Jo-Ann Mapson

Hay-on-Wye:
Sixty-four bookstores in twenty-four hours

Last semester a Native student urged me to explore my European heritage. She assured me I'd find intriguing stories there, and much to write about. I thought to myself, how could that be? I'm a third-generation native Southern Californian, the land of such towering icons such as the very first McDonald's restaurant, Disneyland, and the ocean warm enough to swim in all year round. Everyone there has a new car, nice clothes, and plenty of spending cash, it seems. The real estate is through the roof, and the traffic is endless. On the positive side, the weather is so mild that a person can wear shorts and a T-shirt on Christmas Day. Nevertheless, my shallow roots are always a little embarrassing to admit and certainly not much use in writing. Recently I received an e-mail from a Catherine (Mapson) Collingborn in London, England, my 3 rd cousin once removed, who told me about growing up in Brinkworth, England, on a farm with no electricity, no hot water. She was just about my age, and as hard as that life must have been to live today, she longed to return to it. She sent me directions to the farm, and Stewart and I put it on our itinerary along with Stonehenge, Hay-on-Wye, and the cliffs of Moher.

"Wake up, baby," he said as he parked the rental Mercedes I'd put a dent in the day before. "We're at the ancestral home." As I roused from my jet-lagged nap, I saw a collection of narrow roads and dwindling farmland. The lush shades of green hurt my eyes. A young man mowed the graveyard next to St. Michael's and All Angels, a church built in the year 1151. To the left of the path were the graves of William and Jane Mary Mapson, who died in 1797. They built the stone house across the road that was still standing, still in use, and where Catherine had grown up along with her 7 brothers and sisters. Mapsons also farmed the land on the other side of the road, where Catherine's brother currently ran a dairy farm. The headstones of my relatives were crumbling and covered with lichen. I touched my fingers to the carved letters and tried to imagine their lives. Inside the church a plaque commemorated three Mapson soldiers who'd died in World War I. Stewart took pictures; I sat on a stone bench and inhaled the heady scent of cut grass and summer flowers. According to Catherine's research, our oldest relatives were butchers, servants, groomsmen, and clockmakers. Such effort it took them to make a living. My life seemed positively lazy in comparison.

Our next stop was the hilly town of Hay-on-Wye, Wales, the burg of 64 bookstores, even narrower roads, and more bed & breakfasts concentrated in one place than I thought possible. I met a border collie who lay in the vestibule of a children's bookstore thick with first editions and collectibles so fine that only the clerks could handle them. I stocked up on Irish fiction, ogled the law books, language primers, and realized the futility of seeing everything in one afternoon. I savored the beauty in aging leather-bound tomes, and too soon felt glutted, though I'd only managed to explore a dozen or so stores.

It was uncommonly hot, so I sent Stewart on ahead of me and found a café where I sipped a cup of tea and thought about my relatives. The names on the graves lodged in my heart. I imagined building that house stone by stone, thatching the roof, filling the rooms with children (one Mapson had 12 children, and adopted another she found in a turnip field), stretching the soup to feed their mouths, and standing on the top of a hill looking out toward the sea, and wondering what lay across that expanse of water. One Mapson went to South America, another to Australia, and still another landed in Southern California to use his farming skills to grow lemons. This Mapson left California for Alaska, and a new twig of the family tree sprouted.

We hooked up with Catherine in London on our last night before returning to the states. Wedged between Stonehenge and The Magic Flute at the Royal Opera House, we shared a couple hours together in the hotel bar, where it was still uncommonly hot. She gave me pages of family history, and told me those kinds of family stories relatives tell and retell, the silly escapades, the outrageous behavior of eccentric aunts, and the feuds that send the odd brother out of the country to make his own way.

My student was right. The afternoon at the graves changed me. I can't get that child in the turnip patch out of my thoughts. I find myself turning his story over the same way Mapson farmers must have turned the earth on the farm. A single fact, some time to embroider, and I'm off in a new direction, chasing story.

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