Agnes grew up in the largely Dutch community of Sheldon, Iowa. That's where she met my grandfather, Richard J. Roorda and married him when she was 18. The first year of their marriage, they moved from the farming community, where Agnes's family lived, to "the city", Sioux City, Iowa. Evidently, that's where Agnes contracted the tuberculosis that would take her from her family at the age of 30.
RJR had immigrated to the U.S. as a young man from the Netherlands so that he could be a farmer. I really think what he wanted most in life was to have his own herd of black and white cows. To that end, and also probably hoping that the high, dry climate of Colorado would be good for Agnes's health, in 1917 the family moved from Iowa to Burlington, Colorado.
The trip from Iowa to eastern Colorado couldn't have been easy with four children under five, including a new baby. RJR and Agnes remained in Burlington for about five years. His frequent job changes must have created little stability for the growing family. Three more babies were born; two of them died, one at birth and one at the age of one year. The third new baby was my father Richard Jr. (Dick) Roorda, born in 1923. That year saw another move for the family, this time to Elphis, Colorado, a small farming community of about 20 or so families located 16 miles north of Vona. Elphis has since disappeared from the map, but back then it was composed of a country store, a school, two churches, a cemetery, and about two dozen farms scattered over an area three or four miles in radius.
RJR ran Vona's general store where the local farmers traded their eggs and cream for groceries and supplies. He also kept a small farm with cows, horses, pigs, and chickens. The life was tough, according to my uncle, Agnes's son Garrett, but the community was friendly, bound together by school, church, and store.
Agnes died in December, 1924, after living only a little over one year in Elphis. While busy about the house, "flitting from house to store to barn," in the words of her husband, later written in his memoir, she died suddenly of a coronary arrest.
I asked a relative why Agnes wasn't buried in the Vona cemetery, a large, well-maintained cemetery north of town. As I learned from his letter, Agnes had died in the month of December. A few of her neighbors owned Model T Fords, but the majority of the people came to her funeral by team and wagon, since snow made driving their Model-T's almost impossible. Her casket was placed on a horse-drawn sleigh for the trip to church, two and one-half miles away, and then on the sleigh again from church to cemetery. "And that, dear Becky," concluded this relative in a letter, "is why your grandmother is buried in a rural cemetery, sixteen miles north of Vona.
When I found Agnes's grave in the late 1980s (and that search is a whole other story!), the cemetery was still well-maintained by the people in the area. I had a conversation with the man who at that time was the president of the Cemetery Board. "You want to keep the graves up nice," he told me. "You feel a responsibility for those who are there."
RJR had immigrated to the U.S. as a young man from the Netherlands so that he could be a farmer. I really think what he wanted most in life was to have his own herd of black and white cows. To that end, and also probably hoping that the high, dry climate of Colorado would be good for Agnes's health, in 1917 the family moved from Iowa to Burlington, Colorado.
The trip from Iowa to eastern Colorado couldn't have been easy with four children under five, including a new baby. RJR and Agnes remained in Burlington for about five years. His frequent job changes must have created little stability for the growing family. Three more babies were born; two of them died, one at birth and one at the age of one year. The third new baby was my father Richard Jr. (Dick) Roorda, born in 1923. That year saw another move for the family, this time to Elphis, Colorado, a small farming community of about 20 or so families located 16 miles north of Vona. Elphis has since disappeared from the map, but back then it was composed of a country store, a school, two churches, a cemetery, and about two dozen farms scattered over an area three or four miles in radius.
RJR ran Vona's general store where the local farmers traded their eggs and cream for groceries and supplies. He also kept a small farm with cows, horses, pigs, and chickens. The life was tough, according to my uncle, Agnes's son Garrett, but the community was friendly, bound together by school, church, and store.
Agnes died in December, 1924, after living only a little over one year in Elphis. While busy about the house, "flitting from house to store to barn," in the words of her husband, later written in his memoir, she died suddenly of a coronary arrest.
I asked a relative why Agnes wasn't buried in the Vona cemetery, a large, well-maintained cemetery north of town. As I learned from his letter, Agnes had died in the month of December. A few of her neighbors owned Model T Fords, but the majority of the people came to her funeral by team and wagon, since snow made driving their Model-T's almost impossible. Her casket was placed on a horse-drawn sleigh for the trip to church, two and one-half miles away, and then on the sleigh again from church to cemetery. "And that, dear Becky," concluded this relative in a letter, "is why your grandmother is buried in a rural cemetery, sixteen miles north of Vona.
When I found Agnes's grave in the late 1980s (and that search is a whole other story!), the cemetery was still well-maintained by the people in the area. I had a conversation with the man who at that time was the president of the Cemetery Board. "You want to keep the graves up nice," he told me. "You feel a responsibility for those who are there."
Agnes grew up in the largely Dutch community of Sheldon, Iowa. That's where she met my grandfather, Richard J. Roorda and married him when she was 18. The first year of their marriage, they moved from the farming community, where Agnes's family lived, to "the city", Sioux City, Iowa. Evidently, that's where Agnes contracted the tuberculosis that would take her from her family at the age of 30.
RJR had immigrated to the U.S. as a young man from the Netherlands so that he could be a farmer. I really think what he wanted most in life was to have his own herd of black and white cows. To that end, and also probably hoping that the high, dry climate of Colorado would be good for Agnes's health, in 1917 the family moved from Iowa to Burlington, Colorado.
The trip from Iowa to eastern Colorado couldn't have been easy with four children under five, including a new baby. RJR and Agnes remained in Burlington for about five years. His frequent job changes must have created little stability for the growing family. Three more babies were born; two of them died, one at birth and one at the age of one year. The third new baby was my father Richard Jr. (Dick) Roorda, born in 1923. That year saw another move for the family, this time to Elphis, Colorado, a small farming community of about 20 or so families located 16 miles north of Vona. Elphis has since disappeared from the map, but back then it was composed of a country store, a school, two churches, a cemetery, and about two dozen farms scattered over an area three or four miles in radius.
RJR ran Vona's general store where the local farmers traded their eggs and cream for groceries and supplies. He also kept a small farm with cows, horses, pigs, and chickens. The life was tough, according to my uncle, Agnes's son Garrett, but the community was friendly, bound together by school, church, and store.
Agnes died in December, 1924, after living only a little over one year in Elphis. While busy about the house, "flitting from house to store to barn," in the words of her husband, later written in his memoir, she died suddenly of a coronary arrest.
I asked a relative why Agnes wasn't buried in the Vona cemetery, a large, well-maintained cemetery north of town. As I learned from his letter, Agnes had died in the month of December. A few of her neighbors owned Model T Fords, but the majority of the people came to her funeral by team and wagon, since snow made driving their Model-T's almost impossible. Her casket was placed on a horse-drawn sleigh for the trip to church, two and one-half miles away, and then on the sleigh again from church to cemetery. "And that, dear Becky," concluded this relative in a letter, "is why your grandmother is buried in a rural cemetery, sixteen miles north of Vona.
When I found Agnes's grave in the late 1980s (and that search is a whole other story!), the cemetery was still well-maintained by the people in the area. I had a conversation with the man who at that time was the president of the Cemetery Board. "You want to keep the graves up nice," he told me. "You feel a responsibility for those who are there."
RJR had immigrated to the U.S. as a young man from the Netherlands so that he could be a farmer. I really think what he wanted most in life was to have his own herd of black and white cows. To that end, and also probably hoping that the high, dry climate of Colorado would be good for Agnes's health, in 1917 the family moved from Iowa to Burlington, Colorado.
The trip from Iowa to eastern Colorado couldn't have been easy with four children under five, including a new baby. RJR and Agnes remained in Burlington for about five years. His frequent job changes must have created little stability for the growing family. Three more babies were born; two of them died, one at birth and one at the age of one year. The third new baby was my father Richard Jr. (Dick) Roorda, born in 1923. That year saw another move for the family, this time to Elphis, Colorado, a small farming community of about 20 or so families located 16 miles north of Vona. Elphis has since disappeared from the map, but back then it was composed of a country store, a school, two churches, a cemetery, and about two dozen farms scattered over an area three or four miles in radius.
RJR ran Vona's general store where the local farmers traded their eggs and cream for groceries and supplies. He also kept a small farm with cows, horses, pigs, and chickens. The life was tough, according to my uncle, Agnes's son Garrett, but the community was friendly, bound together by school, church, and store.
Agnes died in December, 1924, after living only a little over one year in Elphis. While busy about the house, "flitting from house to store to barn," in the words of her husband, later written in his memoir, she died suddenly of a coronary arrest.
I asked a relative why Agnes wasn't buried in the Vona cemetery, a large, well-maintained cemetery north of town. As I learned from his letter, Agnes had died in the month of December. A few of her neighbors owned Model T Fords, but the majority of the people came to her funeral by team and wagon, since snow made driving their Model-T's almost impossible. Her casket was placed on a horse-drawn sleigh for the trip to church, two and one-half miles away, and then on the sleigh again from church to cemetery. "And that, dear Becky," concluded this relative in a letter, "is why your grandmother is buried in a rural cemetery, sixteen miles north of Vona.
When I found Agnes's grave in the late 1980s (and that search is a whole other story!), the cemetery was still well-maintained by the people in the area. I had a conversation with the man who at that time was the president of the Cemetery Board. "You want to keep the graves up nice," he told me. "You feel a responsibility for those who are there."
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