I’d Like to Know Who Henry Was

Some of my best memories of childhood were near Sandy Bass Bay #2 on Lake Eufaula.  Having lived mostly in the same house from the time they were married (but in 4 locations and with increasing numbers of rooms), my Dad’s parents moved to the lake house when my grandfather retired, where my sister and I spend Spring breaks and summers fishing and swimming…and laying awake in fear of Henry.

My grandparents owned a lot with lakeshore to the south, a road to the west, Army Corps land to the east and a forest to the north.  When the lake had been flooded in the early 60s a black church stood in the valley below where my grandparents would soon buy land.  Like many low lying structures in the area, the church was bought by the Army Corps of Engineering and became part of the lakebed when the dam went up and the rains came down.  The cemetery for that little church was on the hill, in the little forest behind my grandparents’ house.

It was small, containing several flagstones as grave markers, some with crude etching, but only one formal granite headstone.  It belonged to Henry.

I never actually saw Henry, but as a child I heard him outside my open window late at night, rustling the trees, rocking the glider, crunching leaves, his restless soul costing me hours of sleep.

During the day he and I had no problems.  Occasionally, I’d wander into the trees to look at the headstone, not obsessed, just curious, wondering about the man.  I assumed he was affluent, at least in comparison to the others beneath my feet, since he’d been afforded a manufactured stone.  Or perhaps of such importance or impact to the church that they spend precious money to have his memory marked for generations to know of his time on earth.  

This all comes to mind because my cousin was in the area last week and started talking about our grandparents’ place.  The conversation rolled around to the old grave.  Since then I’ve racked my brain for detail but only found a few.  The stone was grey granite, mossy and smooth but not polished.  I think Henry’s last name started with O’ but I can’t come up with the rest.  Nor can I remember dates, though it seems he was an old man when he died (what ‘old’ meant to 10-year-old me is anyone’s guess).  

I did a bit of computer exploration and found the location of Google Maps.  I could be there in 2 hours and 47 minutes…it’s tempting.  Legally, there’s nothing stopping me from pulling to the side of the road and walking over to say hello to Henry, though I’d feel obliged to let the current owners of my grandparents’ former place know why a middle-aged man was looking at gravesites near their property.  It would be a 6 hour round trip to learn a last name and the birth to death dates of a man I never knew and am no relation to.  It wouldn’t tell me much about the old haint, but it’d be a start and I’d really like to know who Henry was.