Four women on one headstone, with not a word about their lives
A perfect example of a story in need of telling is Martha of Paisley, both the title of my next novel and the woman at its heart. In my recently released memoir, Where Stories Lie Buried, I outline where my inspiration for each book came from. Martha is the next woman to entice me to write.
I found her a little by accident, as I was searching for her son more than her. His story had gaps, missing facts, and walls I couldn’t quite break down, so, as usual, I stepped sideways and back to try and find those facts.
Unfortunately searching in Irish records is particularly hit and miss, but in the process I found a headstone, on the Find a Grave website, for a cemetery behind an abandoned church in Renfrew, Scotland. How had that happened? They were Irish, or so I thought. When did they move?
Later, I went to see the place for myself, and wrote about that day in Where Stories Lie Buried:
“Can you take me to the Renfrew Cemetery?” I asked a cousin I’d not seen in fifteen years.
“What on earth for?” he asked in a true Scottish accent, despite his Welsh heritage. “It’s abandoned.”
“My husband’s great-great-grandmother is buried there, and I want to take a look.”
“Ah, well. It’s on the way, so okay. But I doubt ye’ll find anything.”
There are names for such people who find pleasure in visiting cemeteries. Varying from tombstone warriors, cemetery tourists and grave hunters to taphophiles, using the Ancient Greek name. Isn’t taphophiles a great word?
I am one of them. I love wandering around old cemeteries reading inscriptions on headstones, gathering stories and making connections. They often reveal surprising results. Sometimes, the engraved words are humorous, sometimes poignant, sometimes prosaic, and far too often sad when they are for young children.
I wandered around the well-overgrown and neglected cemetery without much hope of finding what I knew was there. I had the photographs taken from the Find a Grave website that other dedicated taphophiles had recorded and uploaded.
“Did ye find it?” he asked.
“No. But it doesn’t matter. I’ve got the feel of the place and can see where everything is.”
“Aye … ye know all the buildings ’round here would be the same as when she was alive?” he pointed out.
“Exactly.” I grinned. Happy to have walked in history.
Having walked in history, I now wanted to know more. Who were these women?
Martha had erected the headstone in memory of her mother, the first to have her name carved in stone in 1888. Then followed two daughters: one in 1893 aged 34 and another aged 48 in 1913, a mere two years before Martha herself joined them, with her age incorrectly given.
The person who gave her details to the registrar had been her son-in-law, married to the only one of five daughters to outlive her. The family originated in Northern Ireland but remained in Scotland beyond Martha’s generation.
One daughter, the youngest, is buried in Northern Ireland. Two share Martha’s resting place. A fourth is elsewhere in Scotland. Her husband, who predeceased her by thirty years, also lies in Scotland. The son I was looking left Scotland in 1886 destined to came to New Zealand, and she never saw him again. One son remained.
The tragedy of losing so many struck a chord with me, and her life story became one I couldn’t ignore.
There are more lives like hers waiting in the pages of Where Stories Lie Buried A Memoir of a Genealogist Turned Author.
