In May 1982, Dad mentioned he had never been back to his birthplace, St. Thomas, Missouri.
“Let’s drive there and spend a weekend,” I said. “You can show me around and get reconnected to your memories.”
“I’d like that,” he said in his low-key way. He seldom showed emotions and kept his personal business private, precisely my stereotypical image of a German male.
We have German ancestors on both sides of our family. Our mother, Dixie, was a Spohrer. Her great-grandfather, Johan Heinrich Spohrer, and his two brothers emigrated from Leistadt, Germany to Pennsylvania in 1850. Johan’s family later moved to Seneca, Kansas. Dad’s grandfather, Benedikt Groner, sometimes spelled Benedict, came to America from Wurttemberg in 1869 and settled in St. Thomas, located below a bend in the Osage River, approximately eighteen miles south of Jefferson City. The area looked familiar, like southern Germany where he grew up.
Two Things on My Mind
I picked up Dad in Topeka on a sunny day in May 1982 and we began the four-hour drive to St. Thomas. Years later, as I reflected on the trip, I recognized I went into it with a couple of hidden agenda items. One, I was doing some initial work on our family’s genealogy—which I had yet to take seriously—and the trip could have been helpful, although I hadn’t planned to take notes. Two, Dad and I were never close. I struggled over the years with whether and how to try and improve our relationship. At the time of the trip, though, I simply felt the trip was a nice thing to do. Dad was seventy years old and likely would not have driven to St. Thomas alone. It could be his last chance to go.
On the way to St. Thomas, Dad uncharacteristically opened up a bit about his ancestors. His grandfather Benedict was a poor farmer and twenty-four years old when he came to America in 1869.
“He took a boat from Germany to New York City and eventually found his way to St. Thomas,” Dad told me. He didn’t know why Benedict left Germany. He said Benedict took up farming and in a couple of years married a widow, Anna Otto.
Benedict and Anna had seven children. One of them, Leo, married Elizabeth Bock and they became Dad’s parents. The German family ties were strong. Elizabeth’s grandparents were born in Germany. Anna’s parents were born in Prussia, although Anna was born in Missouri. Anna’s first husband Francis Otto was born in Germany and they had four young children she brought to her marriage with Benedict after Francis’s death.
On our drive to St. Thomas, Dad talked about growing up one of six boys and two girls, the one-room Catholic school he and his siblings attended, and the jobs they had on the farm.
“We took care of the farm animals and we made our own sausage. My job was to clean the sausage machine.”
Dad’s family spoke only German at home while the children were required to speak English in school. This was shortly after WWI when Americans still had strong anti-German sentiments. Dad spoke a few phrases of German to me on our way to St. Thomas, accompanied by I-know-something-you-don’t grins. Sometimes he told me what a phrase meant and sometimes he didn’t. He may not have remembered.
Exploring and Tearful Memories
At the St. Thomas post office we looked for names and addresses of people named Groner and there were only a few. The postmaster’s name was Clem Groner. His father Sam was postmaster two postmasters before Clem. An automobile repair business, Groner’s Garage, had been owned and operated by Clem’s brother Raymond and later by his sons, Jerry and Mike.
Dad found the name and address of a cousin and we drove to her house. She invited us in and served apple pie and fresh-brewed coffee. She and Dad reminisced for a couple of hours. I didn’t try to remember her name or their conversation. These were Dad’s memories, not mine, and this trip was for him.
Our next stop was St. Thomas the Apostle Catholic Church. The original one-room church was built in 1848 of logs. Larger structures replaced it over the years as membership grew, with construction often by local labor using local materials. Dad, his siblings, many of his cousins, uncles and aunts were baptized in the church and worshipped there. A 1948 tornado destroyed the parish complex which included the church, school, convent, and rectory, all of which were rebuilt.
We walked around inside and admired the stained-glass windows, which depicted ministries of Jesus Christ. Dad didn’t speak. When we came to the podium he slowly and tenderly ran his hands over the edges and top. His eyes filled with tears.
“Are you okay?” I was surprised, because I had never seen him cry.
“Yeah. Just memories.”
Singing to the Cows
We stayed a short while and left for the area where the family farm had been. The farm likely was forty or fifty acres when Dad lived there.
“We raised crops, cattle, hogs, and dairy cows,” Dad said, as we stood in front of the two-story house where his father was born. The house was filled with hay. “I remember we had a steam-powered thrasher to put up hay and wheat. We sometimes had to back the thrasher up a hill when it didn’t have enough power to go forward.”
Years after our trip I learned from Dad’s brother, Cletus—he preferred “Bud”—their mother would set the two of them on a fence where she could keep an eye on them while she milked the cows. “We sang to the cows while we were on the fence,” Bud said.
The family continued dairying when they moved to Marshall, Missouri where Dad’s parents managed a dairy farm. Dad’s job was to deliver milk to residents. Among his customers were Ada and Henry Spohrer. He fell in love with and married their daughter, Dixie, and she became our mother.
Dad and I spent the night in St. Thomas and the next day drove to nearby Meta to see another cousin. He collected pieces of iron and iron equipment. When he got a truckload he sold it. I don’t remember what he and Dad talked about; things I couldn’t relate to, and I wasn’t trying to remember.
I Wish I Had Paid More Attention
We headed for Topeka about midday. Dad didn’t say much on the ride back. At his house he thanked me and hugged me; another surprise.
“This meant a lot to me, Gene. I’ll never forget it.”
As I worked on my ancestry research in the following years, I regret I hadn’t listened more closely to Dad on this trip and taken notes. I continued to visit Dad several times a year, but we didn’t talk about his family enough to enable me to fill in the blanks. Whatever his memories and feelings, he kept to himself. Most of what I learned, I learned from others.
*written by Gene and Wayne Groner, both authors and storytellers
