You can't pick your relatives...

by Les Avery I read with special interest the April 15 Enterprise article on "Stories buried in cemeteries."

Ralph Hayes's research on Pittsfield's South Cemetery introduced readers to my Great-great-great-uncle Ephraim Avery, who in December of 1832 murdered 30-year-old Sarah Cornell, a mill worker with whom he was having an affair. When he discovered she was carrying his baby, Ephraim, a married Methodist minister with six children, attempted to force her to abort, and not succeeding, killed her. Wanting to make her death look like a suicide, he hung her body on a stake in a farmer's field two miles from Fall River, Mass.

The clue that led to his apprehension was the knot tied around her neck. It was a clove hitch, requiring two hands to tie, but one of Sarah's hands was in a position making it impossible for her to have tied such a knot. Ephraim became the first minister in the history of the United States to be tried for murder. The complete story appears in an out-of-print book by Mary Cable titled, "Avery's Knot." Most who have studied the case believe the Methodist Church got him off.

Later suspended by the Methodist Church, he moved to New York to be with his sister Nabby. In 1851, with his wife and children as well as Nabby, Ephraim moved to Pittsfield to be with Nabby's son Carlos, my great-great-grandfather who built the "Old Brick" which has been restored and stands five miles north of Wellington, on the east side of Rt. 58.

The article got me thinking about Nabby, Ephraim's sister and how what happened in her life impacted mine. When she lived in New England she became involved with a French sea captain, whom she loved and expected to marry. The story goes that one day he sailed out of her life never to return.

After he left she discovered she was with child. Seeking to avoid disgrace she fled east and gave birth to my great-great-grandfather Carlos. Ephraim was nine years old when Carlos, his nephew, was born. Carlos Avery is also buried in the South Pittsfield Cemetery.

I wonder what the French sea captain's name was. Had he married her I probably would not be here. She would have had no reason to flee to New York and Carlos may have never moved to Pittsfield and married my great-great-grandmother. On the other hand, even though he sailed out of her life, had she decided to give her child his name, my name wouldn't be Avery, it might be Richet (Rich-ay). Now that has a nice ring to it. Or maybe Ariege (Ari-ezh). I can pass on that one. Still I wonder if having a distinctive French name might have made a difference in how I viewed myself?

Years ago I invited a woman named Sally Bennet to accompany me to a Colorado University football game and a party following the game. When I picked up Sally it became apparent she was depressed. As we drove toward Boulder, I found myself struggling to get her to talk. "Yes" and "no" answers were all she would offer. Finally in desperation I said to her, "Do you like your name?" She blurted out, "I hate my name." Contact! Connection! There was a feeling person here after all.

"If you could have any name in the world, what would that name be?" I asked. Just like that she said, "Monique Benet (Ba-nay)." Smiling I said, "When we go to the party I shall introduce you as Monique Ba-nay."

The football game required little conversation and true to my word, at the party I introduced her as Monique Ba-nay. The transformation was instant. Wallflower, non-communicative Sally became the life of the party. I stood off to the side stunned at what I was observing, as guys fluttered around her like bees going to honey. We were the last to leave, for Monique was not about to cut the evening short.

Departing, like a fool, I said to our host and hostess, "By the way I would like you to meet Sally Bennet." Instantly the curtain dropped. She withdrew and spoke not a word on the drive back to Denver. It was my first and last date with Sally.

Names have power. So maybe had I been Les Rich-ay or Les Ari-ezh instead of Les Avery, my life would have turned out differently, but I doubt it. Truth be told I have always been proud to be an Avery in spite of the skeletons in the Avery closet and, oh yes, in the South Pittsfield Cemetery.