My mother’s father, my beloved “Poppy”, knew little if anything of his Virginia ancestors. His parents came across the country from Ohio with their families as teenagers, in covered wagons. Love blossomed somewhere along the Oregon trail, and they were married near Birch Bay, Washington, where the families settled. Their first child, Dwight Rucker, was born there in a little log cabin in the year 1880. My Poppy.
When my daughter moved to Virginia, we discovered that there was a town called Ruckersville in the state. So while visiting, we drove south into the hills to see if we could find any Ruckers. We began at the Visitors’ Center and were sent to a museum in a neighboring town. The curator was most helpful and knew the approximate location of the original plantation, so off we went to find it. Up and down the highway we drove, looking in vain for the spot. Crabby and hungry, we ended up at McDonald’s. So much for connubial bliss. Our adventuresome spirit was waning. But a hamburger would surely help. As I ordered some lunch, I noticed an older gentleman in line, gathered my courage, and asked, “Do you live nearby?” What did I have to lose at this point? He smiled, replied yes, and explained that his family had been farming in the area for some 200 years. He then asked to join us for lunch. What followed was a delightful half hour of munching burgers and enjoying the kindness of a stranger. He was able to pinpoint the exact location of the farm. Who would have known that I would pick the right stranger?
On we went, fortified by fast food. Sometimes it just works. Sure enough, there was the very long lane we sought, winding through cow pastures. At the end was a lovely brick house, not exactly Tara, but somewhat stately. No answer at the door. But by then I was committed. I could taste success. I spied a much smaller house off to the right, approached and knocked tentatively, and was “greeted” by two huge hounds in attack mode. Fortunately, the screen door held them back. But by now I had had enough and was in full retreat when I heard a young man’s voice behind me.
“Can I help you, ma’am?”
“Well, yes. I’m looking for ancestors.”
“Oh, the Rucker graveyard? Let me get my shoes on. I’ll be right out.” YES!
It wasn’t really much after all. Small gravestones, illegible, tumbled into the ground. A huge boxwood tree arched over much of it. No one had tended it for years. Still, I was here, on this beautiful spot near the Blue Ridge Mountains, where my people had once lived and died. My heart was full. I will write a letter to the 97 year old woman who still lives in the “big” house. I will tell her who I am. Who knows what might happen next?
