Wakin’ Bakin’, a delicious eclectic breakfast eatery near Greenwood Cemetery in New Orleans, treated us like locals and gave us a supremely satisfying breakfast of burritos, potatoes, pastries and biscuits. It’s the kind of place where the staff all have tattoos and the serving ware consists of mismatched plates and cups. Located in an old house, tables situated inside and out by massive oak trees, the restaurant appealed to both college and hipster patrons as well as the foodie crowd. Planning our route through the cemetery around mouthfuls of egg burrito and omelets, we anticipated our reactions at seeing the tombs. Our bellies full we set out to find the final resting place of the largest group of Mullers.
Greenwood Cemetery is home to vast rows of tombs, crypts, columbarium after columbarium, and the like. Atop swamp land, New Orleans doesn’t lend itself to the same type of burials found in other communities. Bodies are buried above ground for many reasons, but the results are magnificent structures as well as sad displays of tombs fallen into disrepair. Those that can be repaired, or are maintained by societies like Firemen’s Charitable and Benevolent Society, sit waiting for descendants to come pay a visit. Others are collapsed ruins, long forgotten.
Armed with information from Find A Grave, we located the tomb for George and Honorine Muller, their daughters Elise and Eugenia, and another holding George John and his son.
The one for the sons caused us frustration as the tombstone appeared much newer than the tomb. It had only two names, neither of which said Muller. The plot was owned by George John’s in-laws, the Bernos family, but the names were of two of the Bernos kids and a spouse. Frustrated we again traced the map and traversed the rows once more but found only the one grave, exactly where Find a Grave indicated it to be. Thanks to online records we saw they were indeed buried inside, but at some point since the last burial, or perhaps due to Katrina, the replacement plaque mentioned only the Bernos family.
Satisfied we’d found the right tombs, we made the trek back to the van and tossed our cameras in the back. Pulling out of the cemetery we wondered aloud if we’d have cause to return to New Orleans. The bonding experience brought us closer, filled us with moments of profound wonder, and proved once more how a family can face an impossible task, work together, and bring new meaning to a life we thought held no room for surprise.
As the swamps disappeared in the rear view mirror and the heat of the day built into afternoon storms we became lost in our thoughts. I envisioned the piles of bones tucked away in the darkest recesses of the stone enclosure. I pondered the white washed walls and lack of disrepair, a sign someone cared for the structure regularly. The surprise side plaque could provide sorely needed details and I planned my research for later that night. As the miles faded behind us we played show tunes and comedy routines if for no other reason than to clean the palate. The only thing left, apart from the DNA results, was to learn how Charles met his first wife.
As the Atlanta skyline rolled into view we looked at each other, maybe sensing what the other was thinking. Family is often a pain in the ass, at times full of strife. But when it works it gives you a place and a sense of belonging. Your roots don’t define you, but they can definitely support you.