A letter to Cape Girardeau

I had never visited you in person before, but I've known you well through my mother's memories of a pleasant childhood here. And so we came to visit the scenes of those long-ago days she so lovingly described. The journey into the past was triggered by a communication from cousin Charlotte Caffee, who was researching family history and wondered if I might be able to help trace the Parker family.

My grandfather, William Parker, had been a French pastry chef on a Mississippi Riverboat in the 1870s. He and my grandmother, Marie Ellen Moore, met and married in New Orleans, lived briefly in Cleveland, then moved to Cape Girardeau, where daughter Blanche and son Charles were born. They then moved to Helena, Ark., where my mother, Ellen Marie, was born. But when Mother was 3 years old, her mother died and the three children returned to Cape Girardeau to live with their Aunt Mary and her husband, Ben Sheppard.

Much of my life has been bound to the Mississippi and the Midwest -- from New Orleans, where my grandmother was born, to Anoka, Minn., where I was born.

Cousin Charlotte was delighted to know that I was still around and remembered some early history, and she began more vigorous inquiries that led to voluminous e-mails with my daughters, Julie and Carolyn. Julie's printed and pictorial history of Moore, Parker, Arnold, Adams families rivals the Smithsonian, and her probing led to historian Dr. Frank Nickell at Southeast Missouri State University, and his assistant, genealogist Diana Steele, both of whom plunged enthusiastically into our search.

My dormant "second hand" memories of Cape Girardeau became more vivid as I recalled Mother's description of the countryside and the orchards around Big Bend Road, the smoke house and the produce they provided, and her warm memories of Aunt Mary as a gracious and meticulous homemaker. Each recollection led to still another one, and it became clear that we had to make the pilgrimage to Cape Girardeau.

The most important memories were of St. Vincent's church, where Mother made her First Communion in 1878, at age 5. She told us about the great Mississippi flowing by its front door -- a real image of early America.

The highlight of our pilgrimage was a pleasant Sunday at Old St. Vincent's. We knew what it should look like because we had seen pictures, but we were afraid to ask if it was still there, since so many of our cherished memories are being destroyed now. And so, to attend Sunday service and find it looking very much like Mother's memories was like a homecoming. The rituals are not quite the same, of course, but the faith is. It is significant that when the old church was leveled by a tornado, it was rebuilt on its original foundation, which still exists actually and spiritually.

It was particularly delightful to have been given an extensive tour of the church by Tony Dohogne, who lovingly pointed out every detail of its construction -- and re-construction -- and seemed to know where every original peg and dowel is located. We ended our visit there browsing through pictures and artifacts in the museum at the rear of the church.

Before we left the scene, however, we had to make a visit to the Great River, and the view took us back in time. And, as if on cue, there was a shrill train whistle warning and a seemingly endless freight train -- the likes of which I hadn't seen in 60 years or more -- rumbled by.

During our two-day intensive search in libraries, church records and cemetery plots, many familiar names surfaced. There are many others of young generations that we hope we will soon get to know.

I have always had an aversion to cemeteries, but that is no longer true. I now understand them as a source of history. That's how I learned that Aunt Mary and Uncle Ben's daughter, Julia, who died at age 15, lies next to her father, and little Robert is also there, a tiny marker recording his life of "one year, eleven months, and two days." Everyone on our list is present and accounted for and it is gratifying to note that they were all industrious, productive and community-minded people.

It has been a moving experience, marred only by the sad note that we never got to meet Diana Steele, who died very suddenly a short time ago. She had been our close e-mail companion for more than a year, and we were all looking forward to meeting in person.

We left you after our two-day adventure, looking forward to our return; there is much more we want to know. We were grateful that there was an off-ramp to take us back to an unspoiled countryside, stunning panoramic views, classic architecture and preserved structures and monuments. We need that, not to dwell in the past, but to be renewed and inspirited by its integrity.

Olive Arnold Adams lives in New York City.