Ancestry Magazine

Grantsville is one of those sleepy old towns that seem to echo the sounds of pioneers building a new life. It lies in a windy, sun-bleached landscape west of the Great Salt Lake in Utah. There are signs of modern-day progress everywhere, but herds of sheep still feed in pale green pastures next to the old highway and cows wander among century-old sheds.

As a child, I often visited my cousins who lived on a large farm in the outskirts of Grantsville. Mostly I remember the long lane lined with tall trees that led to their farmhouse. The drive to Grantsville was long. I usually fell asleep next to my siblings in the back of our old van and didn’t awaken until we had turned off the main road and onto that leafy, green lane. That’s what I thought Grantsville was: some kind of cool, shady haven. I remember nothing more about the town.

Years have past since then. My cousins have long since moved away and memories of Grantsville have been pushed back to the far corners of my mind. I might never have realized Grantsville was not exactly the shady paradise of my childhood memories had it not b een for my husband’s new-found interest in family history.

Being college students on a limited budget, we decided to spend our spring break close to home visiting out-of-the-way cemeteries where some of our ancestors were buried.

The first stop was Grantsville. My mother’s people were some of the first settlers there, and we were sure we would find some fascinating old gravestones we could document. Finding the small town was a fairly easy task. And once there, finding the cemetery was even easier. It was located right off the one main road.

After a picnic, we pulled our eight-month-old son from his car seat and, with camera and list of names in hand, began to wander among the gravestones. It was a windy afternoon. The sun’s rays beat down on us. The graveyard directory made no sense to us. N4, Lot 2, 1 West. What did it mean? We wandered back and forth along the crooked rows reading, guessing, brushing aside dried cut grass. Then we found the name of an ancestor: James Mitchell Worthington. Close by we found the burial sites of his wife and children. We snapped pictures and searched for other names. At last we had found the gravestones of over a dozen ancestors. There was one name left to find, my great-great-great-grandmother Grace Vickers Millward. By now, we had some idea what K1, Lot 7, 1 East meant, but there was no stone with Grace’s name on it. In fact, there were no grave markers in the whole section. We retraced our steps, walking back and forth along the crooked rows.

The wind continued to blow. Our son refused to keep his hat on and I worried that the sun’s rays would burn his head. We were tired and a little frustrated. I thought of my relatives who had lived in that valley over a hundred years ago. They had been out in the same wind, under the same sun, worrying about their own children as they had struggled to make a livelihood for themselves in that land.

It was then that a caretaker walked over and cheerfully o ffered to help us find the marker for which we were looking. We gave him the coordinates and told him that Grace’s grave should be right near where we stood. He assured us that it was. All the markers in that area, he said, were washed away in a flood years ago. The graves were still there, but we would find no headstones. We thanked him, wrote a note by her name on our files, and headed back to the car.

As we drove out of town, I realized it didn’t matter that Grace’s headstone was gone. Someday it would be nice to erect another one for her, but she will be remembered. I will remember her. I will remember the connection I felt to her pioneer life that hot, windy afternoon. And Grantsville will remember her. The residents of that small town may not know her by name, but they benefit every day from the life she and so many others gave to the building of Grantsville.

I heard once that planting trees helped homesteaders reinforce ownership of land. When I think of Grantsville now, I can almost see Grace Millward planting trees under the hot sun. Perhaps it is some of those trees that still stand along long lanes, providing cool shade for other little girls who know Grantsville as only a shady haven away from the sun.

Christine Burnett is a freelance writer, music teacher, and composer. She recently began researching her English, Italian, and Scandinavian heritage.