How Many Bruises, Sorry, Children Do You Have?

A 1900 Census Worker (Image via tn-roots.com)

My husband asks, "Where'd you get THAT bruise?!" I ask him, "Where? I didn't know I had one!" And for the life of me I can't remember where it came from or how long it has been there. I move quickly and rarely stop even if I get hurt. Are you like that?

But ask me how many children I have, where and when they were born and I can tell you. I can tell you about birthing them, getting their names mixed up (for years I'd call two girls Ke-Lauren) and how they radiate when they smile.

Parenthood, whether you planned it, are hoping for it, grieving for your barrenness or are in the beginning, middle or later stages of it, affects us in such a profound way sometimes words are lacking.

Let's role play for a minute if you will. 

It's 1900 and you GOT A JOB! You are a census worker. Your job is to find people, hopefully whole families, ask them questions, write down their answers, and turn in your report. 

I'm the woman who answers the door when you knock. I'm Anna. I'm 47 and have lived in the US for 29 years. I left Sweden a year after my husband. We were looking for a better life in America.

All goes as planned. You've asked me my name, date of birth, birthplace, parents' birthplace, and my occupation. I already answered the same questions for my husband. I'm needing to go and start wondering how much longer this is going to take? 

Then you start asking about the children. I'm glad I answered the door. I'm not sure Hubby would have remembered when and where they were born.

I'm shocked with the first question about my children and don't quite know how to answer.

You, not knowing how loaded your question is, are poised to write my response, looking down at your paper.

"Ma'am? How many children?" And you wait as I fidget for a fraction of a second. "Any children?"

"Yes. Ten." There. It's out. You smile and say, "Got your hands full, don't you?" I smile and nod. He doesn't understand nor notice my quiet sigh.

Next question. "How many living?" You shrug and sigh. "Gotta ask, Ma'am. It's my job."

"Four", I say, meeting his eyes for a split second as we exchange that look that hurries the interview to  a close with a "Thank you," and a "Good day"  muttered with a nod and tipping of his hat.

Back to the present. Kelley, 17, plops into the chair opposite mine, excited to talk about what she's learning in her college psychology class. I whip my finger in the air, signaling her to wait.

"What'd ya find?" she asks, knowing I've been researching some documents of her great great great grandfather Charles Carlson and his wife, Anna Sophia. 

Take a second and look at what I was looking at. This is a preview of the 1900 US Census. A copy of the original for free was a click away as well.

And this is a copy of the original.

I'm stunned. She's 11 spaces down from the top. See the 10 and 4 to the right of Anna's name? That's #of children, and #of living children side-by-side on the census record. Over 2/3's of her children are dead by 1900. Did they die in Sweden before they came in 1871?  Were they victims of malaria, cholera, small pox, or influenza? 

The facts will come together as I do some more digging. But the conclusion will be the same.

Anna Sophia Carlson stands at her front door reducing her 24 years of life since marrying her husband in Sweden to a few names and numbers. 

If paper could talk what witness would it give of those five minutes of record-keeping? Would anyone ever know the impressions those six children had made on her life?

Would she always say,"I have ten children" to honor their place in her family?

Or would she keep it to herself knowing full well that unless someone has experienced her kind of grief, it's best to let it alone.

Would she consign her self to denying their existence and say "four"? 

That would be a way to avoid the well-intentioned but uncomfortable "Sorry for your loss", "At least you have four!", "It was God's will", or "They're at peace, now."

I can't get the image out of my mind. And the feelings are now firmly planted in my heart. Feelings of compassion.

I saw the names and the dates and all of the other facts. But I didn't have to live them. I'm in awe of the woman who kept going. 

Did she consider herself a woman bruised by life? I wonder...