I never knew Carl Linford Kennedy. I was born in July 1946, and he died of pneumonia a couple of months later. At least that's what I think. I'm not even sure if I spelled (or know) his middle name, or whether or not he actually died of pneumonia. My mother remarried when I was about six or seven, and as a consideration to my stepfather, she had my name changed from "David William Kennedy" to "David William Kennedy Buchholz." My mother wanted my brother and me to consider that our stepfather, her second husband, was our "real" father, so our names were changed to his, and he officially adopted us. Though she meant well, it was a mistake. Not wanting to offend my stepfather I made no effort to expunge the last name "Buchholz" and return to "Kennedy" while he was living, and by the time he passed twenty years ago the family name "Buchholz" has carried on to children and grandchildren. As for me I have dropped the "William" and call myself "David Kennedy Buchholz."
Here is a drawing of my father as a little boy in 1926 made by his older brother, my Uncle Bill.
It's been a long strange journey straddling both the Kennedy and Buchholz families, but I am much closer to my Kennedy relatives and only know one of the Buchholzes. Part of that, I suppose, was due to the fact that my stepfather, Gustavus William Buchholz (GWB), wasn't close to his own family when I was growing up. A one-time visit to Southern Pines, NC, a trip to Washington DC to visit the FBI headquarters where GWB's brother worked as an FBI agent, a visit by some to Pickerel Lake during one summer. No phone calls, no letters, no visits, really no contact.
Between 1946 and 1953 when my mother remarried I lived at my paternal grandparents' house in Pleasant Ridge. This visit included a stop at their graves, too, right alongside their son's, my father's.
John Vincent Kennedy and Elsie Oberhelman Kennedy today
I imagine that my grandmother was devastated when my mother had Jack's and my names changed. Our names are part of our identity, and changing our names to Buchholz represented a Kennedy cleansing. Jack was named "John" after his paternal grandfather. a name that has been passed from many generations and continues through my son John.
The Kennedys. I am sitting to the right next to my mother. Elsie and John are in the center. Their remaining children and spouses have all passed; the cousins survive. From left to right—Beth, Margie, Dick, Bob, Donald, Jack, and David. Dick and Bob are closing in on 80. Margie, the youngest, is a year younger than I am. No such photo exists of the Buchholzes, as there were no family gatherings and no photographs.
Spring Grove Cemetery, with its many lakes and monuments, is an extraordinarily beautiful place to spend eternity. Unfortunately, the residents are unable to appreciate it, but for those who visit. it is comforting and peaceful. By a remarkable coincidence, members of my mother's family, the Hopples, are buried within ten or fifteen feet of my father's. Here's Rowland, my mother's younger brother. "Rowland" was one of my mother's two middle names. My youngest is John Rowland Buchholz. (His younger child, one of my grandchildren, is named Kennedy).
My uncle Rowland died eighteen years ago. He never married and there are those who believe that he was gay. The sixties in Cincinnati wouldn't have been a welcome time to come out of the closet. I lived with him near the University of Cincinnati for the three years that I attended school there. He was a strong influence in my life, beginning when I was born, as he assumed the role of a father to both me and my brother, taking us to Coney Island, Graeter's for ice cream, and spending holidays and some weekends with us. Here he is at my wedding.
June 13, 1970
Memorial Day, 2000. In a strange footnote, after not having spoken with him for several weeks one Sunday night I said to Jadyne, "I have to call Rowland". We talked for a half hour or so, and I felt very good having reconnected with him after too long a time. He was discovered dead of a heart attack the next morning. I must have been the last person to talk to him.
My mother's mother (both named Dorothy), and my maternal grandfather, Howard, who died thirteen years before I was born. (Howard is Jack's middle name). My mother was cremated and her ashes placed in a garden at All Saints Episcopal Church in Cincinnati, where my stepfather was pastor for seventeen years.
As a child I always thought of both of my grandmothers as ancient relics, older than dirt, having attained more years than I could ever imagine. I have no images of Howard, but in going through color slides that my father had taken I came across the only image I have of Grandmother Hopple.
Dorothy Winkler Hopple at Pickerel Lake, Michigan
Born 1889, Died 1961. Grandmother Hopple, my mother's mother, was 72 years old when she died. This photograph was taken many years earlier. She was 72 when she died. Seventy-two. On Monday, July 9th, four days hence, I will be 72. She was 72 when she died.