Back in January, I wrote a blog about visiting the homeland of my parents and grandparents in Damiansville, Illinois. It was entitled “Where Do You Come From” I never really imagined there would be part two to the story.
My host, Ralf, has scared me in a very peculiar way. He really liked the blog “Where Do You Come From.” And it led him to do some research on the internet. When I got here to Gelsenkirchen, he was able to tell me my entire family history back to the eighteenth century, before I was able to relate it to him. I felt a little sheepish, and a little weird.
“What secret agency do you work for?”
“It’s all well documented on the internet, all you have to do is look.”
I don’t know what made me feel more uncomfortable.
Ralf did his research, and by doing so, made something possible that I never even dreamed could happen. Ralf validated my heritage. It was a gift that I never even knew was as important to me as it was. Often, I can recall times that I have not shown concern for immigrants and where they are from. This has been a mistake on my part. Honoring someone’s heritage is a small thing to do, but can make a big difference.
“Your ancestors are from Gross Fullen. Do you want to go?”
“Can we?” I doubted.
“Of course. It is two hours away.”
There are so many things that never make sense in history books and brochures. You can see the pictures, you can see diagrams, but until you understand the relationships between the details, there is no life to the story. It doesn’t mean that everyone has to actually go to a foreign land in order to understand the significance of a historic event, but in this case, it was the only way for me to make the connection between the stories of my family, and the truth.
Many of the details in my family’s past have been left as unanswered mysteries. For the most part, we just gave up on trying to figure them out. First of all, there is the problem of my name, Heimann. My sixth great grandfather, Bernard Oldegibler took his wife’s name Heumann, but either changed it, or misspelled it. Then there is the problem of our family nationality. Why did our ancestors speak German, settle with Germans in Southern Illinois, but were Dutch? (They held residence in the Netherlands for some period of time.). And then there is the most pertinent question, “Why did they migrate?”
Ralf kept insisting, “They were probably Turf-diggers.”
‘What?” I kept thinking. “You’re ruining my poetic sense of history. I like the story that my ancestors didn’t like the Prussian rule of Germany, and escaped to America as peace loving anti-war activists, not that they were ‘turf-diggers.’
As images of a crew of workers who dug sod, cut it, and laid it in a baseball stadium ran through my head, I asked Ralf. “By the way… what does a turf digger do? And what is ‘turf’ anyway?”
“Let’s go find out.”
And so we did. A simple visit to Gross Fullen, the hometown of my grandparents on my father’s side, made years of lacking any understanding, finally make sense.
The question my father has asked over and over crossed my mind, “What could make someone leave Germany?” I, on the other hand, have always asked, “What could make someone want to settle in Southern Illinois?”
Southern Illinois is flat. Very flat. Very boring flat. I love my homeland, but I could stand for a few hills here and there, maybe a mountain. A valley would be nice, maybe a hidden one.
Well. The land around Gross Fullen is…. flat. Very flat. Very boring flat.
Of course! It made sense. My dad had asked the question why someone would leave such a beautiful country such as Germany, but most of his travels in Germany were in the prettier, southern parts. My dad never went to Gross Fullen, but he doesn’t need to. Just go to Damiansville, they look the same. My ancestors who settled in Damiansville would have felt like they had found another Germany. If Damianville ever wants to change their name, New Gross Fullen would make a lot of sense.
But Ralf kept pushing this “Turf-diggers” theory on me. I was getting annoyed with it. I couldn’t imagine why people would need to dig what I understood turf to be. Ralf took me to a field of turf, and it all made sense.
First of all, turf is a material that develops from the life and death cycle of a certain kind of moss. It grows in a field on top of the previous decaying moss. It builds up at a rate of one centimeter per year. Centuries of this growth have led to fields and fields of dead moss that surround Gross Fullen. When this material is dried, it is ideal for burning, like wood or coal. It grows in layers, and has a consistency like mulch. In landscaping or agriculture, it can be used to eliminate weed growth around plants. Because it is acidic in its nature, many plants, and especially weeds, do not grow in it. For this reason, it is ideal for landscaping. In addition, some plants, like blueberries, are well fertilized by turf.
To make turf usable, you have to dig a ditch around a given area to drain the water. Then you have to cultivate the ground, turning it over and over, until the turf has dried. It is hard work. When the turf is completely dry, it can be shipped and used. I would have known none of this had I not had the ability to stand in Gross Fullen, and hold turf in my hands.
Though my ancestors were farmers in Damiansville, it is easy to see why they would not have been farmers in Gross Fullen. There are many successful farms in Gross Fullen now, but in general the soil is very sandy. The current farms are mostly former “digging” areas of turf that have been adapted into arable land. My ancestors would not have had the ability to survive off of farming in this area. Their income was clearly dependant on the sale of turf. In the 1850s, when Germany was suffering economically, there was not a lot of money floating around to buy turf, and the increased availability and superiority of coal decreased the demand. Gross Fullen, a community dependant on the sale of turf, could not have supported its population in the face of the economic crisis.
But what about this Dutch connection? Why did my ancestors first emigrate to the Netherlands? I had guessed that their first migration was one in which they moved hundreds of miles away to the Dutch lands. Perhaps from Munich to Amsterdam. That would be a nice migration. But when you go to Gross Fullen, it all makes sense.
“Oh… you mean the moved 28 miles away to Slagharen… in the Netherlands, where people also spoke Low German… and there are more fields of…what is this stuff again… oh, turf.”
My ancestors probably continued the family tradition of turf digging in an area that was better equipped for shipping or distribution. I never would have understood this if we hadn’t taken the time to drive over to the Netherlands from Gross Fullen (gas is cheaper in the Netherlands, so Ralf took me on a side trip.)
Gross Fullen is now a quaint little German town. Being there helped me understand another important aspect to my ancestors. The town of my ancestors was very poor. Sure, now the town is a residential commuter village of people who mostly work outside of Gross Fullen. They have beautiful little brick homes, but it is very evident that these homes were built within the last 50 years. You cannot find a building that was built before. One reason for this could have been the devastation of World War II, but I doubt that the Allies had a strategic interest in liberating fields of turf through bombing raids. The lack of older buildings is more basic than collateral damage of World War II. Brick buildings could not have lasted in this area before more modern construction. There were no stones readily available to make strong foundations. Even if they could afford to ship bricks here, the foundations would have constantly shifted in the decaying layers of turf. Before the inhabitants of Gross Fullen could afford pouring cement foundations and transporting bricks to the area, the buildings were built out of wood. In this mossy, flat, wetland, a building material such as wood would deteriorate quicker than normal. That is why nothing from my ancestor’s time remains.
I had hoped to maybe see the baptismal font in which my grandparents may have been baptized. No luck whatsoever. The parish in Gross Fullen is St. Vincents, and is a very modern church. The only thing that remains from the older church are the candle holders, which appear to have been made from the old communion rail, and a stained glass window, which has the year 1853 dated on it. If you have downloaded Google Earth onto your computer, you can view my pictures of Gross Fullen, St. Vincents, and even fields of turf by clicking here.
However, in the back of the church, the parish does keep a wooden model of the old church built in 1853. This would have been right around the time that my ancestors had left Gross Fullen. They would have known the church as a simple wooden chapel. The priests that served there from 1820 to 1908 were serving a “mission church” while the parish that administered the mission were in Meppen, where my grandparent’s baptismal records are kept (another little mystery in our genealogy… why were their baptismal records are in Meppen, and not Gross Fullen – the answer is that Gross Fullen was not a legitimate parish until the twentieth century). In 1853, the wooden church was struck by lightening, and a new church was built from stone. The church was further enlarged with a choir area when it became a parish.
Things have constantly changed for St. Vincent’s. There is no longer a priest which serves St. Vincent’s. It has returned to the way it was served before 1908. The pastor comes from Meppen to say Mass.
There is one Heimann family left in Gross Fullen, but they are not related to me directly. They actually moved here from Poland 30 years ago. There are many Heumanns and Altigiblers (alternate spelling of Oldegibler). I walked through the cemetery and saw the names. Here and there, a Heumann, and an Altigibler. No Heimann. The old graves are gone. It is the custom in Germany to rent a grave for 25 years, then the remains are removed and the grave reused by somebody else. I took the most pause when I saw the war memorial for those who died in the First and Second World War from St. Vincent’s parish.
Heinrich Heumann. 1941.
Heinrich, or Henry, is a very popular name in my family’s history, and my middle name. In the bizarre twists of time and space, the name on that memorial was most probably a distant cousin. Had a single decision been different 150 years ago - to go or not to go - that Heinrich Huemann could easily have been my grandfather. In the Second World War, my country was fighting my own cousins, my own ancestors.
If you’ve read this long in the blog, then I thank you. This has been a very self-indulgent entry. I almost chose not to go to Gross Fullen, because I don’t like making the pilgrimage about me. The point of AD SODALITATEM is to spread the teaching of solidarity, and the One Body One Spirit Project is a pilgrimage shared over the internet to awaken in the Church, awareness for the diversity of the Church.
My new friend Martin challenged me on that my decision to go or not to go. He said, “In a way, it becomes difficult to distinguish between the pilgrimage, and the pilgrim.”
His words finalized my decision. I had to go today. I had to go, because I had to know. I had to see. I had to seek understanding about where I came from. It is one of the tasks of pilgrimage, to know our origins. Walking in that ground and seeing the relationships of simple things, such as how the quality of the soil had a direct hand in the destiny of my ancestors, and of me, has grounded me in a way I never expected. This is who I am. All the streets and houses, and even the Church may have changed, but you can’t erase this land. This land gave birth to my family. This is who I am. This is where I come from.
Gross Fullen is certainly not a pilgrimage site for others, and my point in coming here was never to encourage tourism to Gross Fullen. (There’s not that much to see). My voyage here was an invitation for myself to discover where I came from.
I invite you to be just as inquisitive. Seek out where you come from, who you are. It doesn’t mean hop in a car and go back to your homeland, and it doesn’t even mean became a genealogy nerd. It simply means seek out the things which define you and shape your identity. It is a journey that is beyond any monetary value.
I still wanted something poetic and romantic, so I asked Ralf if he would believe me if I told him that my family actually was discovered by a lowly turf digger in Gross Fullen who dug us out of the turf on a mysterious foggy morning. My family emerged powerful and wise in the ways of the earth that gave them birth. He suggested maybe a better source of information might be to go to the parish in Meppen and do some more research on baptismal records. His way is fine too.
Maybe someday I will.