This is The Guardian.

The Truth about the History of Abortion in America by Tamaradeen.

At our rural county's historical society, the past lives loosely in bulletins, news clippings, maps and handwritten index cards.

It's pieced together by pale grey haired women who sit at oak tables and pour over old photos.

Western sun filters in, half lighting the women as they name whose pictured, who is passed on.

Other volunteers gossip and cut obituaries from local papers.

I was sent here by Hearsay.

For years, my neighbor has claimed that the old cemetery in the low-lying field on my Wisconsin property contains more bodies than the scant number of tombstones indicates.

The epic flood of 1978 washed away the markers of the nameless.

Civil war soldiers, he says.

I want to know who the dead were in life.

After many walks through the cemetery, I'm familiar with the markers that remain.

One narrow footstone reads simply, M-A-S.

Three marble headstones rest at odd angles among the box-elder trees.

Stained, eroded and likened-crusted, the stones belong to a boy and two baby girls who died in the 1850s and 60s.

On the boys is a relief of a weeping willow. On the sisters are rose buds. Signs of young lives cut short.

I'm sitting at one of the oak tables when Carol, the historical society's assistant curator,

hands me a binder of cemetery records. A stranger has just sat beside me, her husband opposite us.

I study the list of those buried on my land. I recognize the children's names. I don't see any men's names.

But there's the name of a woman I've never heard of. I read it aloud. Nancy Ann Harris.

The stranger says she was married to Benjamin Franklin Harris, who's my husband's great, great, great uncle.

She nods to her husband, who nods in confirmation.

...