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Fresh Tracks
By Jim Klaneski, Terryville
Each of us defines who we are in our own individual way. We think of our families, our jobs, where we live, what our hobbies and interests are. I happen to know quite a bit about my family history, with its deep roots in the settlement of New England, and it fascinates me. And that's largely how I've come to think of myself. I'm a New Englander first.
But of my Grandpa Porter's family I know very little. His grandfather Oliver came out of Canada and was born of Canadian parents. That's it. That's where the trail ends. And it's been a constant source of irritation to me that nothing more can be discovered. We seem to have left no stone unturned, and have sent off numerous letters and requests throughout upper New York State and Canada. But there have been no fresh tracks found, no new ideas to research, nothing.
Then several weeks ago we made a rather spontaneous decision to visit northern Vermont; to go to the Lake Champlain region around Burlington for our vacation. My daughter had enjoyed eastern Vermont and New Hampshire. I thought she might like to see the dairy farm country as well, with its wide-open farmland, the Green Mountains to the east and Adirondacks to the west.
We decided to stay at Button Bay State Park in Vergennes. We were able to secure a campsite overlooking the bay, and the park had access to the water, canoe rentals, a pool, hiking trails and a nature center. And it was very reasonably priced. From Vergennes we could easily visit many of the attractions we wished to see in and around the Burlington area.
There was something else, though, about Vergennes that rang a bell with me. I knew that it had some association with the Porter family past, but wasn't sure exactly how. When I did some checking I saw that my great-grandparents had been married there and were buried there in Prospect Cemetery. I also saw that my grandfather had been born in the neighboring town of Ferrisburgh, as had his mother, Virginia Tatro.
I realized then that I would be staying and camping in the very area where my grandfather had grown up, and I began to get excited. I would, of course, try to find where my great-grandparents were buried, but no matter what, I would come to know my grandfather better by seeing where he'd lived. The towns, the streets, the buildings, the mountains and lake, the very farm region—all would have been known to him as a boy and young man.
My family was very patient and understanding and, after settling in, we stopped at an information booth on the green in Vergennes to find out where Prospect Cemetery was. There were three cemeteries in Vergennes, and the young girl working the booth had no idea which was which. I doubt that she spent much of her time off visiting old cemeteries. But her directions were good, and I soon found what I was looking for.
I recognized Prospect when I saw it. The entrance was protected by an elaborately covered gate, four granite pillars and an arched wooden roof. There were stone benches for seating, and heavy iron gates that were barely wide enough for a wagon to pass through, let along a modern-day auto. The memory of a story Grandpa had told me now came flooding back. His mother had died in mud season; the roads of the cemetery were impassable. So the men carried her coffin to the gravesite from the road. Everything was just as he'd described it, and I could envision the procession making its way up the hill.
I parked on a side path and began a systematic search, hoping that something else Grandpa had said would lead me to the grave. Just then another car drove in and an elderly gentleman with a rich Vermont accent asked if he could help. When I told him I was looking for the Porters, he easily directed me to their stone. He said he'd known John and pointed off to the northwest, saying that that's where their farm had been. The grave was on the backside of the cemetery on a slope facing west toward Lake Champlain and the Adirondacks. From the spot, I imagined one could look out toward the old Porter homestead. The gentleman pointed out a couple of other Porter stones nearby, which surprised me, as I had no idea who these other Porters were. I admired the vista for a few moments, took some pictures, and headed back to camp.
Then a couple of days later, after visiting the Shelburne Museum near Burlington, I spotted a roadside farm stand in Ferrisburgh and pulled in, hoping to have some fresh local corn for dinner. I was still wearing my Museum sticker, and while Mary and Sarah picked out the corn, the farmer, Andy, asked me where we were from. I told him we were from Connecticut, but couldn't help adding that my grandfather Porter had been born in Ferrisburgh. He then told me that around the corner and about a mile down Little Chicago Road, there was another cemetery set back in a cornfield (called Gage Cemetery), in which many Porters were buried. And, he added, if I went a little further on to where Little Chicago met with Sand Road, I'd come to a section of town known as Porters' Borough. Porters' Borough, he said, used to be on the maps, but has since been dropped.
Before I left, Andy gave me the names of two other people he thought might have information for me. Both were involved in the historical society. They were Carl Devine and Charlotte Tatro. My great-grandmother was a Tatro, so here was someone who was likely a cousin or married to one, still living in the same town and involved in the historical society. We got out a phone book and I wrote down the names, addresses and phone numbers.
By now I could barely contain my excitement! And realizing this, my wife suggested that we immediately look for Gage Cemetery. Could this all be some sort of enormous coincidence, I wondered? Would my Porter line have moved down into the States from Canada, crossed Lake Champlain and just coincidentally have settled in a place called Porters' Borough filled with numerous other Porters? Was this all just by chance?
Gage had as narrow an entrance as Prospect. There was no paved roadway; just two deep wheel ruts passing through elaborately worked iron gates. Porters and Tatros were everywhere. I jotted down all of the names and dates I could find using an old shopping bag, which was the first paper I could lay my hands on. Perhaps some of these Porters were my Porters. And perhaps living neighbors could shed some light on my Porter line.
I made one final stop at the library in Vergennes. The historical librarian was out that day, but I got her name. The rest of the library staff was kind enough to allow me to browse the material in the historical collection. But without knowing what was there, or where to look, my time was largely wasted. I did learn that the Porters were among the first to settle the area, doing so prior to the end of hostilities in the Revolutionary War. Noah Porter arrived and settled there in 1780. And the Business Directory for Addison County, 1881-1882 listed the name of one farmer as William H. Porter. My great-grandfather had a brother named William H., who may very well have moved and settled into the same area as he. Again, I thought there might now be family members here who could shed some light.
A few days later our vacation came to an end. I had nothing specific to add to my record other than a nice photo of my great-grandparents' grave. But I had some new resources, some new people to contact. I'd discovered some very fertile ground over which to begin a new search. These were fresh tracks, the first I'd seen in years.
Postscript: Since returning home I contacted Charlotte Tatro by phone. Her husband was my grandfather's first cousin. She jotted down much of what I knew, and some of the particulars on who my immediate Porters were. She also told me that she has the Tatro genealogy in print, tracing the family back to its origins in France. A copy of the book is on its way to me now.
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