Lizbeth Adams began writing a book about her brother John in 2007, while she was actively searching for him but before she had learned of his fate. There were two forces that impelled her. The strongest was to commemorate her brother, the remarkable, beautiful, talented and kind person that he was. The second was the hope that if he were still alive, the book might serve as a beacon that would bring him home.
As she worked on the book, in the nurturing community of a writing class led by Brenda Peterson and populated by accomplished writers, Lizbeth began to understand that to tell John’s story coherently, a larger narrative was necessary. And so the project became a memoir entitled “If I Knew the Way, I Would Bring You Home.” This memoir describes John’s and her childhood and adolescence, much of which was spent living overseas. This lifestyle provided fascinating experiences, but also stressed her family structure in ways that were not immediately evident.
Lizbeth's previously published work has appeared in the online magazine Motherhood Muse (“My Mother’s Furniture” ; October 2010) and in an anthology entitled Memoir in the Light of Day (“Our Lady of Withered Limbs” ; Lamberson Corona Press, NY; 2009). Proceeds from the sales of the published works will be used to support the work of the Foundation.
As she worked on the book, in the nurturing community of a writing class led by Brenda Peterson and populated by accomplished writers, Lizbeth began to understand that to tell John’s story coherently, a larger narrative was necessary. And so the project became a memoir entitled “If I Knew the Way, I Would Bring You Home.” This memoir describes John’s and her childhood and adolescence, much of which was spent living overseas. This lifestyle provided fascinating experiences, but also stressed her family structure in ways that were not immediately evident.
Lizbeth's previously published work has appeared in the online magazine Motherhood Muse (“My Mother’s Furniture” ; October 2010) and in an anthology entitled Memoir in the Light of Day (“Our Lady of Withered Limbs” ; Lamberson Corona Press, NY; 2009). Proceeds from the sales of the published works will be used to support the work of the Foundation.
On the day we were to recover John’s remains, I awoke anxious and jittery. My family’s search for John had been so impossibly long, so grueling and so sad. And although it seemed that the journey was going to end today, in a potter’s field in Pennsylvania, I knew there was still a chance that we could fail. Tommy had, in the gentlest way possible, warned me that he wasn’t completely sure he knew which grave contained my brother.
The field was smaller than I had imagined, and was surrounded by a chain link fence with a narrow gate. Hard to believe there were nine hundred unclaimed bodies here. Impossible to believe that the backhoe, idling in the parking lot, was going to fit through that gate. My nervousness was not abating, and I found myself pacing anxiously, while trying to make pleasant conversation with the people from the coroner’s office who were helping out today. Tommy and Graham led us to a patch of grass next to the fence, the corners of which were marked with little yellow flags. We stood and contemplated the spot. Tommy turned his sweet open face to me and said softly: “Remember, there is a chance there was one more person buried after John. But we will find him.” My heart sank. I had experienced some ambivalence about exhuming John on the grounds that it was disrespectful; I really did not want to be in the position of digging up strangers.
The backhoe operator, Sam, and his assistant Scott drove the machine up to the fence. Sam had been described to me as so skillful that he could shave the fur off a ferret, but I was afraid he would be defeated by the gate. I stood, shaking my head, convinced there was no way to fit the equipment through the opening. Slowly Sam eased the machine through, to muted cheers from the group, and brought it up to the edge of the identified plot. There was a moment of profound silence while we all faced what was to come. And then Sam lowered the blade and scraped off the first layer of grass and dirt.
The ground penetrating radar indicated that John’s grave was between five and a half and six feet underground. When Sam had removed five feet of dirt, Tommy and Graham hopped into the hole and began probing with long metal bars, trying to detect the presence of a wooden box. There were tense moments as Sam scraped more delicately and Tommy and Graham probed, until Tommy called out “Here! I’ve got something!”
I had been standing back, assuming a position that would allow me to see into the deepening hole while staying out of the way of the carving blade. At Tommy’s cry I moved to the edge of the hole and peered in. Would I actually see my brother, after all these years? I saw the edge of a wooden box, splintered slightly by the blade of the hoe. Sam continued to scrape, in smaller increments. The wooden box began to emerge, and I worried that Sam would take too deep a cut and damage the box and what it contained. By now I was crouched at the edge of the hole, an arm wrapped around Brian’s legs to steady myself. Sam, living up to his reputation, was removing an inch of dirt at a time. Suddenly Tommy held up his hand and yelled “Wait! There’s another box here!”
“Oh, no, no,” I thought. “Here we are again. Right at the moment of success, thwarted.” I got down on my knees and looked into the hole. Sure enough, there was another piece of splintered wood, another coffin edge. I stood up and took a deep breath, remembering hearing my brother’s voice in a dream the previous night.
“Wait,” I said to Tommy. I pointed to the far side of the hole, to the left of the blade.
“It’s that one,” I said, trusting John.
The field was smaller than I had imagined, and was surrounded by a chain link fence with a narrow gate. Hard to believe there were nine hundred unclaimed bodies here. Impossible to believe that the backhoe, idling in the parking lot, was going to fit through that gate. My nervousness was not abating, and I found myself pacing anxiously, while trying to make pleasant conversation with the people from the coroner’s office who were helping out today. Tommy and Graham led us to a patch of grass next to the fence, the corners of which were marked with little yellow flags. We stood and contemplated the spot. Tommy turned his sweet open face to me and said softly: “Remember, there is a chance there was one more person buried after John. But we will find him.” My heart sank. I had experienced some ambivalence about exhuming John on the grounds that it was disrespectful; I really did not want to be in the position of digging up strangers.
The backhoe operator, Sam, and his assistant Scott drove the machine up to the fence. Sam had been described to me as so skillful that he could shave the fur off a ferret, but I was afraid he would be defeated by the gate. I stood, shaking my head, convinced there was no way to fit the equipment through the opening. Slowly Sam eased the machine through, to muted cheers from the group, and brought it up to the edge of the identified plot. There was a moment of profound silence while we all faced what was to come. And then Sam lowered the blade and scraped off the first layer of grass and dirt.
The ground penetrating radar indicated that John’s grave was between five and a half and six feet underground. When Sam had removed five feet of dirt, Tommy and Graham hopped into the hole and began probing with long metal bars, trying to detect the presence of a wooden box. There were tense moments as Sam scraped more delicately and Tommy and Graham probed, until Tommy called out “Here! I’ve got something!”
I had been standing back, assuming a position that would allow me to see into the deepening hole while staying out of the way of the carving blade. At Tommy’s cry I moved to the edge of the hole and peered in. Would I actually see my brother, after all these years? I saw the edge of a wooden box, splintered slightly by the blade of the hoe. Sam continued to scrape, in smaller increments. The wooden box began to emerge, and I worried that Sam would take too deep a cut and damage the box and what it contained. By now I was crouched at the edge of the hole, an arm wrapped around Brian’s legs to steady myself. Sam, living up to his reputation, was removing an inch of dirt at a time. Suddenly Tommy held up his hand and yelled “Wait! There’s another box here!”
“Oh, no, no,” I thought. “Here we are again. Right at the moment of success, thwarted.” I got down on my knees and looked into the hole. Sure enough, there was another piece of splintered wood, another coffin edge. I stood up and took a deep breath, remembering hearing my brother’s voice in a dream the previous night.
“Wait,” I said to Tommy. I pointed to the far side of the hole, to the left of the blade.
“It’s that one,” I said, trusting John.
Lizbeth would like to extend special thanks to her writing teacher and renowned author Brenda Peterson and fellow writers in the class for their encouragement and support. Those writers include: Mary Matsuda Gruenwald, Kimberly Richardson, Meredith Bailey, Susan Little, Barbara Helen Berger, Pamela Dodson, Leslie Helm, John Runyan and Dori Jones Yang.