In the Garden...

By Laura M. Balster

It was the spring of 1924 and the little town of Lucas, Kansas, was about to be changed forevermore. Emma Brozek had accepted the friendship and eventually the unlikely affections of her eighty one year old employer, Samuel Perry Dinsmoor, the eccentric sculptor of The Garden of Eden. She was twenty years of age an innocent and beautiful young woman. She was also my grandfathers sister. Their scandalous marriage is well documented, as is the birth of their two children. Thousands of photos have been taken of The Garden (now listed on the National Register of Historic Places), many books and articles have been written about my ancestors, and in recent years much information has been available via the internet. ButI dont believe any of this tells the whole story. Ive always felt there is much more to their unconventional relationship than what has been reported. Mine is a fictionalized account, but inspired by real events. It is a love storyand a ghost story. It is based on a place which really exists and you can tour for a nominal fee. It is a quiet and cold dwelling which takes you back in time the minute you step through the door and smell the musty scent of yesteryear. Some intangible history lies just beyond your grasp, but when you close your eyes and open your mind you can sense something which has passed before. The Garden continues to intrigue thousands of visitors every year, and the residents of my hometown. For those of us who know the place, it will haunt us for all of our days. There is nowhere else on earth like The Garden of Eden and I invite you to join me as we travel back to 1924 and explore the strange story of Emma and Sam.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Oct 17, 2014
• ISBN: 9781496929716

Laura M. Balster

Laura Marie (Rounkles) Balster grew up in Lucas, Kansas, as the youngest of seven children. She was greatly influenced by her childhood experiences in this small Midwest town, and is proud of her Czech (and Native American Indian) heritage. The literary arts have always held a special place in Laura’s heart, and writing has been one of her passions. When in high school, she had a poem selected for publication and was paid tribute as a “Young Kansas Writer”. Laura attended Washburn University in Topeka, Kansas, graduating Summa Cum Laude in 1991. Earning a Bachelor of Arts degree, she majored in Political Science and received a minor in English. Laura is also the author of “Brandy,” a novel published in 2010. She lives with her family in Maryville, Illinois.

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AuthorHouse™

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This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

© 2014, 2015 Laura M. Balster. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Grateful acknowledgement is made for permission to use photographs

and certain sketches by Rita Sharp (Lucas, KS).

Grateful acknowledgment is also extended to David G. McCausland (Glen Carbon, IL) for certain sketches, and to Mike Nichols (Glen Carbon, IL) for the author’s photo.

Published by AuthorHouse 10/16/2014

ISBN: 978-1-4969-2972-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4969-2973-0 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4969-2971-6 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2014913436

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Epilogue

Notes from the Author

Resources

Time it was, and what a time it was, it was

A time of innocence, a time of confidences

Long ago, it must be, I have a photograph

Preserve your memories, they’re all that’s left you

~Paul Simon and Art Garfunkel

Prologue

6.jpg

Courtesy of David G. McCausland

Who will tell my story? Who will care? I smile sweetly for the camera. What else can I do? When someone looks upon this photo years from now, what will they think of me? Or will they even think of me, at all? Will they think of Sam only, and marvel at the difference in age between this eccentric and his young bride? I sit beside my husband in our Cabin Home, our daughter Emily Jane nestled safely between us on one of the velvet upholstered sofas, and I think of the journey which has brought me here. I think of the spirit which has haunted the house in which we reside and the fears I have lived with most every day. Those who look upon this photograph will see what they want to see, I suppose, but will they ever know the truth about what really happened in the life of Emma Brozek Dinsmoor in Lucas, Kansas, back in the 1920’s? Just looking at our picture you can see that my husband, Samuel Perry Dinsmoor, is old enough to be my grandfather – possibly even my great grandfather. I am now twenty two years of age and he recently turned eighty three. We were married in 1924 and will soon celebrate our second anniversary. I say ‘celebrate’, but remain conflicted in my feelings towards the life I have chosen and what the future may hold. You may even say I am tormented, in a way.

Am I living in the Garden of Eden or the Garden of Hell? I suppose only God knows, and He isn’t talking. At least…not to me. Not yet, anyway.

8.jpg

Courtesy of David G. McCausland

Chapter 1

My name is Emilie Brozek Dinsmoor and I was born on January 17, 1904, in what is now known as Podlusky in the Czech Republic. For those who may not know, and I’m guessing that could be many of you, Podlusky is a small village located sixty two miles northwest of Prague. Before I go any further, please understand what you are about to read is a diary of sorts, not a history book, but I feel I should give a little background information. (Let’s face it, they just don’t teach geography like they used to, do they? Therefore, some of you…especially the younger readers, intrigued by my strange tale…may benefit from knowing these facts.) Prague is the capital and largest city of the Czech Republic, and before that Czechoslovakia (following World War l, from 1918 until 1938) but what will forever be considered as Bohemia by my people. Our heritage is one rich in traditions and a unique culture which has been carried throughout the world by those who have fled the Czech state, seeking less conflict and greater opportunities elsewhere.

My family and friends call me Emma. I am the second oldest of thirteen children born to Vaclav Brozek and Marie Brant, and the oldest daughter. My family, including my mother’s parents (Anton Brant and Katerina Sedlakova) moved to the United States of America when I was two years of age, arriving in the Port of Galveston, Texas, on April 20, 1906 on the ship Kolm. They eventually settled just outside the small town of Lucas, Kansas. I do not remember anything about my earliest years spent in central Europe, and am doubtful if the ‘memories’ I have of the journey sailing over to America are actual remembrances, at all, or if they are simply images I created based on the collected descriptions of others who recalled the difficult passage all too clearly. I grew up hearing many such stories, not only of the trip to the new country, but also of the struggles my relatives faced while living in northern Bohemia. They uprooted and moved across the ocean, taking all their belongings with them…along with the hope of a better way of life. They were able to overcome each obstacle they encountered through the strength of that hope and it was something we all believed in deeply. We had to if we were going to survive.

We were extremely poor people, but my parents were proud and hardworking individuals who did the very best they could. They taught their children to respect our elders, to be honest, and to appreciate what we had.

The first time I remember hearing the name Samuel Perry Dinsmoor was around the supper table when I was probably thirteen years old. In hushed voices, my parents and grandparents were discussing this man who had apparently dug up his deceased wife from the Lucas cemetery because he wanted to inter her in the mausoleum which he’d recently completed at the nearly infamous Garden of Eden. Of course I knew what that place was, and had marveled at the site on more than one occasion when we’d gone into town, but I guess I had never known or put any value on who had built it or even why he had done so. Having little formal education, and being of a young age, the political and religious ideologies associated with the Garden’s structure were beyond my comprehension. The whole thing truly was a mystery to me. I always thought it was a bit spooky-looking with all the cement creatures leering at me, but I wasn’t much interested in the hands which built the place. Little did I know at that time what a huge role Sam Dinsmoor would later play in my life.

When hearing the tale of Sam’s disinterred spouse I remember thinking, ‘what sort of man would dig up his wife and bring her back to his home?’ Haven’t you thought this yourself, perhaps, if you know any of this story already? Or, are your good manners not allowing you to admit it, just yet? That’s fine. I’ll simply explain what I thought and you can see if you agree. As the story goes, Dinsmoor had built a mausoleum outside on the grounds of his home where he had planned to entomb his first wife, and then later have himself entombed when he died. When Frances passed away, the Lucas city council would apparently not allow her to be buried there. They said she had to be buried in the city cemetery like everyone else. So, a couple of days after she was properly laid to rest in the earth at the cemetery, Dinsmoor and some friends (possibly workers at the Garden of Eden) went out to the cemetery, dug her up, brought her back into town, put her in the mausoleum, and completely covered her coffin with cement so no one could ever move her again. Although none of my people witnessed this, there were rumors when Sam brought the coffin into town on the wagon they actually paraded it up and down Main Street a couple times before putting her in there, just to spite everyone. Of course, this caused quite a stir!

I figured this man would have had to be completely insane or completely lost in love. Having just recently begun to entertain certain romantic notions at the tender age of thirteen, I decided on the latter. I went about learning all I could about their relationship through the snippets of conversations overheard in my home and when shopping in town, but adults always seemed reluctant to discuss this topic with children, for some reason. They would exchange glances and do their best to avoid direct questions whenever I asked. I did find out however that Mr. Dinsmoor had married his first wife, Frances, in 1870 (on horseback, which I found quite interesting). This meant they had shared a forty seven year-long marriage. Amazing! To my young mind that was incredible. I wondered if I would ever marry someone who would love me enough to do what Sam had done with Frances. I hoped so, but yet the thought of the wooden casket being dug up and moved elsewhere still sort of gave me the creeps. In fact, it was the source of many reoccurring nightmares which would plague me for years.

The subject of Sam Dinsmoor would resurface from time to time while I was growing up, always an intriguing topic of conversation for me and my best friend, Jane Vlcek. Have you ever had a best friend? If so, you know it is a wonderful feeling. Let me tell you a little about mine. Like my family, Jane’s parents had relocated to America from Czechoslovakia near the turn of the century and we had much in common. We lived only a half mile from one another and were often at each other’s homes. We walked back and forth to spend time together whenever we could, which I realize would be unheard of today. Now, I’m sure many youngsters would gasp at the suggestion that they walk this distance regularly to see a friend, and many parents would be afraid to allow them to do so without supervision. With all the dangers in the world nowadays, it wouldn’t be safe. How very sad it is that things have changed in this way! Walking to a neighbor’s house a ways down the road was not a big issue, at all, in my day.

Well, let’s get back to Jane. My father would call her the sweet little wolf when he spoke in English, referring to the meaning of her surname, Vlcek. Jane was generally a good-natured girl and we got along well, helping one another with chores and making up little games which we played to pass the time. Sometimes we’d include our siblings, and sometimes we wanted to just spend time together on our own, whispering and telling secrets as girls will do. Jane’s family was as poor as mine, as hard-working as mine, and enjoyed a good celebration on occasion as much as the Brozek clan did.

Frequently on Saturday nights many Czech families would meet in one of the neighbors’ barns, even occasionally in ours, and dance for hours to the Bohemian music performed by the various members of our community. My brother James, with the crystal blue eyes, was a natural musician and began playing with this group at a young age using a cherished accordion brought over from the old country by our grandparents, years before. He and the others in the band eventually became quite good. They continued to play together for decades at festivals and so on, performing lively Polkas and heart-breaking waltzes and always filling the song requests of their loyal audience. Some of these men would go on to record albums in later decades and achieve a certain degree of fame for their mastery of this genre.

Immigrants from Bohemia (later known as Czechoslovakia) felt proud of their heritage, but others living in Kansas at that time would sometimes refer to my people as bohunks, a derogatory term that would occasionally lead to arguments and fighting. Have you ever heard that word? I hope not. I hope by now the label has faded from the American vocabulary. No one wants to be looked down upon; everyone wants to be respected. My relatives felt they always gave respect to others and expected the same, in