Witherbee Road: The Pearl Kelly Story

In Upstate New York, there are miles of flat cornfields. The roads along the fields fall and rise, cracked by frost heaves, bumpy and neglected.

General stores are called names like "Edge of Town" and "Four Corners." The four corners, where two roads meet, have an almost-abandoned farmhouse, one yellow flashing light, and a barn that has been converted into a store and pizza shop.

Inside the store, it is dark with one flickering light. Bulk boxes of candy are opened on shelves. One box is pushed forward and has 119 written on it in black marker. It's a blue-raspberry, sugar-dip lollipop. I buy one for my daughter, Ellie.

Everything in the store is built from pieces of other people's plans. Linoleum floors are partially torn up with concrete underneath. The countertop has been sealed, then unsealed and sanded. Someone decided where the appliances should go. Then someone else moved the stove to the opposite wall. The cooler is out of place, too close to the door, looming over me. A small display of handmade jewelry is wedged between a basket of beef jerky and a box of bubblegum.

I can so very much relate to this place. I am also pieces of other people's plans, partially torn up, sealed and unsealed, a mismatched display of things that I think I should be.

I am also rooted at these four corners, at the edge of my life, searching for what is beyond the crossroads.

It is here where my investigation into Pearl Kelly's life and death begins, on the New York country roads leading to Port Henry and the hamlet of Witherbee.

At that time, I only knew two things for certain: that the violent, recurring dreams I had about Pearl's death were getting too frequent and overwhelming to ignore, and that investigating her death seemed to make them stop.

I still struggle to find the purpose in the extraordinary things that happened to me over the past 20 years and how they aligned with the trauma and timeline of my great-grandmother's life: the unmistakable signs, strange coincidences, and violent dreams.

I have come to believe that she, Pearl, who died mysteriously in 1932, was trying to communicate two pieces of information to me from beyond the grave. One message was a piece of life advice that I stand by to this day. The second message was a warning that most certainly saved my life.

To take this journey with me, and to really understand why Pearl Kelly's story must be told, I need to ask you to accept something which I now believe to be true.

The root of this belief lies in the miracle of trauma and how it sears so deeply into the fabric of our being that it imprints a warning signal onto our DNA. And I believe that, if the traumatic incident is severe enough, then the message will be passed along to future generations, to prevent this type of tragedy from happening again.

My name is Gretchen Kelly. I am the great-granddaughter of Pearl Elizabeth (Gauthier) Kelly and Michael Kelly.

My mother named me after a character on the soap opera, Days of Our Lives, in 1983. She was taken with the character. She loved her sense of humor, outspoken nature, and boisterous energy.

Years later, when my mother, grandmother (Pearl's daughter), and I were at a gift shop, we stumbled upon a baby name book that noted that Gretchen, the diminutive form of Margaret, means Pearl.

I like to think that Mom was divinely inspired to choose that name, that Pearl and I are somehow connected in a way that was destined to change the path of my life and bring to light the darkest parts of hers.