My grandmother is the little girl in the middle. The grave she is visiting is her little brothers'. They died of pneumonia in the 1920s. The little girl on her left is her sister Pauline. The boy is her older brother Red. The woman in the hat is my great grandmother Hesta Mynhier, who always set great store by hats. They lived in a time and place -- an eastern Kentucky coal mining country in the early part of the twentieth century -- as foreign to me as Mars. Their hometown of Martin, Kentucky flooded every year and my grandmother's job, as a girl, was to hose down the walls and shovel out the mud so the linoleum in the kitchen could be pulled up and replaced. I just finished writing a book about my grandmother and her town, which will be published this summer, and while reporting the story I went to the cemetery, in Paintsville, Kentucky, where my grandmother's younger brothers were buried. My Uncle Walter gave me directions about how to find the graves -- start at the entrance, walk a certain number of steps, turn right, walk more steps to find the spot near a wall beneath a tree. But sometime in the last 80 years the tree came down. The wall crumbled. In those days, there was no money for headstones.