ChgoRed and the Mystery of the Old Gravestone

In which I hang out in cemeteries; investigate an old tragedy; and surprise the heck out of my family. Darned curiosity.

If you grow up in a family of history buffs and amateur genealogists like I did, your childhood will feature more than a few trips to cemeteries. Not necessarily to see your own ancestors, mind, but just to see what you can find. Because cemeteries = fun. (Unless you’re my sister, in which case cemetery = three hours of wishing you were back in the car already. Or unless you’re my fiancé, in which case cemeteries = lots of dead people. Can we go already?)

Thus, when I took a personal field trip to Graceland Cemetery in January, I did it alone. Which is cool, because the whole point of the trip was to satisfy my own curiosity.  (For non-Chicagoans, Graceland is a lovely old cemetery about half a mile from Wrigley Field. Many famous citizens buried there--Marshall Field & family, Cyrus McCormick, Kimball of Kimball pianos, George Pullman, the boxer Jack Johnson, etc. [And before you ask, Capone is over in Mount Carmel Cemetery. Catholic.])

So--the stone. Right.

First saw it years ago, when my dad and I were exploring the cemetery. (Again, my family.) It immediately caught my eye: A small red stone, decorated with an artist’s palette. (I always like stones that tell something about the owner.) Even with my rusty German I could make out the sentiment: “He was the best [one]!” And he was so young--only 30 when he died in 1896.

It’s hard not to be touched by a small, forgotten stone with such a story on its face. I would think about it sometimes, and wonder about the man underneath. Was he an artist? Immigrant? Member of some glittering young bunch of creative friends? Was he really the best? Who wanted his stone to read that way? And so young--why?

This January, I finally got around to finding out.

First, a trip back to Graceland for some pictures and to take a few notes. Cold breezy day. The only sound was the ice falling off the trees and hitting the snow. Which sounds an awful lot like footsteps if you’re prone to getting the heebie-jeebies like I am. I didn’t stay too long because, hello--alone, cemetery, January. Can you say movie of the week? Took down the dates and the location, took the pictures. The big surprise--someone had laid a wreath on his grave, which…wow. All along this had been my little puzzle. Maybe it belonged to someone else, too.

A few weeks later I took a trip to the Newberry Library for some research. Unlike the public library, their microfilm is in great shape AND they have access to an awesome database of newspaper articles going back to the 1850s. No, really, it‘s awesome. If you’ve ever spent hours and hours going through microfilm just to find a story or news item, you know what I mean. Answer to your prayers.

Unfortunately, there are only four computers hooked up to it. Film for me, then. But since I had the death date from the stone, not such a big deal.

He made the front page that day.

His name was Richard Schober. Born in Chicago; father was a lithographer. And he really was an artist. In fact, he was a really good artist. Was especially talented at anatomical studies of people and animals. Studied at the Art Institute, then in Paris, Germany and London. Had come home to Chicago to take a teaching position at the Art Institute. The day that he died, he was scheduled to give an evening lecture there.

His family attributed it to overwork, to studying too hard, and to his constant habit of comparing himself unfavorably to the world’s great artists. Whatever--that morning after breakfast, he walked into Lincoln Park and shot himself. He left his parents a note of apology, which was printed in the paper, too.

It doesn’t explain everything, but it explains enough--the artist’s palette, the sentiment on the stone, the short span of years. I’m so glad I know now. I ride past Graceland twice a day on my commute, and I think about him just about every time. A few months after he died, Schober‘s parents donated his books and paintings to the Art Institute. I’ve been thinking about contacting the institute, to ask if I could see the paintings. I feel like I know enough about his death; it would be nice to see something of his life.

It also makes me want to find another cool stone and another interesting story…which I may have already. As it happens, the story of Richard Schober was not the most amazing or intriguing thing I learned that day.

Remember the database?

I finally got a seat; did my research; did some other poking around. And just on a lark, typed my last name into the database.

Bingo…maybe.

I should say first that I don’t have a very common last name (we‘ll call it Xyz). If you can find someone with my last name, I probably know them already. There just aren’t that many of us in this country with the Xyz surname. Maybe 20 or 25 people.

So, when I got a hit on the name at all, I was pleased. When I actually read the article, I was stunned. And thrilled.

It was an article from 1914. A Mr. Frank Xyz had been discovered dead in a hotel room with a woman named Christina. (!) They had checked in the night before as Mr. and Mrs. Xyz. (!!) The next morning, the hotel owner smelled gas coming from their room. Tried the door and couldn’t get in. Called the cops; they broke in and found Frank and Christina, already gone. Ruled an accident.

As it turns out, my great-grandfather Xyz DID have a brother named Frank. (!!!) And they did live in this area back then. When there were even fewer Xyzs around than there are now.

And our Frank? Already had a wife…named Anna. (!!!!!!!!!!)

You can see why I was excited. Because, if this Frank is our Frank, I may have stumbled on an old family scandal. One that neither my dad nor his sister had ever heard about, but which they both agreed was very exciting. Just going by the coincidences, I think this could be our guy.

Three days later, I sent away for a death certificate. Because this is Chicago, I’m still waiting. I really cannot wait to see what it says. If it is our Frank, then I want to know where he’s buried, is his mother buried nearby, and can I see the police record? If it’s not our Frank, then just how many Frank Xyzs were running around Chicago in 1914?

One little story opens up four new doorways. I just love it.

Comments

[Heather]

Hey, if you ever want company prowling through cemeteries, give me a call! I'm not necessarily a geneology buff, but I'm fascinated by the old names and the quirkiness of old monuments. My favorite is the Waldheim cemetery in Forest Park. They have a memorial to the Haymarket Massacre and a socialist/communist burial section. It's rather fascinating.

Pam is also a cemetery buff. She likes photographing them.

[AmyWOMAN]

Have you ever been to Roseland Cemetary? It's huge, many famous people are buried there, and there's a lot of interesting art there. Frex, a man lost his wife and their baby, and he commissioned a beautiful sculpture of the two of them.

It's also one of the less creepy cemetaries in the area, certainly. A far cry from, say, Bachelor's Grove in Midlothian.

Very interesting story about Frank, btw! Let us know.

[AmyWOMAN]

Er, I meant to spell that "cemeteries", not "cemetaries".

[Steph]

Neat stuff! If you ever need a microfiche buddy or would like to traipse around cemetaries again, count me in! That is absolutely fascinating. Btw - this is Steph (Rich's friend from Bradley), didn't realise you were online until Heather pointed me your way.

[Steph]

I'd be interested in tagging along, especially if you go to the Forest Park one mentioned above.