I’d always wanted to come to Natchitoches, where my grandma Effie was born and raised. I knew bits of pieces of a Louisiana of yesteryear through stories I remembered her sharing with me, but I’d only ever dreamed that I would someday finally make it to Louisiana to see it for myself.

I didn’t have any details to go from—we just kind of figured we would explore and see what we could find. I did have the name of the cemetery where her family was buried, but that was all I had to go from.

I had done some research before we planned to go to the cemetery, and I even found a text version of a list of names of people buried there. I was able to start cross referencing it with my mom and my aunt, and my aunt even shared a picture of my grandma’s parents with me—names I hadn’t known until that moment.

Our drive to the cemetery started from across the river from Historic Downtown. It was a longer route than it would have been had we backtracked to where we were camped, but we are always eager to see new sights.

Every stretch of our way there was through thick woods. I’ve mentioned it before, but the greenery and woods look straight out of Oregon. It seems contradictory to open the doors into glaring heat! Along the wooded routes, we saw an awful lot of poverty—poverty like we hadn’t seen anywhere before. Just when we thought homes couldn’t appear to be less inviting or sturdy than those we’d seen the past couple of days, we shook our heads in sad surprise to drive past homes in such states of disrepair.

The roads in Louisiana are, by far, the worst we’ve experienced across the States. On the way to Bellwood, we rolled right off of rocky, lumpy asphalt onto dirt in a few places. Crews had simply torn up the road and left it that way until further repair (presumably), with no signs or warning. We’d simply THUMP off several inches of asphalt onto gravel and let out little cries of surprise, at that.

At one point, Brent pointed across me and out my window—swamp! An actual, real swamp! Like cypress trees growing right out of water, lots of vines and moss, and most assuredly alligators lurking around. And this is right at the side of the road, water covering the floor of the woods as far as we could see until the woods grew too thick to see any further in.

We passed one run-down home along Highway 117 that had an old white board sign up along the edge of the highway—the kind that lights up and holds the old-fashioned black letters like you’d find on a movie billboard of a 50s theater—white globe lights flashing around its border. In the center simply read, “You shall not murder”. Um, thanks for the reminder?

We climbed a few hills and dipped into small valleys, following the green, rolling hills of the landscape and finally saw an old, faded sign in black, faded stencil lettering: Old Bellwood Baptist Church. We turned right onto a gravel road, and there it was, sleeping in the shade of century-old trees: a dusty white wooden church looking over a small, peaceful cemetery.

I was surprised, at first, to read the sign out front, which seemed to reveal a kind of do-it-yourself burial set of rules to follow. I was also disheartened to see it was gated and thought we wouldn’t be able to go inside, but it was easy to see that there were no locks, and that visitors were welcome to let themselves in.

We looked around for a while before finding my family. We noticed that everyone buried here knew each other—and did for generations. Maiden names and surnames were chiseled into grave markers, and names like Moss (a name I knew was part of our family), Ott, Greene, and Cook were everywhere throughout the cemetery, obviously married and sharing children. We were looking for Gandy, but I wondered how many of the people there I could be related to. In a small country town where everyone attended the same small, local church on Sunday, it was likely that my family tied with many of those buried here.

Kailyn frolicked around admiring flowers left at grave markers and Evelyn and I followed her, putting displays back together that she may have disturbed along the way.

We made our way to the front four rows, closest to the church, and there they were. I recognized names I’d been learning recently: Lorena and Ben Gandy, my grandma’s grandparents; Pearl and Ben Gandy, my grandma’s parents; Exie Lee Gandy, my grandma’s twin sister who had passed at only 2 months of age; and Wilmer and Isabelle, my grandma’s siblings.

It was then I spotted someone I hadn’t expected to find there—my grandma’s sister, Vertie. Her name hadn’t been on the list of those buried at Bellwood that I’d found two days earlier. To see her there brought the knot in my throat to tears—the floodgates were lifted. She was the only of my grandma’s siblings that I had actually spoken with and exchanged letters with at one point. She used to follow the family’s lineage and family tree, and my grandma put me in contact with her when I had a school project requiring research of my family tree. When I had contact with her, I couldn’t have been older than maybe 11. Yet, she was kind of frozen in time for me. I guess part of me thought she was just still in Louisiana—out there somewhere. She had passed in 2000, but I hadn’t known, and though I had no reason to truly believe she was still here tracking the family tree, it was a shock and was emotional to see her grave marker.

Evelyn walked amongst her ancestors, asking questions about relations with interest and respect. She made it her mission to straighten flowers left at grave markers throughout the cemetery.

The heat came to be oppressive. Though I would have liked to stay longer, I couldn’t stand the blazing heat and smothering humidity. I wanted back in the air conditioning. I couldn’t process my emotions for interference of the heat. Brent kept asking if I was sure I wanted to leave. I was, but I felt I hadn’t accomplished what I’d been hoping, nor did I even know what I’d been hoping to accomplish. The heat wasn’t working with me to find out. It was a quiet, remorseful, tired drive home.

Days later, Kailyn woke up at 3am and refused to go back to sleep. Hours went by and I coaxed, urged, sang, read, played, and rocked to no avail. Finally, my alarm was going off and it was 6am. I had planned to get up early to visit the cemetery again by myself—ahead of the sun and alone with my thoughts. With Kailyn still awake and raring to go, I knew I’d be taking her along for the ride. I didn’t know then what a blessing that would be.

She fell asleep about a mile before the turn-off to the gravel road where Bellwood waits. I parked her in the shade and walked through the chain link gate to my family’s grave markers.

The sun was just peeking through the tall trees behind the church, and the cemetery was shaded and waiting. Tears perched at the corners of my eyes, and I just imagined: a time when folks in their Sunday best walked here to Bellwood Church, shaking hands and uttering salutations, thoughts of the hard work on the farm or home laying in wait until after the services. I pictured my great grandparents’ faces in the picture my aunt had shared with me days before; I imagined them smiling at their friends and their family. I imagined their devastation when they lost their infant daughter, my grandma’s twin. I had an image of my great grandpa as my mom had described him, walking with her down the road to the local general store to buy praline candies, with an overall strap hanging off his shoulder and cows trailing along behind them.

I’d be lying if I didn’t feel them there with me, but did they know who I was or wonder why I had come back?

Just then, I heard Kailyn call from the car and echo through the quiet of the morning: “Mamaaa!” She’d slept for a whole 10 minutes and here she was awake! When I hoisted her onto my hip from the car, she looked around at the church, the trees, and the chain link gate. She lit up in a huge smile and pointed at the church: “House!” She pointed around at the trees: “Trees!” She pointed into the cemetery at the grave markers: “Flowers!” As soon as we reached the gate, she pointed at the ground: “Down!”

She followed me like a little sprite full of magic and light, prancing her way between graves and memorials. When we arrived at the rows where our family waited, she went right to the same grave she’d gone to days before-- to Pearl Moss Gandy, my grandma’s mom. Then, she sat down right in front of Aunt Vertie’s gravestone and started pointing at letters and making their sounds: “V v v v, T t t t!” She insisted on staying there and was fascinated by her grave marker.

Then, she started farting.

I was instantly mortified and rushed toward her to pick her up, but I could almost hear the laughter in my heart. I laughed along through tears and said aloud, “I’m sorry, Vertie!” But I giggled and so did Kailyn, and I couldn’t help but think that the energy around us was covering its mouth in stifled giggles, as well.

It takes a child to bring life and to bring smiles, and I had brought the perfect little beacon of happiness with me that morning.

It wasn’t until I’d spoken to Vertie that I’d uttered a word, but Kailyn and I said a few “hellos” to family and I shared my feelings aloud after that. I felt I had accomplished what it was I’d been hoping to by coming here, and I felt lighter and full of love.

Kailyn and I left, and as I rolled down the dusty road past the sleeping church for the last time, rays of light were beaming through the tall trees on its features. I glanced back over my shoulder at the family I had come to see for the last time, and I smiled.