Day 44 -- Portsmough to Sandy Springs (and surroundings) -- 76 Miles

Today the search for a cemetery containing the man whom I consider my 3-times great grandfather, John Jones, and associated family members began in earnest. Yesterday's research at the Courthouse in the Adams county seat of West Union seemed to indicate that the various family names I'm looking for -- Jones, Tracy, Stout, and Baird -- were concentrated in the area of Rome, Ohio.

Yesterday, after being forced to detour away from Rome by road repair, we ended up in the town of Portsmouth about 27 miles to the east of our objective on Ohio Route 52. Today, being as how Rome was now on an accessible side of the road closure, we assumed we'd have better success in reaching Rome.

The first thing we did when we reached Rome was to turn north on the Blue Creek road, the route along which my new friend in Brush Creek, Ohio, Jim Richard, had promised me that I would find several early cemeteries. We met Jim yesterday when we pulled into his Brush Creek Ohio River Camp and Marina to have our lunch (photo below right). Once we had stopped, Jim came right over to see if we needed assistance. When we told him we just wanted to find a shady spot to eat our lunch, he welcomed us with a huge smile and open arms.

Naturally, while Concetta whipped up our sandwiches, I got into to a discussion with Jim about where I needed to go to find the cemeteries I hoped would contain the Jones Family. Jim laughed. "There are Joneses everywhere you look," he said. "My grandmother had twelve Joneses right next door."

Well now that didn't sound good. But then I got to thinking about how my great, great-grandfather, John Heath Preston Jones might have moved away, but the rest of his clan had perhaps stayed right in southern Ohio. That might mean perhaps thousands of folks with the Jones surname thereabouts. I told Jim that if that were so, I was probably related to most of them.

At any rate we drove and drove and drove up the Blue Creek Road until we finally decided that there was no way that anyone would be willing to haul bodies so far into the hills from Rome. At a spot where the narrow, twisty road encountered a dirt road from both the east and the west, I turned the rig around and started back toward the last village we passed, that of Squirrel Town. At Squirrel Town we parked in front of the fire station and we called Jim.

Once we had Jim on the phone he assured us that we were doing the right thing and we should just proceed up Blue Creek Road as we had been doing. So, we turned the rig around again and went back up the narrow winding road. But when we passed the two dirt roads, assuming that the "no trespassing" sign clearly meant what it said, we just kept going. When we got all the way to Route 125 on which we had just been driving the day before, we knew we had gone too far. We decided that just in case we'd keep going a bit more and see what turned up in the next few miles.

Nothing turned up, so we reversed direction at a convenient opportunity, and headed back towards Rome. As we once again approached the east/west Route 125, I spotted a crew working on a "submersible" bridge (one designed for water to flow over in times of flood) and I decided to stop. Immediately two of the young workers came over to talk to me. Both confirmed that there was a cemetery back up the way we had just had come.

Doubting that my ancestral relatives would be buried so far away from the Ohio River at Rome, we nevertheless reversed direction once again and soon pulled into the parking area for the Methodist Church at Blue Creek (photo above left). After turning down an invitation to a fried chicken lunch, I wandered among the tombstones and discovered a whole flock of Joneses. That was great, but they just didn't look like my particular branch of the Joneses.

After leaving the Methodist Church, which turned out to be the oldest Methodist Church in Ohio dating to 1787, we pulled into a vacant lot near the junction of Route 125 and the Blue Creek Road, and turned off the engine. It was time for lunch and time to do a bit of thinking about how we were going to achieve our objective.

Almost immediately a pickup truck bounced onto the vacant lot and pulled to a stop. A young driver got out and walked briskly over to our door. Anticipating his arrival, I stepped down and met him. His name was Raymond and he was the owner of the lot. I thought perhaps that he'd object to our presence, but once he found out that we were just stopping for lunch, he was more than happy to welcome us. And when he learned that we were looking for cemeteries, he was even happier to give us some advice.

Incredibly, the dirt roads that we had passed with all the "no trespassing" signs, each had cemeteries along their courses somewhere. Raymond didn't think we should plan on taking the RV out there, at least not all the way, but he thought we might be able to drive some distance in before having to turn around. "Then you'll have to do some walking to reach the graveyards," he said.

As it turned out, Raymond was spot on in his description. We drove the RV on both roads and though we couldn't get far, we did find cemeteries. Unfortunately, not the right cemeteries, though I did do some photos of grave stones I found interesting.

It was when we were driving the second of the dirt roads that we had a stroke of luck. Actually, our luck turned out to be both good and bad. The good was when we stopped to interview a young girl named Haley who was cutting the lawn at a private family cemetery. She told us about another cemetery we could visit just a little further down the road on which we were headed. During the course of that conversation, I told her about a cemetery named "The Point" which I thought was ultimately the one I needed to find. She didn't seem to know of that one, so we told her goodbye and we moved on to the cemetery she had mentioned.

The bad luck caught up with us at the next cemetery. The road was so narrow there that as I tried to turn around and head back, I smashed the driver's side running light on the rear of the coach and mangled a piece of trim when the rear end shoved up against the rocky bank. But after we had photographed the cemetery there, and saw that no ancestors were to be found, we started back down the dirt road toward the junction with Blue Creek Road.

When Haley once more came into view where she had been working, we could see that she seemed to be waiting for us. As we pulled up and stopped she came over to my window. "You know," Haley said, "I've been thinking about that cemetery you mentioned called The Point, and I think I actually know where that is. If you want," she went on, "you can follow me down toward Rome and I'll take you to where you can park. You'll have to walk in from the highway since there isn't a road there."

And that's what we did. We followed Haley's Jeep and her lawn mower trailer down the twisty road until she pulled up in front of a red barn just east of the road and stopped. She walked back to my window and told us we could park in front of the barn since the owner was old and seldom came outside anymore. Then she pointed off to the west toward a stand of trees. "Cross that field, and ford the creek over there. After that, climb the hill and you should see the cemetery up there. You can get there from the West Fork road we passed, but it's kinda steep getting down to the cemetery."

With that she waved and headed back to her jeep and mower. And then she was gone and I drove the RV as far as I could off the highway in front of the farmer's barn, then shut off the engine. Moments later Haley reappeared headed back the way she had come. She whizzed by us with a smile and a wave. I couldn't help but marvel at how she'd helped us.

Shouldering my camera, I headed off through the tall grass in the direction Haley had indicated. This is where a touch more bad luck reemerged. Once I had cleared the small field and reached the creek, I immediately saw that the stream was not deep, perhaps two to three inches of water, but there were darn few stones on which to make a "dry" crossing. With a shrug, I started tiptoeing across the larger rocks until I reached a much bigger rock on which I hoped to launch a jump to the far bank. But as I put my weight on the large rock, my shoe slipped completely on what was probably moss, and I fell flat out into the stream, the camera splashing down beside me.

Fortunately, after a few moments I determined that neither I nor the camera had suffered any noticeable damages, I was soon on my feet and sloshing toward the far bank. I had gotten pretty muddy and wet, but it was a hot day and my clothes soon dried. The camera was dripping, too, but my handkerchief took care of that. Soon I was bushwhacking through more tall grass and eventually came into a huge meadow of mowed grass. Looking around, I saw absolutely nothing but meadow and a ring of surrounding trees in the far distance. The whole space comprised perhaps 30 or 40 acres.

As far as the eye could see there was nature in all it's magnificent glory. There was just one problem: there was NO cemetery. But I firmly believed in Haley, and so I just kept walking. At length I noticed that above me to the north seemed to be some kind of bench or plateau. Assuming that I would find the cemetery there, I moved in that direction. Persistence rewarded me, for as I rounded a stand of trees after climbing to the height of the bench, there was the cemetery, just as Haley had described.

I spent a good quarter hour strolling among the stones before I came upon my three times great grandfather and his wife at the very back of the grounds. John Jones and his "consort" Sabra lay right in the center among other stones for more distant family and I carefully photographed them. Finally, after a full day of searching I had found the cemetery for which I had been looking.

After I got back to the truck, Concetta told me that a couple of different people had stopped and asked if they could help, assuming she'd broken down. One guy even had a tow truck. How amazing. We'd been invited to lunch by the Methodist congregation, we'd been helped on our quest by numerous Ohioans, we'd been led down the hill by a youngster willing to drive out of her way to make sure we arrived at our destination, and we'd been offered help by passing strangers. Ohio is just a marvelous place in America to be right now, we decided.

So tonight we're camped just a short distance from the town of Rome in the tiny hamlet of Sandy Springs. Our hosts are not Ohioans, but North Dakotan transplants. Still the owner went out of her way to make us feel welcome, even to the point of driving me in her golf cart to the entrance of a small trail that coursed up a nearby hill to another family cemetery. We have a tranquil spot beside the Ohio River for our camp, a nearby Kentucky rail line to lull us to sleep tonight with mournful train whistles, and the mighty Ohio River to fire our imaginations as we think of all the places yet to explore.

And when you set out on the two-lanes to find our ancestors or just have fun, The Happy Wanderers wish you happy travels and exciting destinations.