his best to sleep in fragments, wrapping in a woolen blanket and removing only his shoes for comfort.

One night Simeon awoke to find a vagrant attempting to untie his horse: a deserter, he calculated, though he could not be certain if he was Union or Confederate. Simeon did not draw a weapon, for though he carried a longrifle with him (more to hunt game than protect himself), he was not a man apt to choose violence. He rose as quickly as his exhausted body would allow.

You, there. We have no quarrel. Leave my horse.

Upon seeing Simeon struggle to get up, the vagrant began to chuckle.

Well, well. I seem to have found me easy prey. He stared at this short man with uneven legs and a mild temperament.

I need my horse, sir, as surely as the air.

Simeon loathed the pity of strangers but, at this moment, he welcomed it. The vagrant’s laughter turned to a shake of the head, as if he could not steal from one so afflicted.

Decent townsfolk also let him be, leery as they were of outsiders in their midst, assuming he was but another poor soldier injured in the war.

Long days on horseback left Simeon Small thinking not of what he had left behind but of this new mission: to capture the courage of soldiers before battle, to create keepsakes for families like the one he had given to his own Lucy. As he climbed the Appalachian hills and descended into Piedmont Valley, passing through rich farmland dotted with weathered barns, crossing sparkling streams and rivers reflecting only the heavens and not the hardships of battles nearby, his imagination filled with images. He began to note shadow and light, pattern and balance; he dreamed of a time when the business