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Yes, there was also the shiver of recognition that came with seeing the name of my ancestor—Charles Chass—on the new spire. He survived the Civil War and came home to the house on Lincoln Street, for which I am, of course, eternally grateful. I’m equally relieved to know that Harold Walters, the great-great-great grandfather of my best friend, MacKenzie, returned to Henley. Without him, I don’t have her.

Who else am I missing? What Mattix or Dovecoat could have been in my life? What Fender or Halverson? We honor the dead, but ultimately we are honoring our own, and giving thanks for the fact that we, ourselves, exist. Living in a small town means we know each other on an intimate level. Our parents went to school together, teachers often see three generations of the same family before retiring. We go to each other’s weddings and funerals, nod to one another on Sundays, and cross paths when grabbing a pizza, or walking into a football game.

Henley is often so close-knit that we can’t see the holes, the places where someone might have been. Often I hear people mourning what Henley used to be: the old historic buildings, lost cornerstones and the nostalgic feel of peering out through wavy glass windows. I never knew this Henley, though I can see it in grainy photos and postcards from the past. The staid pencil sketches of our pioneer families can tell me what Abraham Henley looked like but not how his voice sounded, or if he was the sort of person who kicked his dog (an ancient measuring stick for the decency of a man, I’m told).

And what of that name? Abraham Henley founded this town, but you won’t find his surname on the Civil War memorial, a paver, or anywhere outside the signs welcoming you into—and bidding you farewell from—the village. The reason why isn’t because Abraham died young, or heroically in the war, leaving behind a childless wife. In fact, Abraham fathered twelve children and lived until he was eighty-eight, passing away in his sleep on Christmas Eve in 1890.

The reason why you spot the name Henley only at the village limits is because Abraham had only daughters. They move among us today, wearing the faces of a Beckley or a Hemming. You can spot the high hairline of a Henley in a Levering or a Foxglove. The dozen Henley daughters brought forth sixty children altogether—bearing the names of Foxglove, Childress, Chance, Parsons, and many more, all of them familiar to local tongues. But our ancestors who carried the name of our hometown rest in Fairlawn Cemetery under stones that pronounce them to be a Milhaus, or a Lawson. The Henley daughters are now only the wife of—or mother to—someone else.

Women are easily lost in the record of time. Our names change, our faces aren’t captured. If you look at the old stones in Fairlawn, you’ll see that half our founding population are commemorated only through initials: J.F., wife of John; or A.S., mother of Hiram. If I cannot hear the voices of our founding fathers in their pencil sketches, how much more has been lost that we don’t even know the names of the women?

Last week we bore witness to the dead; today I ask you to remember the forgotten. The following are the names of each of the Henley men who died in the Civil War. Remember them, and honor them. Then, if you have a chance, stop by the historical society and ask Mrs. Gurtz to help you locate the soldier associated with your family—then find out the names of their mothers, their wives, and their daughters.

Discover them. Remember them.

Then ask yourself who else you may have forgotten existed.

Seventeen

“I have done my friend duties,” Kenzie announces as she flops down next to me at lunch.

“You posted on the ep?” I ask, and she nods.

“Thanks.” I glance up from my phone and the comment section from the newest episode. A text from Bristal appears, and I look over to her table, where she’s giving me thumbs-up.

Halverson nod is perfect.

“Did you see your other comments, though?” MacKenzie asks. “Not everyone is happy with you.”

“I know,” I say, my lips twitching slightly. “I’m kind of thrilled.” Another text comes in from Bristal.

Ouch. Maybe don’t read the comments.

I smile and text back. As the creators, it’s important that we process the feedback of our audience.

Cool, Bristal responds. Then adds, I’m going to create an app that blocks any of your texts that sound self-righteous. It will be called BitchWidget and I will make millions.

“You’ve got a nice one here from Mrs. Levering,” Kenzie goes on, reading it aloud. “‘Great coverage, Lydia! Thank you for caring about our ancestors and the wonderful history of Henley! I look forward to your next episode.’”

It’s a nice comment, sure, but it does make me wonder if my fifth-grade teacher missed the point. My thumbs fly across my phone as I hit upon a comeback for Bristal.

I’m going to create an app that filters all your bad words. It will be called SwearCare and I will make billions.

“Well, this one is not so great,” MacKenzie says.

“Read it,” I say, not glancing up from my phone.

“Um, no,” Kenzie refuses, handing me her own phone instead, and pointing at the offending commenter.

cuntryboy69: fuck you and fuck your dad.

“Oh, dang,” I say, understanding why Kenzie didn’t want to read it to me. I hand her phone back and keep scrolling through my own, spotting one with a littering of heart emojis.

BigMacKenzie: BFF Shout out!!

“Nice,” I say, looking up. But Kenzie’s going through comments, too.

“Here’s one that says you don’t know what you’re talking about, that there are plenty of Halbertsons still around.”