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 Completing the Circle With Ransom I thanked the librarian and left the library just before closing time, then I got back on the freeway and an hour later I entered the U.S. at Port Huron, Michigan. At the U.S. Customs checkpoint there, I answered a total of two questions from a bored U.S. Customs officer:
I got a motel room that night in Port Huron and the next day, I drove a couple hours north to Mayville, Michigan, the small town where my grandmother had been born in 1892. When she was a young girl, and shortly after her father died, my grandmother, Minnie May, moved to Seattle, Washington around 1900 with her mother. Years later, Minnie May met and married my grandfather in Seattle, raised a large family, and died two years before I was born. I never knew my grandmother but everyone in my family has told me what a wonderful and vivacious person she was. Her grandfather was Ransom Myers, the one-armed Civil War sergeant whose trail I had followed across Mississippi and Tennessee a few months earlier (see News: June 30, 2001).
I've heard a lot of colorful stories over the years about my great-great-grandfather, Ransom Myers. He was strict, religious, a devoted husband, and had a strong sense of duty. After losing his left arm during the Civil War, Ransom re-enlisted and became a courier with the 10th Michigan Cavalry, serving in eastern Tennessee. When the war was over in the spring of 1865, the one-armed Ransom saddled up his horse and rode back to Michigan.
According to a family story, when his wife Hannah saw Ransom riding up the lane towards their farmhouse near Mayville, Michigan after the war, she excitedly ran out to greet him with her children following close behind. Ransom reached down with his one arm, scooped Hannah up and put her on his horse, then they rode back to their farmhouse together.
A few years after the war, Hannah and Ransom had a daughter, Minnie Myers – my great-grandmother – who was "high spirited," as they say. That led to more than a few interesting encounters with her strict father. For instance, when Minnie Myers was 16, she was attracted to a local boy, Harrison Plane, who was also 16. Ransom the minister strongly disapproved of his daughter dating this Plane fellow, but despite his threats, Minnie and Harrison met at a dance one night. Ransom found out about the affair, tracked her down, and told her to walk home. That was bad enough, but during the walk home, Ransom walked right behind Minnie while cracking a whip to keep her on the path and away from Harrison. That story always made me laugh.
Minnie had had enough, so a few months later, in the middle of winter in 1889, she and Harrison decided to elope. Harrison put a ladder up to her window one night and helped her out and down the ladder. Minnie had to throw her luggage out the window and it got buried in a snow drift, but they dug it out and rode off together. Ransom found out about it the next morning and was so enraged that he didn't speak to his daughter for several months afterwards or even allow her name to be mentioned in his house. But finally, the strict but soft-hearted Ransom decided that he missed his daughter too much, so he forgave her and they made amends.
Hannah, Ransom's wife, died in 1896 and Ransom a year later. Their daughter, Minnie (and now with her own daughter, my grandmother Minnie May) continued living in the Mayville area with Harrison until 1900, when Harrison died of tuberculosis. Too heartbroken to remain in Michigan, the elder Minnie got on a train with her young daughter and headed out to Seattle, to be with her sister there. The two Minnies, mother and daughter, were going west, and that was the beginning of my family's roots in the Pacific Northwest.
With these fascinating stories dancing around in my head, I excitedly approached the small town of Mayville. I knew that Ransom was buried here somewhere, and after following his footsteps for several weeks in the South, I was determined to find his grave and complete the circle. As it turned out, and with the help of the kindly Mayville librarian, I did just that. I also learned that Ransom's father, Solomon (the guy who married the 13-year-old girl in New York) was buried in the same cemetery, along with Solomon's child bride, Charlotte, who lived until she was 80.
After reading about Ransom and tracing his steps across the South, it was both fulfilling and humbling to visit his grave, along with those of his parents, wife, siblings, and children. I knew that the next day in Bellingham, Washington, 2,000 miles away, my family was going to have their annual Family Reunion, which I would miss for the first time in more than a decade. However, I had my own family reunion that afternoon in the Watertown cemetery near Mayville, just as I had done at a cemetery in Massachusetts a few weeks earlier. Once again, though, I seemed to be the only one talking.
Above left: After driving across Canada for a few hours, I crossed back into the U.S. that night and wrote some e-mails in Port Huron, Michigan. Yes, I do occasionally splurge for a motel – albeit, a cheap motel. My laptop is plugged into the phone jack (56K modem) here. Above right: Wasn't Sneezy one of the seven dwarfs? I bet Doc drives a Cadillac.
Above left: After spending several hours in the Mayville library, I learned that my ancestors, including Solomon Myers and his son, Ransom, were buried nearby. Above right: The graves of Ransom's parents, Solomon (right) and Charlotte Myers (center) in the Watertown cemetery near Mayville. Solomon was from Lyons, New York and had fought in the War of 1812, hence the upright cannon in the background.
Above left: After leaving Mayville, I stumbled across the town of Otter Lake, Michigan. Ironically, this was the same day that my dad and my brothers were hiking to another Otter Lake, that one in Washington's rugged Cascade Mountains 2,000 miles away. My dad visited Otter Lake often as a teenager in the 1930s and now, at age 77, wanted to go back. Above center: Here's what happened when I hiked to Otter Lake, Washington in 1997 with my dad. It's a rough, four-mile bushwhack to the lake. The bushes whacked back, though, and I slipped and broke my arm (note the deformed wrist). I hiked out, wore a cast for six weeks, and vowed never to hike to Otter Lake again. Above right: As I later learned, my dad and brothers didn't make it to Otter Lake, either. But here's a picture of the one in Michigan. I guess you could say that I finally made it to Otter Lake!
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