I noticed at that moment, the young teenage boy trying not to show his amusement at the situation. It was Johnnie Baitsell. I recognized him.
Even odder, I knew all about Johnnie Baitsell. He was not family, but he was buried in the cemetery in Fremont. He died at fifteen years old sometime after 1900 of consumption in Texas, where his mother had taken him for the warmer climate. I had his obituary which described how he had died in his mothers’ arms—very sad.