THE STONE REMOVED

Since the log books for Horseshoe Reef Lighthouse were lost for all of eternity the next course of action was to record those of the Buffalo Life Saving Station. At least there would be a record for some of the years when Edward was stationed there and they would give a glimpse into the life of the people who lived in and around the government complex.

Plans were made firm and the trip was now very much a reality. The archivist from the Lakeside Heritage Society would open the archives even though they were closed for the season. They had even arranged for the Keeper’s residence to be opened for me. The weather they hoped would be nice for my visit. This was just the tip of the magnificent iceberg I was soon to ride. I wondered what I would see, thirty five years after my last visit. I felt I was returning to something, as if I had been away for a long, long time. It was a sensation that would stay with me throughout my trip.

I breathed in the smell of the lake. The plane had landed in Detroit with our luggage. The rental car was waiting and we were ready for the two hour drive to Sandusky, Ohio. There is no other smell save that of the mountains and the coastal waters that is so identifiable. The Great Lakes, although often referred to as inland seas are not salt water. They have retained an environment all their own ever since the last ice age carved them into existence. Locked for ever into place, they change and reform according to whatever dictates their lives, whether it be nature or humans. Nature is responsible for their shape and depth, humans for their purity and pollutants.

Freeze dried bouquets lined the highways as if to greet us. Cattails, grasses, flowers gone now to seed would put any hobby store out of business in a moments notice. Why had I never noticed all this bounty before? It is the same mystery facing our species every time we leave our place of origin and make our return back. It is the reason why we ever needed light from fires to guide us. We need to find our way home. And when we do, we are often surprised to see what before our return had passed our eyes, now fills within us a bounty so richly presented we cannot help but notice.

Now, my journey thirty-five years later would be much different. I was no longer a graduate student, I was married, and my parents both deceased were buried in the cemetery beside the home on Grand Island where I first met Edward. Just like Edward, my world had been shaped by new technologies that moved faster then the seconds and minutes on the clock face. And, this time I cared. I cared deeply because my journey into the contents of that box had led me to walk a path rich in discovery. I had learned about a family and in doing so learned about a history rich and extraordinary. I had learned about the lives of two people and the world they lived in long before my birth. I had learned about the joys and tragedies of a family who were once just faces on picture cards and photographs. And because of this I had learned about a history far beyond their personal lives. I had learned about lighthouses and keepers.

I also wondered if anyone else cared. What would we find in Marblehead? The images from that first visit were still very vivid in my mind. They were as clear as if I had been to the lighthouse yesterday. The road to the Marblehead lighthouse drew us nearer to my answers. And when we rounded the bend I was not prepared for what I would see.

The sun was bright, the air crisp, not a cloud passed by and a gentle breeze blew in from the lake. The whiteness from the tower broke through the trees and greeted us with color. The white tower, the red top against the blue sky seemed to mimic the colors of the flag which motioned us forward.
The freshly painted keeper’s residence graced the yard and filled the moment with its beautiful 19TH century architecture. The lovely picket fence winding around the house and trees stood firmly to guard its beloved prize.

And, there were people! People from California, people from Michigan and most important, there were people from Ohio. And with them were their children, many generations away from those who had once lovingly tended the grounds and kept a watchful eye on the inland sea before us. They did not just hurry through, no; they walked slowly, breathing in the history before them. They stopped, they read, they looked and they took pictures. Not to document decay and death, but because the beauty of the place made them want to preserve it. The stone had been removed and I was witness to a resurrection!