Almost as a postscript, after I hit the “publish” button on yesterday’s blog entry, a little bit of additional information grasped my attention. Sandwiched between the many other listings at FamilySearch.org for our Kelly family's descendant, Robert Fulk—the Chicago version of that surname’s spelling rendered it as Faulk—there were two other records which revealed a surprising, but brief story.
It was a record of birth that began the scene—the record of an unnamed Faulk son, born in Chicago on the evening of February 10, 1920. With the parents’ names entered as Robert Charles Faulk and Gertrude Pryor, it certainly was a document regarding our Chicago Faulks.
The date, though, prompted me to turn back to the records I had gleaned for yesterday’s post, just to double check. Yes, that date did seem familiar. It was only one day before the date for Gertrude’s own passing.
I have no way—yet—to know whether Robert and Gertrude ever gave that tiny child a name. You see, everything happened so quickly after that birth—an arrival I can’t imagine heralded any joyful reception. Within six hours, that little life was officially documented as expired—too soon to even pronounce a given name for the baby. The death record noted his date of death as February 11, 1920, which was, of course, that familiar date which caught my attention—the very day the child’s mother had also passed away.
While the newspaper back in the hometown of his father stated that the baby’s mother had died from pneumonia, this tiny paper trail made me wonder what the rest of the story might be.
On Valentine’s Day of that year, it was not one love that was buried at Mount Olivet, but two.