After crossing the adjacent ravines, I climbed along the edge of the curving road. The street hadn't existed when the first part of our house was built. It was added later to provide a connection to a suburban, by their own claim, trolley line that looked to connect new housing to my own burgeoning, industrial neighborhood. At the top of the hill , where the trolley line ran, was the old turnpike to Brownsville. It seemed fitting that I had passed the building housing the association named for my ancestor, his (and thus my) surname emblazoned on the side above a quote from him. Our family, after all, had lived in Brownsville, in a stone house that despite the abuse of previously being a beer distributor as well as being hit by cars occasionally still stands on a corner on the old National Road.
I'm keenly interested in history, and so it's no surprise I'm intimately familiar with his. He's a well-sung person, a self-made man as it goes, and one who gave back to his community later in life. But part of the story that is not widely spoken of is the part his wife played. I've mentioned her before. On this day, one where again I had to get my ID out for something, I was reminded that someday, when I got carded, I'd have 2 things to be proud of: my name, and hers. This day, sadly, would not be that day.