Day 46 -- Blue Licks to Frankfort, Kentucky -- 103 Miles

Today was Bourbon day. In fact this whole month happens to be Bourbon month in Kentucky. Concetta and I set out from last night's camp in Blue Licks, site of an Indian attack that took the life of Daniel Boone's son, Israel in 1782, and we headed for the Bourbon Trail. Our plan was to visit two or three distilleries, buy some Christmas presents, and then look for a camp for the evening. Well it sounded like a good plan.

Unfortunately, we immediately discovered that we weren't the only ones looking to visit distilleries and stock up on the good stuff in late September. We found this out when we headed first for the Woodfords Distillery near Frankfort, Kentucky. All the tiny feeder roads that form the Bourbon Trail proper, and thereby connect the various bourbon-producing properties, were absolutely thronged with men and women riding bicycles. And these were not just any bike riders. No, these folks, who numbered just under a thousand souls we were told, were decked to the nines in multicolored touring togs and riding mega-dollar bikes.

The bikers were, as a whole, pretty well behaved as they coursed along the tiny Bourbon Trail tracks, but put twenty or thirty of them in any given distillery tasting room or gift shop, and the noise level rose to eardrum-damaging levels. Still, it was something to behold when you saw them in their colorful groups.

You might think that these marathon-riding bikers were all twenty-somethings in the prime of their mating-game years, but this wasn't always the case. We passed numerous riding helmets that covered decidedly gray heads as we navigated the skinny roads. These folks tended to be the most polite as they would signal us when it was safe to pass them.

Some of these roads on the Bourbon Trail could easily rival the ones in England for the International Skinny-Road award. More than once I had to pull the rig onto the almost non-existent grassy shoulder in order to let a car pass in the opposing lane. My mental tape measure told me that several of the roads we traveled this morning were about 1 1/2 times as wide as the rig, which made for some interesting situations when confronting oncoming trucks or tour buses.

Our first visit was to the Woodfords Distillery that Concetta had heard good things about. And in truth we were pretty impressed with the place. There was ample parking for the rig, there were shuttles from the parking lot to the visitor center, and there were tours leaving often enough to keep your wait to a minimum. All the employees were attentive, cheerful, and extremely friendly. And the merchandise was so attractively displayed that you couldn't help but load up your basket.

We didn't opt for the distillery tour since we'd been on production tours before and decided that Woodfords probably wouldn't be much different. After making our purchases, we did opt for eating our lunch in the rig in their parking lot, though we saw that lunch was available on the grounds if we wished.

After leaving Woodfords we decided to visit the Wild Turkey Distillery that was located conveniently close by. Though the roads were once again ultra-narrow and were thronged with bikers, we managed to pick our way up the hill to Wild Turkey and found that they had been kind enough to provide us with level RV parking just a short distance away from the visitor center.

Part of the reason that we chose Wild Turkey, other than the proximity, was that Concetta had read that their grounds were wonderfully laid out and gorgeous. This didn't turn out to be the case unless you only got to see the beautiful stuff on the distillery tours. Perhaps it's the ultra hot and dry weather Kentucky has been having, but most of the landscaping appeared to us to be pretty parched and dead.

No matter, we headed inside and made a beeline for the gift shop to see what they were offering. Once we were totally confused by what we saw, we made the wise choice of going down to the tasting bar and asking the bartender to explain the various brands and offerings. This done, we chose two that we wanted to taste and ultimately purchase, and then took our glasses containing the "one finger" of bourbon out onto the patio to enjoy the sun, blue sky, and the loud and lively conversation of the bikers at the next table.

So far I haven't mentioned our efforts to find a camp for the night. The minute we arrived in Kentucky we discovered that the camps are jammed - all of them. Whereas up north the camps are starting to close because of the cold weather, camps here in Kentucky are still doing a brisk business. We thought we had nailed a spot around noon for a camp called the Kentucky River RV Resort, but they called us back a half hour later and said they'd made a mistake. They had no room. The next camp we called said they had no full hookups for the first day, but could give as a full hookup the second day. This deal we took and were glad to get it.

So right now were luxuriating inside with the air conditioner cranked up, and showers put off until tomorrow unless we want to visit the shower room here in the camp center. I took a walk over there and they don't look too bad, though they sure don't give you the space we saw at the Sandy Springs camp where you got a whole bathroom to yourself.

Tomorrow we're headed for the Buffalo Trace Distillery, which will probably be our last one here in Kentucky. By then we will have purchased all the spirits we want or intend to give away and should be ready to visit a historic site or two. I wouldn't mind going back to Boonesborough, especially if I get to throw a tomahawk again. Last time we were there a craftsman was selling a handmade example. It was pricey, but later I wished that I had purchased it.

So when you get out there on the two-lanes, don't forget Kentucky for all the fabulous things you'll find to do there. And when you do, The Happy Wanderers wish you happy travels and exciting destinations.

Day 45 -- Sandy Springs, Ohio to Blue Licks, Kentucky

We had so much excitement yesterday, including smacking the left-rear corner of the RV into a road embankment while exploring for cemeteries and discovering the grave in Rome, Ohio where three times great Grandfather, John Jones reposes, that we decided to take it easy today.

Taking it easy did not mean sitting in lawn chairs resting as one might envision. It meant visiting Walmart to stock up on a week's provisions, doing the laundry (Concetta), and replacing the smashed running light on the RV (Me). In between we needed to put a few miles on the rig before cocktail time so that someday we'd be able to arrive back in Nevada, hopefully before the snow flies.

Our camp last night in Sandy Springs, Ohio was truly outstanding. Though spaces did not come with a sewer connection, we used the dump station this morning, and it was easy to access and very easy to use. They even had a workable flush hose with a usable connection. Located as it is on the north bank of the Ohio, you couldn't find a more idyllic place to hang out for a day or a week or whatever. In fact, owner Anna told us that people often come intending to stay a day and end up staying much longer.

Since the season is largely over, and the weekend had not arrived, Anna told us to just put our rig wherever we saw an empty space. "Really," she told us, "take two spaces if you want." Anna was so nice to talk to that she ended up just visiting with us for quite some time. Her father was Italian, she told us, who came from the area of Naples. So she and Concetta had a lively talk on what we experienced in that part of Italy.

At one point Anna told me that there was yet another cemetery right across the road from her park just up from an old barn (photo right). "Really," I said. "I didn't see it on the way in."

"That's because you have to hike a trail through the forest to reach it," she said. "Come on, jump on the golf cart and I'll give you ride and show you where you start climbing."

I raced to put on my hiking boots, then grabbed the camera and we were off. It was a short ride to the spot across from the park's entrance. I jumped off and was about to cross the road to the trail head when Anna said, "you watch out for snakes now!"

I stopped short and turned around. Anna went on. "Now you need to especially watch out for a funny smell," she said. "Something like oranges or apples or strawberries -- something like that."

"Strawberries?" I said.

Anna seemed to ponder that idea for a bit. "Yeah," she said slowly. "I think it's one of those fruit smells. It means there's a copperhead nearby."

That got my attention and I'm sure my eyes widened a bit. "Copperheads," I repeated.

"Wait," Anna said laughing. "I know what it is. It's cucumbers. You smell cucumbers when copperheads are close."

"Okay," I said, "if I smell cucumbers I'll be careful." I turned to go.

"And you have to watch out for rattlesnakes." she called. "We have those, too."

I turned and waved and told her thanks a lot for the warning, then I headed across the road, past the old barn, and into the trees. I was sort of expecting a leisurely walk along a forest trail in the dappled afternoon sunlight, but almost immediately the trail launched into a solid 30 percent gradient that put my seventy-year-old leg muscles to the supreme test.

Fortunately, before long, I had managed to groan and wheeze my way to the top of a medium-sized hill and emerged into a clearing where the slanted rays of the sun illuminated about fifty grave stones in varying degrees of decay (Photo right).

The entire cemetery was largely dedicated to the McCall Family just as the marker on the trail's entrance predicted. But a few other names appeared as well. I photographed each one that was at all readable, even to the extent of assembling one marker that had cracked and the top half had fallen to the ground (Photo below left).

I'm sure few people feel as I do about these markers, but since I have dedicated a substantial part of my life to the pursuit of genealogical knowledge and understanding, it bothers me very much that the very last remnant of a human being's life often turns out to be an insubstantial marker that simply melts away over time. One hopes that there is somewhere a written record to mark the deceased person's passing, but you're never sure.

Too often the marker is made of marble, which is just a soft sedimentary rock and easily dissolves as the decades pelt it with wind and rain. Granite is a far better stone to use for grave markers, though if the engravings are not deep enough, they too become unreadable when a century or more has passed.

After spending a half hour with my silent friends, I retraced my steps back down to level of the street. This was no small feat since the leaves on the steep path were so darn slippery I nearly lost my footing a couple of times. After ending up sprawled in Stout Creek just an couple of hours before, I was trying really hard to be more careful and not repeat my earlier performance.

But I was telling you about the Sandy Springs camp. All the RV spots are widely separated from the next campsite and all have a variety of mature trees. Predominantly, the spaces appear to be anything but level, fore and aft, OR side to side. But with the usual trial and error system of using my wood block sets, I was able to mostly level us, though the front end was about six inches off the ground to do so.

I found the amenities to be pretty nice. They had enough shower rooms for six or seven people at a time. Each shower room was in effect a separate bathroom with sink, toilet, and shower in each room. In addition, there were ample tables and hooks and shelves to stow whatever gear you brought with you for your shower. Since we had no hookup for sewer, I took my shower in Room #1 and didn't have any difficulties at all.

In addition to the thirty or forty RV spaces of varying lengths, the owners had purchased used travel trailers to rent out to folks who just dropped in to do some hunting for a few days and wanted accommodations provided. Anna said that they had started naming the "Trailers for Rent" group for Goldilocks and the Three Bears, as well as Hansel and Grettel. But unfortunately Baby Bear had proved unsuitable for guests so they were at present minus one member of the Bear Family.

Though I didn't venture there, Anna said that they have a wide variety of groceries available in the main office for those who don't want to drive into town.

Bottom line, the Sand Springs RV Camp is a fine place to hang out for a few days next to one of America's most storied Rivers, the Ohio. In the process, you'll meet Anna and her husband and hear some fine tales of their life as a married couple of 51 years who spent much time driving long-haul trucks. The camp is quiet, the other guests are friendly to a fault, and you're about 100 miles from Cincinnati if you need a big city for some reason. I know we'll be back someday.

And when you venture into the back country along all those picturesque two-lanes, the Happy Wanderers wish you happy travels and exciting destinations.

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.

Day 43 -- Rocky Fork Lake to Portsmouth, Ohio -- 116 Miles

Our sole purpose today was to travel further south in the state of Ohio until we came to the town of Rome. Rome is situated, at least on old maps, right on the north bank of the mighty Ohio River and was the closest town I could find to where my Jones ancestors might have lived after the War of 1812.

Actually, the Jones family might actually have moved to Ohio slightly sooner than 1812, but since my great, great-grandfather, John Heath Preston Jones, was born in 1811 in Louisville, Kentucky, and not in Ohio, the timing would have been pretty close to the outbreak of the war.

I'm making a few presumptions here as the only concrete piece of data I possess is the birth of John Jones in Louisville. I don't know who he considered his father and mother. I don't know who his siblings were for sure. There just isn't any information that I have been able to turn up that even hazards a guess about these things.

However, using my own deductive reasoning, I decided that the father of John Heath Preston Jones is a man who seems to have lived in the state of Kentucky around the right year, and also seems to have been married around the right year to make the birth of JHP Jones occur in 1811. This man was named Price Jones and may have been the son of one John Jones who also lived in Kentucky for a time.

One of the clues I used to suggest Price as John's father is the standard "naming convention" of the day that decreed that the father's first born son be named after his father. Checking the record, we see that John Heath Preston Jones' first born son was indeed called "Price."

Since census documents before 1850 do not name everyone in the household, I am unable to verify that JHP Jones is living with Price Jones in Ohio after 1811. But Price is certainly living in Green Township, Adams County, Ohio by the time of the 1830 census, and a host of other Jones family members are listed separately there also. I believe all the other Jones family members are brothers of Price. Their names are Noah, Milton, Ephraim, William, and James.

The most telling piece of evidence that I have found is that John Heath Preston Jones is living in the same neighborhood as Price and the other Jones family members in 1840, just after he marries Julia Ann Adams. He's going by the name Preston Jones at the time.

I didn't quite have enough time to pound this out this evening since I spent so much time sitting and enjoying the vista of the Ohio River just a hundred or so feet from our camp. Will add more later.

Day 42 -- Delaware to Rocky Fork Lake, Ohio -- 125 Miles

Last night's camp was an extraordinarily well-tended camp with paved access roads, small patios for every rig, and a propane filling station for the seasoned traveler (photo left). It was also one of those camps that has everything a family with kids would love, from a swimming pool, to a miniature golf course. The only thing it didn't have was a low price. We paid $53.00 with the Good Sam discount. It would have been close to sixty without the card.

Tonight we're in a camp called Rocky Fork for it's proximity to Rocky Fork Lake (photo below right). Once again the camp sites are wonderful. The access roads are paved as are all the sites. There is a beautiful lake just 150 feet from our door, a camp store 150 feet in the other direction, and the whole works is surrounded by acres of greenery.

The very best thing I discovered when I checked into our camp site was a full-fledged ice cream parlor just waiting for me to select my favorite salted caramel truffle ice cream. Life is certainly good when that happens.

Today we continued our meander southwest from Akron, Ohio on Route 42. For the most part, we rolled along through field after field of either soy beans or corn. Both these plants are beginning to show signs of frost damage, indicating that the growing season is finally over and fall has arrived.

The very best thing about meandering along the two-lane farm roads in central Ohio is all the tiny towns that you get to see. Some of the town names we saw were: "New California," "Plain City," "London," "South Charleston," "Washington Court House," "Jeffersonville, and "Boston." We even remember passing signs for "Lexington and Concord," though I can find neither on the map this evening. But if you like vintage architecture as we do, you will definitely find some fabulous Victorian houses and commercial buildings on all these rural roads as you pass through these historically-named towns, some of which date to the early 19th century.

People who like vintage commercial buildings often like structures connected with the beginnings of the automobile culture. I found a super example of a Pure Oil Company gas station in the town of South Charleston, Ohio. I looked up the history of the Pure company filling stations. According to Wikipedia: "the Pure Oil Company was an American petroleum company founded in 1914 and sold to what is now Union Oil Company of California in 1965."

Pure Oil Producing Co. was incorporated in 1902. In 1904 a refinery was built on the Delaware River which received 600 barrels per day (95 m3/d) from the United States Pipe Line. This increased to 1,800 barrels per day by 1906."

"Beman Gates Dawes and his brothers, whose Columbus-based Ohio Cities Gas Company had begun in 1914, made an offer of $24.50 a share for the company. Dawes was building an Oklahoma refinery, and Pure Oil had production capabilities there which would benefit his company. The Pennsylvania company accepted the offer and made $22 million in profit on the sale."

"In 1920, Ohio Cities Gas Company's name changed to Pure Oil. In 1926, the headquarters moved to Chicago. Refineries were located in Ohio, West Virginia, Oklahoma, and Texas. A Pure Oil Gas Station, built in 1933 and located at Saratoga Springs, New York, was listed on the National Register of Historic Places in 1978."

It's these 1930ish Pure Oil Company gas stations, constructed to look like small English cottages, that draw the most attention. While I have seen a few of these this summer on our travels, today was the first time that I could conveniently -- and safely -- stop and photograph one.

Fortunately, many old filling stations have gone through some adaptive reuse and have emerged from lying vacant for years to become flower shops, ice cream parlors, real estate offices, and a host of other "cottage" businesses to ultimately survive the bulldozer's blade.

Though the Pure station seen here is vacant and disused, I have high hopes that someone will come along and save this excellent example so that it may serve the public for another few decades.

Tomorrow we plan to continue our southward sojourn towards Adams County on the Ohio River. It has been my contention for a few years that my great, great grandfather, John Heath Preston Jones, lived in Adams County for a time because his father and brothers had settled there. I have no proof that these folks with the name of Jones are related to me. At present it's just a strong hunch. Perhaps when I pay Greene Township, Adams County, Ohio a visit tomorrow or the next day, I will come away with additional information that will help me solve this mystery. After all, I found three generations of the Davis family in Akron's Glendale cemetery. Maybe my luck will hold.

So if you see us out on the two-lanes, be sure and wave cuz The Happy Wanderers are wishing you happy travels and exciting destinations.

Day 41 -- Mogadore to Delaware, Ohio -- 144 Miles

It rained this morning to inaugurate our first travel day in 11 days and promised to do so all day long. But as fate would have it, the rain lasted only long enough to accompany Collin Martin and me to the rental car agency and back. Taking the car back was the final thing we had to do before Concetta and I hit the road. I had already pumped the tanks, put away all the cords and hoses, and stowed all the gear but the drive-up blocks.

Concetta and I had spent the last 11 days pursuing a whirlwind agenda of eating, drinking, visiting, and party-going -- everything that goes with seeing people you only see a couple of times a decade. The first thing we had to do was attend her 60th class reunion, which turned out to be wonderfully great fun. Concetta got to talk to a large number of high school friends whom she seldom sees, and I got to chat with and make friends with quite a few people I'd never met before as I wandered the room taking photos. Later I would post the better part of 125 photos to the reunion Facebook page which made quite a hit.

The other major activity in which we were slated to take part was the wedding of Concetta's sister Phyllis' grandson, Trent, and his fiance, Callie. But this was not to take place until the very end of our stay in the Mogadore, Ohio area.

In between these two events, Concetta spent much of her time with her sister Phyllis baking cookies for the wedding and catching up on family events. This left Yours Truly to find activities to occupy my time.

One of my plans was to meet with a long-time buddy of mine who once lived in Carson City but recently moved to the Cleveland, Ohio area. An equally important plan was to try and locate my great grandfather, George Davis, who was supposed to have died and been buried in Akron. Since I only knew of one cemetery in Akron, I headed downtown to the Eastside Cemetery on Market Street.

When I arrived at the cemetery, I found that no one was in the office so I could not find out where, if anywhere, George and his wife were buried. So, I did the next best thing: I began walking back and forth among the tombstones

After about an hour, and three trips across the grounds north to south, I was about to give up. But something told me to make one more circuit just slightly to the east of my first path. Incredibly enough, about halfway down I stumbled over a tombstone that seemed familiar. It wasn't of great-grandfather George, but was Charles and Bessie Davis. A little voice in my head told me that Charles was my grandfather's brother, and I immediately set about taking photos.

Before I left the cemetery, I happened into a piece of good luck when I met the son of the original managers of the grounds, and he agreed to wade into the horribly antiquated computer system in the office and tell me if George and his wife were present there.

After about twenty minutes of futile searching, the son told me that it appeared they only had two George Davis plots, and neither one appeared to be my great grandfather. But he told me to come back on a Monday, Wednesday, or Friday, and the regular secretary might be able to discern something more from the records. I wasn't totally successful, but I sure wasn't a failure as Charles and Bessie Davis did, in fact, turn out to be my relatives.

The next time I appeared at the Eastside Cemetery the secretary was working. Her name was Wendy, and it was an easy task for her to determine that the man I had met on my previous visit had been correct. No other Davis family members appeared to be buried in Eastside. But before I left, Wendy gave me a very crucial suggestion. She said, "Why don't you go check at the Glendale Cemetery" on West Market Street near Saint Vincent's Church.

Without further ado, I jumped into the rental car and raced right over there. Wendy said they probably wouldn't help me without an appointment, but as it turned out, the young lady in the Glendale office, Jen, was more than eager to assist me. Almost immediately she found George Davis and his wife, Isabella Brown.

But as I eagerly jumped from the car and dashed over to pace back and forth in the area Jen had indicated George and Isabelle were supposedly buried, I couldn't find them. After a few minutes I began to get discouraged. That's when fate stepped in and rescued me. Suddenly there was Isabella right at my feet. The stone was small, easy to walk right by, and the inscription was down near grass level. And then I grew puzzled. I could see Isabella, but George was missing. In his place was someone named Jennie Chapman.

And then I stopped short. Isabella died in 1899 according to the stone, and I had already researched and discovered that George didn't die until 1937. Maybe he was never buried next to Isabella. AND THEN I remembered that George was married again in 1910 to a Louise Bockstedt. I realized then that there was a distinct possibility that George was buried somewhere else, even in a different city or state.

I took a step back and studied the rather poor, makeshift stone for Jennie Chapman. "Jennie," "Jennie," I repeated to myself. Then it came to me. My Grandfather, Thomas Davis, had a sister named Jennie. With a start I realized that not only was George probably not buried next to his first wife, but George and Isabella's daughter Jennie had probably been interred in the spot that had once belonged to George. That would explain why the cemetery record showed both Isabella AND George's names on the plot.

And that's when I made a major discovery. While I was busy taking photographs of the two stones that had initially evaded my search, I suddenly looked up and noticed a huge granite marker with the name "Brown" on it. As I've said, Isabella's maiden name was Brown. Realizing that I had made a significant discovery, I began to explore around the Brown Family plot marker.

Almost immediately I came upon the stones for my great, great grandparents, William and Hannah Brown. Mere minutes before I had no idea if my relatives would prove to be present at the Glendale Cemetery, and NOW I had discovered not one, not two, but THREE generations of my family tree. To say I was completely awestruck and humbled would be a huge understatement.

At this point I knew that George probably wanted to be buried next to his second wife rather than to his first wife. Now all I had to do was find George and his second wife. I dashed back down the hill to the office and burst in to give Jen the news. I was hoping that she would be able to tell me if a George and Louise Davis were located somewhere on the grounds. Unfortunately, she was busy then and was not able to help me answer that question. So, I left Jen my card, and I hope she will do the research when she has the time and let me know. If you're reading this Jen, I can't thank you enough for your kind and considerate assistance. You and grounds-keeper, Raymond, really made my day.

Aside from looking up dead relatives, I spent a lot of time in other pleasurable activities. One of those was getting together with my buddy, Tennessee Don, who had recently moved from Carson City to the wilds of Ohio near Cleveland. Don drove down, and we made a beeline for the tiny town of Hartville where I knew a flea market was in progress and also had a darn fine restaurant for our lunch.

The restaurant was needed because I was overdue buying Tennessee Don his traditional lunch for his birthday. It's become somewhat difficult to pull off now that he lives over two thousand miles away from Nevada.

At any rate, we had a great time prowling the flea market where I scored a new leather belt, a couple of vintage tools, and -- thanks to Don -- a very fine mortising chisel for my collection. Our lunch was great, and we had great time reminiscing. I even had a wonderful piece of coconut-cream pie, though I was unable to coax Don into sampling their birthday cakes.

Later in the week, I got to attend the Hartville flea market again, this time with nephew, Mike Morris. This time the flea market was wonderfully large and crowded, and had all the stuff I love. I ended up with several tools, include two vintage tire irons, and a 1929 Ohio license plate to decorate my garden shed back home.

What with all the mileage we were putting on the rental car, it was proving to be a very essential asset to us. One of the functions we attended was the wedding rehearsal dinner that took place in a cozy room above a supermarket known as the "Mustard Seed." There we got together with all the relatives, as well as as the young members of the wedding party. The food, both hors d' oeuvers and the dinner course, were absolutely excellent. In addition, we discovered a new Cabernet labeled "Katherine" that we just adored and intend to try and find in Nevada.

A few nights later, we attended Trent and Callie's wedding which was fun and took place on a hillside under the spreading trees. Later, we all walked a short distance away for the reception which afforded us another great selection of hors d' oeuvers and main course entrees to please anyone's tastes. Plus, father of the groom, Marc Morris, sprang for a hosted bar that seemed to please everyone. Trent and Callie made a cute couple, and we're sure they're destined for many happy years together.

And that's about it for our stay in Mogadore, Ohio. We got to spend some really quality time with all of our relatives, including one night out to karaoke with Collin, Phyl, John and Pam Montisano, Fred and Izzy Paonessa, and drinks later at John and Pam's house, We also had a night out with Collin and Phyl for fine dining, and a couple of get-togethers at Phyl and Collin's house for football and snacks. Definitely, a great time was always had by all.

In addition to those present for most of our stay, cousins Chuck and Toni and Concetta's sister Paula and husband Rick came for the wedding. Also, we spent much time with nephew Mike and Amy Morris, and nephew Marc and Nancy Morris. It certainly was with a heavy heart that we had to leave all those marvelous people and begin our trip back to Nevada.

But begin we did this morning after Collin Martin delivered me back from the rental car agency, and we broke camp and headed south on Route 43, the road that ran right by our camp called "Countryside." The camp was really marvelous and we have already determined to return as soon as we can.

Our plans today were pretty simple. We wanted to travel south on Route 43 until it intersected the Lincoln Highway. When we had gained the Lincoln Highway, we planned to travel that route all the way to Ohio Route 42 where we would turn south once again. Along the way we hoped to visit the Johnny Appleseed historic site. But when we got there, the gates were locked and it appeared to be closed. I was unable to reach the park by phone. Hopefully next time we'll be more lucky.

Aside from leaving some of our Nevada Lincoln Highway chapter brochures at the Chamber of Commerce office in the Lincoln Highway town of Wooster, we mostly just enjoyed the wonderful scenery along our rural route of travel. The weather was sunny with big fluffy clouds, and we had a fine time just cruising the two-lanes, appreciating all the 19th century architecture, and keeping an eye out for the ubiquitous junk shop full of rusty tools. Much luck on the first two, none on the third. But tomorrow is another day.

And when you head out on the two lanes, the Happy Wanderers wish you happy travels and exciting destinations!