Before I became interested in researching my family history, being in a cemetery was very difficult for me. However, it was actually while walking through cemeteries looking for markers bearing the names of relatives that I began to seriously ponder over who the people had been when they were alive.

I have walked through the old cemeteries of Praha, Moravia, Shulenburg, Hallettsville, and Fredricksburg. Each seemed to have its own personality.

Those of you who have been there know that Praha is little more than a wide spot in the road these days. I was there in early spring of the year and color was just returning after the bleak farmland monochromes of winter. As I recall, I was impressed with the girth of the live oak trees along the small, barely two-lane road. The well-maintained white church dominated the landscape even though it is a rather small one by the standards of today. Also, the cemetery seemed unusually large for such a small community with no downtown or housing development. I had only seen two cars since I left the main highway.

At first the rows and rows of markers aligned so precisely and spaced so closely were intimidating and a bit uncomfortable. Gray granite obelisks towered over dark wrought-iron crosses and the grinding of gravel under my shoes seemed grim. Placed before some markers were metal boxes with glass fronts. When I looked more closely, I found that these boxes contained delicately worked, wrought-iron wreaths. Even though I come from a family of metal artisans, I was impressed by the intricacy of the wreaths in which every leave had been individually formed and then added. I came across several wreath boxes which had been damaged. It seemed that “collectors” had broken open one box and taken the whole wreath. The glass was shattered in a second box and, over the years, rainwater had rusted away the wreath.

Through row after row I searched. I had been given a description of the marker for which I looked and a general location within the cemetery. At first I looked only for the name of the distant ancestor for whom I searched. So many familiar Czech names I saw on those markers. So many people born in Europe. Then I came across many small markers, most with the figure of a reclined lamb or a small kneeling angel on them. These were the graves of infants and children all placed together in a row. There were so many markers for children who had died about the same time. I began to wonder what plague had taken these children. How grim that time must have been for many families and the community as a whole.

Still pondering the plight of the children of Praha, I began to realize that all around me there was color. Most all of it was low and on the graves themselves. The color came from a profusion of plants and flowers. Blue bonnets, old roses, and blue-purple flags were in bloom. Large clumps of Asparagus fern and rain lily almost filled the concrete barriers of some plots. Although the cemetery was laid out with grid-like precision, the unruly plants and flowers softened the harshness and truly brought life to this place of the dead.

When I had first arrived I noticed one of those huge 1970‘s American-made sedans in the parking lot. The size of that vehicle was out of proportion with the small cemetery. The huge car appeared to belong to a small lady who was tending graves. Eventually the lady and I wound up near to each other and she asked me for whom I searched. My heart just soared when I heard the soft, gentle lilt of that Texas Czech woman’s accent. It immediately transported me back to the much cherished times I spent with my grandmother and aunts as a small child. This lady said that she knew of the marker for which I searched and also knew an older couple who lived on a farm nearby who had that last name. “Where we related?“ She then asked my name and when I responded “Susan Henley,” she seemed quite taken aback. I quickly realized that for her Czechs married Czechs. I quickly explained my Rektorik/Mrazek pedigree. She then asked me several questions in what almost seemed an attempt to ensure that I was really Czech! All the time she spoke in a very soft voice. It was only feel of her gaze, which changed when we discussed my Anglo last name. I felt almost compelled to tell her (but I didn’t) that there weren’t very many young men of Czech descent left where I grew up. And, that I really did marry for love!

Eventually, she seemed to again become comfortable with me. I explained how disturbed I was over the thought of all those children becoming ill and dying at the same time. The age of this woman I could not discern. She thought for a moment and said that she had been told that it was an influenza which has swept through the community in the early 1900’s taking many with it. She was back to tending graves by now. She had a small basket into which she put the weeds she pulled. As she smooth the gravel of a grave plot, she related the following:

“The number of graves I tend grows yearly. Not only because the old people die but also because so many of the young people have moved to Houston. They go for the jobs and then do not come back to visit the family or tend     the graves. It is wrong for weeds to grow on graves so I spend several days of the week cleaning the graves.”

I still had to make a two-hour drive and be back in time to pick my children up from school that day. How I longed to stay there and listen to the tales of that lonely lady tending graves.

I have since learned that the cemetery is laid out very much like many other cemeteries which were established by the Czechs or Germans and I am much more comfortable in most cemeteries. For quite a few years I have tended the graves of my extended family. And, as you all know, I use “Rektorik-Henley” or “Rektorik” these days. I had always kept the “Rektorik” in my legal name; however, I had taken to using “Susan R. Henley” when I had a job in which I was required to sign my names on correspondence many, many times a day. And, don’t be surprised if “Mrazek” shows up in my name at some point...I am proud of my ancestors!

I recently read an article in which it was stated that about all that remains of the Texas Czech culture is the cemeteries in empty rural communities which once flourished. I know that is not true. There are many cemetery ladies and many who still know the tales of our ancestors. We are, however, at the point where we, as an ethnic group, must return to the small towns of our past, tend the graves, and learn the traditions and stories before the last generation of lore keepers die. Even if we live in big cities, we can still visit...and tend graves.

Kdo chce s vlky býti, musí vlky výti!--If you run with the wolves, then you must howl with the wolves! Remember who your people are, keep and tell their stories to keep the fires of the culture alive!

Susan Rektorik Henley