“A coincidence is a minor miracle for which God chooses to remain anonymous.”
It happened in 1992 during a trip back to the east coast to visit an old friend and face down some of my demons at the Vietnam Veterans Memorial. I hadn’t planned to go during Holy Week, but that’s the way it worked out. It was Palm Sunday, in fact, when I went to confront The Wall. It was both a wrenching and healing experience and I needed to decompress a bit afterward.
So I rented a car and set off for the Eastern Shore with no particular goal in mind other than to find the perfect crab cake. As I meandered along through southern Maryland, I picked up a map at a tourist information center. I have always loved to visit old churches and I knew that some of the oldest in the nation were in this area. The map listed some of the early churches and the dates of their establishment.
Christ Church, in Chaptico, was the earliest one I could find, having been built in 1736. It was not far off the main route, so I set off to find it. It’s a lovely little brick church in a very pastoral setting. No one was around, but the door was open and I entered the narthex. Keep in mind that I had selected this church completely at random. Or so I thought.
There was a brass plaque in the narthex stating that the land for the church had been donated in 1735 by Edmund Key. I experienced what has been described as a psychological discontinuity. It’s sort of like vertigo. Every hair on my body stood straight up. Something resembling high voltage electricity was playing ping pong along my spine.
I was vaguely aware that Francis Scott Key was a distant relation and that he had come from this area, but it had never occurred to me to delve into the family history. When I recovered enough to function on a minimal level, I wandered into the sanctuary. My family’s name was everywhere, on stained glass windows, on pews.
Eventually, I went outside to explore the graveyard, expecting to find many headstones with my family’s name on them. There were none. That was nearly as astounding as the discovery of the plaque. I asked around town and was directed to the local doctor who sat on the vestry of the church. This man was kind enough to take a few minutes of his time to help clear up the mystery.
Many generations of my family were buried, not in the graveyard, but in a private vault beneath the church. The vault had been locked for many years because of some dispute among family members. I was given a short, but remarkably thorough, course in local history by the doctor, who concluded by suggesting that I visit my ancestral home in Leonardstown.
My WHAT?
Yes, indeed, the ancestral home of the Key family is a rather impressive plantation-style structure that now houses the governmental offices of St. Mary’s County. The staff there treated me like visiting royalty. They presented me with a history of the county in which my family played a fairly large role.
That was about all my overtaxed system could handle for one day, so I drove out of town and caved up in a charming little B & B to catch my breath. Just down the street was a rather seedy looking restaurant where, I was told, all the locals go. Not only did I find my roots that day, but I found the perfect crab cake, as well.
I’m not going to tell you the name of the restaurant. If you ever wind up there, you’ll know. And you can attribute it to coincidence, if you’re so inclined.
9:34:37 PM 
|
