The Historical Society proved beneficial in a couple of ways. We found a clearer shot of Charles’ family in 1900, the year he was born. We also discovered the maiden name of a “lost cousin” of the family. Well, she wasn’t lost to the Mullers or the Moreaus, only to me.

Thanks to a local history volume we found out how tragedy followed George Muller. I mean, it happened to a lot of people, but he’s the one connected to me. He lost his meat market to disaster twice. Once by the hurricane and once by fire. We painstakingly combed through the maps of the town and discovered he owned prime property directly on the coast. His meat market required extra land to house animals, speeding up delivery of meat to his customers. You’d think someone would have a photo of the store, but nothing else with the family outside of that one shot, which is odd considering how important they were to the town.

As our time came to a close I found amongst the church records an entry about a Moreau with a name we didn’t know. Searching for her in Ancestry’s records proved fruitful and we found the missing cousin. While it didn’t help us it gave another reason why the Moreaus chose Bay St. Louis as a place for their son, Charles Moreau, to recuperate. If there were Moreaus already living here perhaps they knew the Legiers, Honorine’s maternal family.

We walked out with the volunteer and thanked her for the help. I marveled at how fortunate we’d been finding the resources to make these searches.

We walked around the block, past the Sea Coast Echo newspaper started by Charles Moreau, and into a graveyard. For the next 45 minutes we trudged up and down each row, squatting and craning our necks, searching for the crypt of the Moreaus. Many of the tombs and enclosures were crumbled into dust. Some had been repaired but lacked a proper headstone. The original must have been lost. Frustrated we returned to the van for a drink, air conditioning, and a GPS check.

As we feared we’d been marching through the wrong graveyard. Armed with the correct name we set off for St. Mary’s Cemetery, 5 minutes away. Criss crossing through narrow one lane residential streets we found the church with its totally unrelated name, St. Rosa de Lima Catholic Church. We parked across the street in a lot, complete with barking dog on the side of a fence warning us to stay away. Kids played soccer in a field across the street. We entered the cemetery and began our search. It took us almost no time to find it. Having been one of the first residents of the cemetery, the Moreau’s were located close to the church in what was the second phase of grave sites.

Smeared green with what must be the Katrina Line, the tombstone sported a weathered look and a sagging corner of the roof. Shaded from the heat under a tree it was obvious no one still visits. For a small moment I felt the ethereal bond reach out and touch us, drawing us closer to the stone. I placed my hand upon it, the need to touch it palpable. I traced the letters and whispered the words into their ancient ears. After untold years it was possible that a long lost Muller had returned to the Bay. I wanted to pay my respects just in case everything was true.

After photos and a map check we set off for New Orleans, looking forward to a decent meal, a good night’s sleep, followed by a day of discovery.