Kansas Carlton Conundrum
May 10, 2003
Pat’s talkative, 98-year-old aunt, Hazel Lister, tends to sleep until about noon. Consequently, we decided to take a drive through the Kansas countryside in the morning before visiting with Aunt Hazel -- who would be ready for our visit about 2 P.M..
It was an exciting time in this part of the world. Large clouds formed from which numerous tornados were reported. The Oklahoma City area had been hit by two tornados in a couple of days. But, most tornados formed to the south or east of Wichita, so we had been spared the indignity of being forced to abandon our motorhome to find shelter in the USI Campground storm shelter. Anyway, on the “spur of the moment,” we decided to drive north of Wichita about 1 ½ hours to the area of Kansas where my father, Charles Sterling, was born. Pat and I had visited the area in 1982 and thought that we might remember the location of the cemeteries where Andrew Jackson Sterling (Charles’ grandfather) and his offspring were buried.
Pat’s brother, John Turner, was traveling with us and offered that we might stop along the way at Whitewater, KS to see the old family home of Pat & John’s Grandmother Cornelius. John easily found the old home. We took a photo and headed north on a gravel road. We traveled slowly through the rolling corn and wheat fields, often surrounded by windbreaks of Osage Orange trees. The road zigged and zagged and we stopped to photograph a singing Bobolink and check out other birds that appeared.
After a very pleasant, two-hour drive, we reached the little town of Hope, KS near where my father lived as a boy. I remembered that some relatives were buried in the Hope Cemetery, but did not remember its exact location. While passing through “downtown” Hope, we noticed the Hope Museum and stopped to ask for information. Two white-haired “girls” met us as we entered and seemed delighted to have some company. I explained our mission and they gave us directions to the Hope Cemetery. “Turn around and head back north on Main Street, then turn right at the American Legion Hall. The cemetery is just out of town.”
As we approached the cemetery, we decided that it did not look right and headed back to the museum. “That’s not the right one,” I explained to the same women.
“OK,” they said, “There are several other cemeteries in the area and here are your options. The Catholic Cemetery is east of Hope,” one explained.
“I don’t think any of our ancestors were Catholic,” I replied.
“OK, we can rule that one out,” she said. “There is another one north of town by a church,” she suggested.
“Don’t remember a church – I think you can rule that one out too.”
“Then, there is the Banner Cemetery between here and Carlton, another cemetery north and another south of Carlton,” she said.
Our heads were now beginning to spin! It was approaching the noon hour and we had only a couple of hours to find the cemetery and drive back to Wichita. If we were late, Aunt Hazel would certainly be offended. It was beginning to appear as if we were on a wild goose chase. We certainly did not have time to find all these cemeteries. I got that special look from Pat when she is exasperated with my failure to make careful plans before leaving for some place we are trying to find. So -- with some degree of desperation -- I suggested that the cemetery likely had only about 40 graves and most were very old.
“What is the name of the family you are seeking?” she asked.
“Sterling,” I replied.
“Do you know Tom Sterling who lived south of Carlton?” she asked. “There was a Sterling ranch there for many years.”
“Yes,” I said. “I think that maybe Tom is one of my first cousins once removed or something.”
“Tell you what,” the lady said. “Just look up Virgil Meyers at the elevator in Carlton. He has lived there all his life and maybe he can help you.”
So, I wrote down his name while thinking that it was really unlikely that we would be able to track him down in the short time we had left. We made a quick tour of the Hope Museum, left a small donation, thanked the ladies and followed Highway 4 west toward Carlton. We passed a small cemetery along the highway, but Pat and I agreed that it did fit the cemetery of our memories. Reaching Carlton, (a small place with maybe 10 homes a couple of churches and a grain elevator) we quickly found the elevator and a young man appeared. “Virgil Meyers is not here now. He lives in that blue house across the street.” But, he continued to give directions to a local cemetery that seemed to fit our criteria. We decided to give it our last shot before leaving for Wichita.
As we passed Virgil’s home, we noticed a fellow mowing the lawn. I pulled into the driveway and inquired if he was Virgil. He asked me to repeat the question because he had left his hearing aid in the house so that mowing would not be so noisy. He smiled broadly all the time as if he were meeting old friends. However, he gave off an almost bashful demeanor. His eyes darted up into our faces and then down at his feet. But he was very friendly -- as if he were grateful to have some visitors or an excuse to stop mowing.
After we explained our mission, he offered that he would be happy to show us a couple of local cemeteries that appeared to meet our criteria. By this time, our skepticism was elevated and our time was very short. But for some reason, we decided to take a chance that he could quickly lead us to our goal. “Just head east and then north.” I followed his directions while John and Pat plied him with questions.
“Are you a wheat farmer?” John asked.
“Yes,” he replied. “I own 3,000 acres of land around here. Last year some of my better lands yielded 40 bushels of wheat per acre. I paid $25 per acre for this land and it is now worth about $800. I owned the old grain elevator here in town for many years, made plenty of money buying wheat, but just walked away from it several years ago. I have about a million dollars in a money market account that pays only about 1%, but at least it is not in the stock market losing money. One of my old uncles died and left a lot of money to my brother, but left me nothing. However, I did not begrudge him, because he taught me how to make money. His lessons were worth much more that any other monetary inheritance he could give me.”
When we reached the cemetery, Pat and I agreed that it was too new. “This is not the right one,” he said. By now, Pat, John and I were convinced there was little hope of finding the Sterling cemetery. If we left immediately, we might be able to return to Wichita by 2 P.M. and avoid Aunt Hazel’s displeasure.
“OK, I know another cemetery where a Sterling is buried,” Virgil suggested.
I started to tell Virgil that we had run out of time, but I was desperate. If we gave up now, I would never hear the end of it from Pat and John. My last hope of vindication was in Virgil’s hands. I could feel Pat and John’s eyes boring into the back of my head as I agreed to make one last attempt. As we headed east and then south, Virgil explained that he thought the name of the Sterling was Wade or something.
Remembering that my father had a favorite uncle named Waitman, I asked, “Could it be Waitman Sterling?”
“Could be,” he replied.
As we approached the cemetery, it became clear that this was the same Banner Cemetery at Elmo, KS that we had passed earlier and had rejected. Virgil led us to the SW corner, where several tombstones bearing the name Sterling appeared. Suddenly, the weight from my shoulders evaporated. I was vindicated. I had been facing, not only the humiliation of inadequate preparation for our sojourn but also the wrath of Aunt Hazel for being late. Now, we would only be late! It would not be the first time that Aunt Hazel found my actions objectionable.
I photographed the names on about six headstones, including those of my great-grandfather, Andrew Jackson Sterling and his wife, Elisabeth. In another part of the cemetery, John found the headstones of my great-uncle Waitman T. W. Sterling and his offspring. We had struck paydirt!
While walking with Virgil in search of more Sterlings, he explained the history of many of the individuals he had known. “This fellow was the town blacksmith. A team of horses pulling a wagon got excited about something. The blacksmith tried to calm them down by grabbing their harnesses. The horses bolted, ran over and crushed him. This other kid was in high school with me. His model T Ford rolled over on him. This fellow was a drunk!” And, so on.
We drove Virgil back to his lawn mower and thanked him profusely. He said, “Come back anytime.”
Upon leaving Virgil’s home, we passed by his old, unused, grain elevators. In front of an ancient, broken, covered wagon, was a sign that read: “In 1986, nothing happened here.”
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