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The Pourroy Boys
Nov. 11th, 2014 03:23 pmWhile I was working in Silicon Valley, I was lucky enough to live on and off in Saratoga, a small town up in the foothills of the Santa Cruz mountains. It was leafy and historic and nice to walk around when I had a spare moment, and one of my favourite places to visit was the cemetery, a quiet lot full of birds, trees, and so much love – and grief, but mainly love – you could almost smell it on the breeze.
One of the trees caught my attention. It was a coast redwood with a great fat trunk, unusual for the species, and had two light patches in the base. Closer to, you could see the tree had been hacked away so as not to have swallowed up the headstones of two young servicemen, brothers apparently, whose military-issue memorials were half covered in dirt and detritus but were at least saved from the tree. They had died within two years of each other, after the end of WWI but clearly having been involved with it. Who were they? Why had they signed up? Where did they go? What had killed them? Who were they? It became a small side obsession, trying to piece together their story, and I found only limited success, but in the process found an unexpected emotional attachment to this little patch of land and the family tree.
( The Pourroy Boys of Saratoga )
They both died before they could leave much of a trace in the statistics. Neither married, had children, owned property, or any of the other things that leave a paper trail. They were born, were given a name, joined the army, and died. If any photos of them exist, they aren't publicly available. Chances are, anyone who knew them has died too. For all intents and purposes they are merely names. The person is lost.
After Peter was buried their mother planted a redwood on their graves, a tree from the mountains they'd grown up on, eaten from, worked, shaped, left, and never saw again. It grew up on them and they became part of the landscape; in time the rest of the family died and was buried around them, and the tree ate from them too. It's grown fat on the bones of the family that planted it, and all their sorrow, joy, work, love, and the mysteries inside them that we will never know, now catch the laurel-scented breeze above the town they called home.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie...
But not in Flanders fields.
Sources:
The Savannah-Chanelle winery, formerly the Pourroy family winery
John P. Pourroy's Obituary
Peter C. Pourroy's Obituary
Louis Pourroy's grave record
The History of Santa Clara County, by Eugene T Sawyer
The Saratoga Historical Foundation Museum
Madronia Cemetery minutes, 24 Aug 2011
Thanks Dadoo for the research help!
One of the trees caught my attention. It was a coast redwood with a great fat trunk, unusual for the species, and had two light patches in the base. Closer to, you could see the tree had been hacked away so as not to have swallowed up the headstones of two young servicemen, brothers apparently, whose military-issue memorials were half covered in dirt and detritus but were at least saved from the tree. They had died within two years of each other, after the end of WWI but clearly having been involved with it. Who were they? Why had they signed up? Where did they go? What had killed them? Who were they? It became a small side obsession, trying to piece together their story, and I found only limited success, but in the process found an unexpected emotional attachment to this little patch of land and the family tree.
( The Pourroy Boys of Saratoga )
They both died before they could leave much of a trace in the statistics. Neither married, had children, owned property, or any of the other things that leave a paper trail. They were born, were given a name, joined the army, and died. If any photos of them exist, they aren't publicly available. Chances are, anyone who knew them has died too. For all intents and purposes they are merely names. The person is lost.
After Peter was buried their mother planted a redwood on their graves, a tree from the mountains they'd grown up on, eaten from, worked, shaped, left, and never saw again. It grew up on them and they became part of the landscape; in time the rest of the family died and was buried around them, and the tree ate from them too. It's grown fat on the bones of the family that planted it, and all their sorrow, joy, work, love, and the mysteries inside them that we will never know, now catch the laurel-scented breeze above the town they called home.
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie...
But not in Flanders fields.
Sources:
The Savannah-Chanelle winery, formerly the Pourroy family winery
John P. Pourroy's Obituary
Peter C. Pourroy's Obituary
Louis Pourroy's grave record
The History of Santa Clara County, by Eugene T Sawyer
The Saratoga Historical Foundation Museum
Madronia Cemetery minutes, 24 Aug 2011
Thanks Dadoo for the research help!
