Bye Bye, Martin Van Buren - Day 10

Genealogy is an inexact science.  This morning I discovered that my connection to Martin Van Buren, POTUS #8, is fiction.  I'm not sure how I made it up from available documentation.  Oh, well.  Easy come, easy go.

I discovered an interesting factoid about MVB, however:  He was the first President who was a natural born citizen of the United States; all the prior ones were born in British colonies.  How does that work, given that the President has to be a natural-born citizen, according to the Constitution?  Of course, I looked it up.  The Constitution says,

"No Person except a natural born Citizen, or a Citizen of the United States, at the time of the Adoption of this Constitution, shall be eligible to the Office of President;..." [emphasis added]

Seven Presidents fell under that second, essential clause.  I wonder how much negotiation it took to reach agreement on that language at the Constitutional Convention.

Today's goal was to visit the cemetery in Kinderhook where Van Buren and many dead ancestors (the real ones) reside.  I expected the Kinderhook Reformed Church Cemetery to be co-located with the Kinderhook Reformed Church.  Silly me.  But this lost cemetery (a pattern?) gave me an opportunity to go into the church (open!) and talk to a live human.

The human with whom I spoke was assistant to the pastor, very friendly and generous.  He turned on the lights in the sanctuary just for me to look around.  He told me the history of the church, which has been destroyed and damaged multiple times over its life.  Today's church has a magnificent interior:  beautiful, areligious stained glass windows, glistening organ pipes in a real organ loft, and a soaring ceiling very Dutch in design and feel.

Once I had directions to the cemetery, I asked if the church had ever been located there.  I explained that I had read a story in the Lennox and Addington Archives that Jan Martense and Dirckje Harmense (they died in the 1680s) were buried under the church.  My informant responded with considerable surprise.  He said that bones had been discovered during excavation for one of the church reconstructions.  No one knew whose bones they were, so they were reburied in place under the church.

The cemetery is vast, split into two sections by a country road.  One side is clearly older than the other, so I concentrated my efforts, row by endless row, on the older side.  Probably 80% of the markers are so eroded by time and elements that they are completely illegible.  Lost history, everywhere.  Yet, my visit was productive.  I considered skipping the other side, which was clearly newer.  But with only a brief review, I found that the new side's center section also bore fruit.  Now all I have to do is match up the photos I took with the names I have uncovered for my ancestor tree.  That should keep me busy for a few months!

Reflecting on today's efforts, I realize that, except for the oldest ones, American ancestors don't hold the same excitement for me as the Canadian ones.  Should I have expected that?  Is this simply a reflection of my anti-American-exceptionalism bent?  I think both are worthwhile questions to consider as part of this who-am-I and where-do-I-come-from journey.

Tomorrow I take a break from the search for dead ancestors.  But I'll have lots of stories to share with my friends when I meet up with them in Burlington.  Bernie, here I come!