Are You the Squeaky Wheel?

Is it easy for you to cooperate and get others to cooperate with you? How do you build trust? How do you overcome misunderstanding?

Frank Marshall Cross was a druggist – a pharmacist. I immediately pictured Mr. Gower in  “It’s a Wonderful Life”, the movie I watch every year around Christmas. Images in my mind turned to black and white, as Frank mixes potions for customers, answers questions and gives directions on how to use the medicine. He’s the go-to guy in the neighborhood when you can’t bear to ask your doctor one more time about another ailment that has you perplexed and a bit worried.

How did he deal with people and their different temperaments as they approached him with their needs?

How do you? How do you navigate your way through confusion? And how do you help people weed through theirs?

Frank was the second son of Hattie Marshall, first son of Addison and Hattie Cross, born in 1877 in Hudson, New Hampshire. After he married Mary Agnes Keenan, they moved to Lawrence, Massachusetts and he worked as a druggist while Mary stayed home to raise their three girls, Evelyn. Bertha, and Alice.

Last night, I was watching a documentary on the US healthcare system and its problems, I saw something that hit home. When you have a system that fails to provide a way for many doctors of one patient to connect and communicate, the patient is under-served. It hit home because it’s what I’ve been saying for years as we’ve struggled with unanswered questions and teams of doctors who don’t communicate with each other to coordinate care.

What in the world do the failures of modern healthcare have to do with Frank Marshall Cross and family history?

I’ll tell you. I faced several challenges in researching Frank Marshall Cross. Online research databases weren’t giving me enough
information about him. I had to pick up the phone and talk to my husband’s relatives.

Hearty “Hello’s!” became mumbled confusion and palpable eye-rolling when they finally understood the nature of my call. It wasn’t that the person on the other end of the line didn’t want to help. I blind-sided them about things that weren’t on the top of their mind.

Three times, on three separate days, the same relative  had either just finished dinner, had phone service reconnected, or had lost my number when I called for the fourth time wanting more information on a third relative.

The second was noticeably perturbed – not because she didn’t want to tell me what she knew. She just couldn’t retrieve the facts locked in the back of her brain. She could see the people, but names, dates, and places eluded her. Two minutes after hanging up, she called back with phone numbers and email addresses to new people who could help me.

The third contact person I managed to reach, the one referred by the second, had to be reassured that I actually was related by marriage. “Who are you again?” The husband and wife, one on each phone, now in their 80’s, were more than happy to answer my questions. We ended our conversation as new friends as I relayed  “Hellos” between Orlando and New Hampshire.

That was hard work! But there was no other way to get what I needed. Could I have done it differently? Yes. From now on, I’ll send an email and follow-up with a phone call. I understand that people need time to find documents and to sort through memories.

My job is to be  the squeaky wheel. I see value in connecting the living to each other and to connect the dead to the living. Someone has to step up and be that communications coordinator – the one who sends out the family news letters and emails, collects emails addresses and phone numbers. Someone has to let everyone else know that they are part of a bigger community – a community connected by blood and marriage.

The story of Frank and his family are unfolding and will be written in the next few days.

But I gotta get all the wheels  rolling in the same direction first!

Do you have similar communication problems? How have you solved yours? Do you have a go-to person for the family history in your family? Or are you the squeaky wheel?

No Choice is a Small Choice

“It has been said that the gate of history turns on small hinges,

and so do people’s lives. The choices we make determine our destiny.”
Thomas S. Monson

When looking backwards in time at my ancestors’ lives I tend to romanticize them. I never fail to be shocked to discover that not one of them had one that was ordinary. And once in a while I will uncover a decision that changed the direction of their life and their loved ones’, too.

But isn’t that how the story goes for all of us?

Today I’d like to introduce you to my husband’s great-grandfather, Addison Cross, and his wife Hattie Marshall Cross. My oldest daughter owns the violin that Addison made almost one hundred years ago, and that’s what I assumed would be the thing that I focused on until I started having questions about his wife.

I talked to one of Addison’s relatives this week and even though she didn’t give me anything new, she had a question of her own about Hattie. We both knew she’d been married at 16 in 1868 to Oscar Armstrong, and six months later had Fred, followed by divorcing Oscar and setting out on her own, never living at home again. She (the woman on the phone) thought that Fred had died because she called him “the boy”, and no one knew anything about him except what they’d been told. Her question was what really happened to Hattie? Was she raped? Was she forced to marry him against her will after she learned she was pregnant? Would Oscar and Hattie have eventually married no matter what her condition?

When I hung up the phone I was perplexed. I’d made the call to make sure Hattie actually had been married to Oscar, or to correct a mistake that I run into often in family research: the Same-Name-Syndrome. But I came away relieved that my collection of documents were telling a true story, that her son Fred was very real, and that he hadn’t died until he was 30-years-old.

One event changed the life of so many.

Fred was sent to live with his great-aunt and might have grown up playing with his aunts and uncles next door. Was anyone besides Hattie, her parents, or Hattie’s aunt and uncle privy to the information about Fred’s lineage? Guess not. Nobody I talked to knew about him.

When I turned my attention back to Hattie my heart broke. I was told that her death was mourned by people who said, “everyone loved Hattie.  She was a beautiful and kind woman.” I found her in the 1880 census, 18-years-old, childless and single, living with a family as a domestic servant in Nashua, while her ex husband was making furniture down the road in Merrimack. Can you imagine not being able to raise your own child? I’m sure that so many of you can. To have to watch him grow up, start walking, go to school, make friends, and finish school as her life went on in a different direction, but parallel to his, must have been challenging.

But the gate to that new life, Fred’s, Hattie’s, Oscar’s, grandparents’ and caregivers’ had started to swing the moment she got pregnant.

Imagine Addison walking into Hattie’s life seven years later. Fred, now the age of my second youngest,  is either a secret, a sore spot and source of discomfort for one or both of them, or an unapproachable indulgence. Addison and Hattie ended up having eight more children while living in Hudson and then Derry, New Hampshire. They died within 10 months of each other in 1934/5. How did they manage their family and Fred? With or without him?

Fred died in 1899, a year before the next census which would have illuminated a bit more about his life and how other people’s choices had affected his. No matter what, Fred had no choice about the circumstances of his birth and upbringing. (Maybe he did!)I’d like to believe that his caregivers, the Newcombes, gave him a stable and happy childhood. I’m curious about how and why he died. Was it a genetic weakness? Could have been. Harriet’s next child, Frank Marshall Cross, my husband’s namesake, died of a heart condition when he was just 54-years-old, 3 years before his parents. It would be so interesting to discover a family trend for heart problems. Wouldn’t it?

What did I learn from looking at this group of people? What did I take away that I can apply to my life, or use to teach my children? I’m left considering the importance of choices. Once the gate swings open or shut it opens and closes to opportunities that could be good, bad or just plain different.

However, I had to search for this story. It was buried in secrecy or neglect of proper record-keeping and oral history. Why? If my daughters faced similar circumstances, or even my sons, I know that secrecy is not the direction I would go. Make a choice and own the consequences. That is what I believe. Enjoy them, fix what is yours to fix, or get help. But live in them completely. How else can you learn? Better yet, how else can anyone else learn from your life if it’s hidden away?

Good questions.

You can throw the consequences to your choices or the circumstances that have been thrust upon you over the garden gate and turn your back and run.

But watch the gate on its backwards swing.

Family Dissonance

My fifteen-year-old son called one of the church hymns depressing and dark. He told me he would never invite his friends to church because some of the hymns were so creepy. I was taken aback. Why would the tone have been any different? The story told by the lyrics was somber and sad. The piece had to reflect that mood. Judging by his reaction when he heard it, it had done its job perfectly.

I listen to different styles of music all the time. In the early morning, for example, it’s always classical. When I need a cry, want to dance, feel romantic, silly, or just need to relax, I go to different music. Music teaches, inspires, heals, and touches our hearts in a surefire, unforgettable way.

Family history, if approached correctly, is a lot like music and just as powerful. It has the capacity to teach, inspire, heal and communicate valuable information to your soul like nothing else. What’s better is that just like a good song, each person who studies his ancestors will receive gifts beyond their expectations- especially those who put their heart and soul into the work.

When I studied the piano, the cello, and ballet, for example, I learned that technique mastered is very different from technique with soul. I can watch both an instrumental or dance performance now and feel whether or not I’m witnessing a bunch of notes or steps being strung together or a piece of art where the artist and the music are one. Even their faces play a part in the story if they are completely immersed in their craft. Anything less leaves me uncomfortable, apologetic, and uninspired.

Family history work without soul is genealogy – a bunch of names, places and dates strung together and organized.I could compare it to a choir that has been given their seats but never invited to sing. I see our generations of ancestors as a continuous piece of music. I dig and search until I find something in a person’s life that moves  me. There is ALWAYS something. I never know how the dissonant, discordant event is brought into consonance, or harmony. Every person that I research illuminates what I’m struggling with at the moment.

I’ve talked with people who have no interest in the skeletons in their generational closets – happy to let dead men lie. If there is shame or disappointment, they would rather sugar coat the truth than suffer with what the truth would expose. They see no value in looking into imperfect lives as if that would dishonor and embarrass them.

We are all dissonant notes in a song, however. It takes humility and an honest, grateful heart to expose such things as murder, abuse, neglect, bigamy, alcoholism, or any other behavior that does not reinforce our personal hopes and aspirations. But when we honor that life, it resolves its dissonance in our commitment to break the cycle or habit that has been passed down through the generations.

Do you have the skill and courage to find to find an ancestor, see him/her in his/hr truth- the good, the bad, and the ugly- and make him into something meaningful for you?

Wanna Go Spelunking With Me?

Image from Globotreks.com. Applause for me..I added this picture using the prong of a fork!

I first heard about spelunking, cave exploring, in college. I don’t like small spaces, so I never joined my friends on their nightly Saturday outings. But there’s something intriguing about the adventure to be had in the dark when there’s a possibility of getting lost. When do you turn around? When is enough enough? How deep into the hole do you dare go?

Today we’re going to have some fun. I’m going to tell the story of one of Edmund and Elizabeth Rich’s daughters, Addie, and later, after the sun comes up and I’m sure most people have eaten their breakfast, I’ll make a phone call to see how the story really went. Or better yet, you tell me what you think happened.


You see, I have been researching Addie and her husband Thomas for a while. I got up at 4am today, and now it’s 7. And I’m stumped. I have a ton of facts and one huge gaping hole. 


Come into the hole with me. Let’s go ‘splorin’!


Addie Rich was born down the road from me in Truro, Massachusetts, Cape Cod, in 1865. She was the third girl of three, sandwiched between Lizzie and Mertie. In her mid-teens she left the Cape with her family and moved to Somerville, and in 1883 married Thomas T. Belyea. 


I know very little about Thomas except that he was born in Nova Scotia to Charles and Mary Belyea and became a citizen in 1896.


I also know that in 1900 he took his wife and kids to farm land either with Addie’s brother-in-law George Washington Johnson, or next door to him, because they are neighbors on the 1900 census.


Here’s where I take out my flashlight and try my darndest to make sense of what I have found and the bulb goes out. 


I found Addie with three of her children ( Ethel moved out) in the 1910 census, still married, with “none” crossed out for the line where you get to see what someone did for a living, and added over the top of that was “own income”. None of the children worked even though they’re in their late teens. But I can’t find Thomas. Well I can, but the facts have holes. Big ones.


He’s in Maine with Mary Macgillivary in 1910. And I know it’s him because the facts match. But there’s no marriage or divorce records for Thomas and Addie. 


Little Helen is in the sitting room playing marbles on the floor when one flies across the room and under the couch. On her belly reaching, the dust bunnies are actively itching her nose and blocking her view. 


“Someone answer the door!” bellows Forest from the back of the house.


“I always get it! You get it!” cries Helen. But the knock repeats itself because now it knows someone’s there.


Opening the door cautiously, hoping to return to her game, Helen grips the knob nervously as she wedges her dusty body in the small space she has left between herself and the strange man on the stoop.


“Bless you!” the man says wiping his coat and taking half a step back as he looks down to the next to the last question on his clipboard.


“What?” asks Pencil Man census-taker because he, like me at times, doesn’t have a filter between his brain and his mouth, and is perplexed even though it’s not his job to be.


“Nobody in the house is working?” Helen shrinks a foot and swallows, trying to save face as she wonders what the real question is. 


“Wait! Wait! Erase that! My mum doesn’t have to work. She has money of her own.” Pencil Man’s eyeballs look up coldly, stopping midstream.


“Money of her own? What does that mean?” Eyebrows furrow and send 12-yr-old Helen into a panic. 


“Tell him it’s none of his business!” yells 18-yr-old Forest from the other room. 


Helen, sweating and exhausted with keeping secrets, cracks. “Dad sends her money.” Unibrow squints as the story unfolds in his mini brain and he softens a bit, rewrites some information, and leaves with the door just skimming his nose.


“Who was that?” Addie-Mom asks as she swishes through the room, breaking the tension. 


“Census man.” admits Helen with a sigh.


“She told him Dad sends money, “complains Forest. 


“Don’t worry, Dear,” Addie says trying to comfort Helen when 11-yr-old Edwin walks in.


“Worry about what? What’s wrong with her? Mom, I’m going to Charlie’s,” he announces as he pries Helen off the door before he gets an answer.


The remaining three resume life at #7 Avon St. in Somerville. It’s Friday. Thank Goodness. The weather has turned mild, even warm, too warm to keep the windows shut. So Addie starts to open them, letting in a refreshing breeze.


Meanwhile, Mary Belyea is answering her door in Maine to find their very own census-taker standing pencil in hand on their stoop, grinning from ear to ear. And Thomas is breaking out in a sweat as he sits in his parlor in front of the open window, hoping and praying that he doesn’t have to dig his hole any deeper today…


So what do you think happened? Is Thomas a bigamist? Was the separation mutually agreed upon? Are my facts not facts at all?


To be continued…


Update (Thursday, March 15, 2012, 5:40 pm): I made the call. So far all of my facts up to a certain point are right. But there’s no family knowledge of a divorce or a separation. They are making more calls on their end to cousins (old ones!) to see if anyone knows something about Thomas. Addie was buried up in New Hampshire with a lot of other relatives.

It Matters to This One

The Starfish

An old man was walking down the beach just before dawn. In the distance he saw a young man picking up stranded starfish and throwing them back into the sea. As the old man approached the younh man he asked, “Why do you spend so much energy doing what seems to be a waste of time?” The young man explained that the stranded starfish would die if left in the morning sun. “But there must be thousands of beaches and millions of starfish,” exclaimed the old man.”How can your efforts make any difference?” The young man looked down at the small starfish in his hand, and as he threw it to safety in the sea he said,

“It makes a difference to this one.”

original story by Loren Eisley

 

When I think of all of the things that I could be doing with my free time, and how I feel compelled to find my ancestors, research their lives, and tell their stories, I think of this story.

And I think about love.

What greater expression of love is there than to give a voice to the one who has none, and to be a champion of one who seemingly has nothing to give you?

And then to find out that when you serve with no hope of receiving thanks or rewards, you are blessed ten-fold. To wake up every day knowing that my cache of friends is growing larger and larger and calls to me from another realm, is one of those blessings. Connecting heaven and earth for me and everyone else who reads one of their stories is another.

Funny how it matters to “This One”, too. It matters to me.

Why would I stop?

How can I help you start?

You Can’t Take It With You

“Mommy? Where’s the Chocolate factory? Did we pass it, yet?”

“Look left! Out Kenny’s window!There! With the flag on top. See the clock?”

“There it is Madeleine! The Chocolate factory!” I watch the silent dreams oozing through the little ones’ eyes as the Schrafft factory, alive and functioning only in a child’s hopeful imagination, slips away as we make our way through Boston and head towards Cape Cod. Home. That building is the one bright spot on our trip every time until we reach the Bourne Bridge which signals the last 15 minutes of our journey.


For the next hour and a half some of us daydream about chocolate. How to get it and how to hide it. Me? I freeze it. Nobody else in my house eats frozen chocolate. 

Once upon a time, in the mid 1870’s, there were three little girls who were uprooted from their home in Truro on the Cape and forced to put down roots in Somerville, Massachusetts with their parents, Edmund and Elizabeth Rich.  Lizzie, Addie, and Mertie lived on Washington Street, right down the street from the 16 yr-old Scrafft candy factory on Cambridge Street, Boston.


For 200 years there had been Riches on the Cape eking out a living as seamen. But one Rich family left one year and never came back.


I don’t know about anyone else, but I’ve found that moves are hard on children. If you have to move make sure there’s at least a candy store down the road. Makes missing the sand and the salt air (or anything that yours have left behind) a bit more bearable.


George West’s Market was a frequent stop for any of us kids who managed to find a quarter to exchange for a small brown paper sack of penny candy. That habit fueled my dream to someday own a candy store where all the candy would be free. Every time I pedaled my bike the mile to the store, crossing one bridge and a set of railroad tracks I thought,”Grown ups just don’t get it. Candy is important.”


The only thing that ranked up there with the frequent trips to the candy store were the 4am wake-up shakes from my dad to go fishing and lobstering in his Boston Whaler. 


“Please Daddy!” Addie Rich would beg her father Edmund. “Just a couple of pennies. Please! I’ll share with Mertie even! And I promise to eat your vegetables at dinner tonight!”


“They aren’t MY vegetables. I just sell them. And, yes, you will, by golly. You’ll eat every bite! You know it wasn’t that long ago that you were complaining about all the fish you ate and ‘Couldn’t I please bring home something else for dinner every once in a while?’ Well I gave you your wish. You got vegetables and now all you want is candy!” 


With a sigh and a grin he handed the coins over to his princess. And off she’d run, salivating all the way to town, leaving Edmund to his daydreams of his days on the water, salt air beating on his face.


The first move is the hardest. Roots are strong and deep. After that the heartstrings aren’t wound so tight and feet get itchy for new scenery pretty routinely. After about six years selling veggies from a cart on the streets of Somerville, and for reasons only known to Edmund and Elizabeth (I actually think they were bribed), the two packed up and followed their oldest daughter Lizzie to New Hampshire where they’d mingle with cows and vegetables up close and personal, and enjoy watching their grandchildren play on the farm.


I’m feeling their joy and their claustrophobia. Feeling land-locked is hard to shake. Cobbett’s pond was across from the farm, and that was something I guess. Maybe it was the house busting at the seams with grandkids, or perhaps they missed being closer to the shore, or the hustle of city life that one needs when they retire to keep their mind active. Whatever their reason, by 1900 Edmund and Elizabeth moved back to Massachusetts and in with their youngest daughter, Mertie, now married to Ralph Smith, in Somerville.


Guess what Ralph did for a living? He wasn’t a fisherman, or a vegetable cart pusher. He was a pusher of a different kind. He was a candy man! A confectioner. My dream came true. It was for somebody else, but it still came true. Honestly, I think that’s what lured Edmund and Elizabeth away from the farm and into their home.


Edmund was a widower in 1920, Elizabeth waiting for the census to be taken that year before she died. For 14 more years Edmund aged in a childless house without his beloved to help pass the time.


But he had candy.


For a week I haven’t been able to shake the image of him sitting in his rocker, eyes half-way closed, right hand pulling a chocolate ever so carefully away from his lips, desperate to catch the stretching band of caramel before it lands on his lap, never noticing his daughter Mertie standing at the corner of the room watching her dad savoring a moment with some chocolate. 


At 97 I’ll bet Edmund was wondering about his beloved chocolate and if perhaps there would be an exception to the rule, “You can’t take it with you”, as he was approaching the bridge to his next life? 


Maybe that’s why he lived so long. He realized he couldn’t.

He Reached the End of the Line

Picture by O.R. Cummings’ “Street Cars of Boston”. Volume 4

“Where am I?” I asked every other night, having awakened suddenly because of a nudge or a cough. A group of fellow travelers watched me collect my thoughts. I guess I was their chosen nightly entertainment because the group got larger every time. I was so disoriented from all of the traveling we’d done that I never knew where we were.


The one thing I did recall was the feeling of being on a train.


“We’re in Paris,” a friend would offer, hoping to help me out or confuse me more. “Go back to sleep.”


“How long have we been here?” More laughing. I didn’t get much rest that summer. But I assume nobody else that was with me did either.


I don’t know if I’m the best traveler. And what about those who deal with travelers? They pick people up and drop people off day in and day out. Imagine the lessons they could learn as they watch people and how they carry themselves, and interact with family and strangers?  

I often wonder about those people who are in the service industry. My sister use to make me laugh so hard when she said she would often find herself in the bathroom in the middle of the night having scanned toiletries over the sink for an hour. I don’t know what woke her up, maybe a roommate who heard the telltale sounds that didn’t fit bathroom noises?  She was a checker in a grocery store in college and was one of those who “brought her work home with her”!

Benjamin Franklin Johnson, the last for Uphard and Elizabeth Johnson, the caboose if you will of nine children, worked on a street railway in Massachusetts from 1900 until he died in 1923. Street railways transformed into the bus systems we now use. First he was a brakeman. Years later he was elevated to conductor. 


“Gimme a kiss.” he’d say to his little girls Annie and Edith, and finally to his wife Agnes as he would prepare to leave for work. A deep breath of fresh air first thing and a long exhale would ready him physically and mentally to weather the moods of his passengers. Would he be able to strengthen them with his countenance, demeanor, and easy banter as they travelled with him to their destination? Or was he a grump that grunted and barely made eye contact as they stepped on board?


Every day. Routine stops. Scenery and passengers whose lives would become as familiar as his own. The smallest changes would be noticed. 


When Mr. Black Hat didn’t show up one day he would wonder and wait for news from him in a few days that he’d been sick, or from a friend of a friend that he’d passed away. The seat he’d sat in would be freed up for someone else from then on.


He looked forward to a personal lift that Mrs. Big Hair gave as she lumbered up the stairs of the railway car. She was a delight. Always cheery with a “Helloooo, Dear! How is the family today?”


Benjamin took on Mr. Red Bulbous nose as a personal mission, distracting him as they approached the stop near the bar downtown on Fridays when he got his paycheck. The stories he would tell were priceless. He was the life of the car. No distraction ever worked. He had a sixth sense of where they were no matter how deep the conversation with Benjamin got.


Oh how he wished he could help Mr. Cigar Man! He smiled and greeted him every morning joyously. But that man never smiled back. Children instinctively knew to steer clear of him. They were anxious to find a spot far from him so as not to get the evil eye if they misbehaved.


Miss Secretary was a looker and was uneasy, not knowing how to handle Mr. Dapper Dandy who was new to the route. Ben tried to help her out by saving her a spot behind him at the front of the car. 


The children were a hoot on a good day, nerve wracking on others. Incorrect change and little legs maneuvering up and down stairs alternately tried his patience or stretched his heart strings.


Every day out he would watch his charges jump on and off, into and out of their busy lives. His job was to show up consistently, rain or shine, and make sure everything went smoothly and on schedule, making conversation and hopefully lightening the burdens of those who passed through his life on their way to wherever.


Did he miss them when he took a vacation? Did he get disoriented or dream of his route while he slept? Did he awaken late thinking he’d let them down only to remember he was on holiday. I’ll bet they were like a second family to him and he was like a son, father, and brother to many who would be missed and would miss him during his respites.


Christmas was coming  in 1923 and his brother George Washington Johnson had invited him with his family up to the Johnson farm in Windham, New Hampshire. Now he was going to be a passenger on the train that would drop them off in Salem where family on that end would pick them up. They were going to spend a brief holiday with family and then head back to the routine of their lives after Christmas. 


Goodbyes, See you soons, and Happy Holidays were had on Friday the 22nd, and Benjamin Franklin Johnson walked out of one life in Somerville, Massachusetts and started the transition into his next, unsuspecting.


Doesn’t it always happen that something goes wrong before your vacation starts? You get that flu bug or your car breaks down…or if you’re Benjamin Franklin Johnson, 59 years-old, you get a head injury at work and are sure that your blasted headache is going to put a damper on the festivities.


Turns out that was an understatement.



On December 23rd, two days before Christmas, Benjamin stepped off the train and dropped dead of a heart embolism. That was the end of the line for him. I can’t imagine the shock of his sudden death.


Family in New Hampshire and Massachusetts would slowly get accustomed to him being gone. Agnes and the girls would travel back home to Somerville without husband and Daddy.


So apropos for a man in the service/transportation industry was one of the last pieces of paper to document his travels in this life.


 It was the application for disinterment.


 You heard it right. 


He was buried and was being  dug up and moved! 


Yeah, it appears they moved him within the same cemetery, Cemetery on the Plains. But I don’t know why. How fitting! A man whose job was to get people from one place to another was finally resting, but in the wrong place. HA! 


I can hear him the moment he wakes up on the other side of his life. And the scene just cracks me up. 


“Where am I?” Laughing all around. “You kidding me? It’s over? I’m done? That’s it? No more? Wow. That wasn’t on my schedule today!”


“Hey!” says Mr. Black Hat guy. “Been missing our chats. Welcome home!” 


And as he familiarizes himself with his new surroundings and the last stop for his body, he hears, “Hey Ben! Lookie there! Off you go! HA! Guess you got dropped off at the wrong stop!” 

Guess there’s always someone 
who provides entertainment for the rest!
 (pun intended)

Wouldn’t it be perfect if his epitaph read “The Bus Stops Here”, or “He Reached the End of the Line”???