Passion for Genealogy

I take the turn off route 15 to head up the Catoctin Mountain. To my right is civilization in progress. The Sheetz, Burger King, and town of Thurmont itself. To my left is the past. A mountain touched very little in 300 years. Catoctin High School lies in its shadow, my husband, and most of his family having walked through its halls.

I start up the winding road, pulling over fairly soon. I park at the popular pull off for local fishermen that flock to Owens Creek. I flip open my notepad and jot down a question. “Why is it named Owens Creek? What was it called before?” The mountain range was named after the Kittocton Indians, which translates into “land of many deer”. I know from firsthand experience that this title is just as appropriate now, White Tail deer still thrive here, though Indians do not.

The settlers I have been passionately researching began to trickle up this mountain around 1730. Some straight off the boat from Europe, others migrating down to Maryland from Pennsylvania. I’ve spent hours at the library reading about Thomas Cresap, the remaining Indians, and heated battles between settlers due to the Penn and Lord Baltimore dispute.

Climbing out of the car, I walk close to the edge of the rushing water. I snap a few shots with my digital camera, and turn to take in the lush cool forest surrounding me. The past is so real to me; I desperately wish I could take a step and find the pavement vanished.

There were few roads here for the settlers. Wagons would be stopped where I stand now, and horses fed and watered. The process of unloading their belongings from the wagons to be transferred to small sleds and the backs of the pack horses would take place. The only way to proceed to the tiny settlements in the mountain valleys was up the Indian trails from here. Settlements named after the first families; Hauver, Harbaugh, Zollinger, and Eyler.

Back in my car, I drive slowly up the mountain. Further opening my mind and my imagination. Most of the settlers were German, hard working farmers and very religious. There was no German Reformed Church here, as those that had come from Pennsylvania were used to. The closest German speaking church was the Moravian Church in Graceham, only a few miles from the base of the mountain. Settlers became members of the church, but many depended on the pastor to stop as he made his circuit to the settlements, performing marriage ceremonies and baptisms. They chose to worship in their own homes, or to gather at a home of a neighbor with other families. As resources became available, they began to build their own churches.

Coming close to the peak of the mountain I find myself entering Harbaugh Valley. The forest falls away and rolling hills covered with farms spread out before me in a breathtaking view. I know that they toiled to clear the thick forest to create this farm valley. Life was hard here. I’ve read many diaries and memoires detailing their daily lives, and tragedies.

Just as the Mountain begins to rise again, I see the small town of Sabillasville. Originally called Zollingers Town, after the revolutionary war soldier, Peter Zollinger. He re-named it after his wife, Savilla, rumored to be a daughter from the Harbaugh family.

Parking at the tiny church, St. John’s, I circle around to the cemetery. I’ve been here so many times before; my eyes glance at the names as I head to the far left side. After years of reading about them in ancient newspapers, I feel like I know them, as if they were characters in a book I had read once before. I even smirk at the grave of the man that was accused of getting the young woman pregnant and then refusing to marry her.

I am all alone, and grateful for it. My mind has once again been sucked into this strange place that is so hard to describe. My heart beats in my chest almost painfully, and it’s hard to swallow. Easily I locate the graves I seek. I sit down Indian style with my notepad in my lap, pen in hand. His tombstone broken. I touch the white stone, tracing my fingers over his name, John A. Miller, picking at pieces of moss to clear them away. Almost touching the ground is his date of birth, 1790. The rest of the tombstone is long gone, perhaps buried only inches deep, or gone forever.

I glance over my notes on this man, which are still so sparse. John was born in Maryland, as stated in the census. Records show he fought in the war of 1812, although my trip to the archives in DC had been hours spent in vain looking for him. He returned to this beloved mountain after the war and married a young farm girl, 12 years his junior. Her name was Mary, but she was always known by her nickname, Polly, which was the name her family also chose to have engraved on her tombstone, just to the right of John.

There was one child born before their official wedding was record by law in the state of Maryland. John was 29 and Polly only 17 when their daughter was born. I can think of a million creative ways to lay out why this happened, but would any of them come close to the truth?

Again, the emotion so hard to explain surges from my stomach. I want to bring you to life. I want to know your story. I want to tell it so that your family loves you as I do.

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