A family of wild turkeys, two adults and eight little ones, scurried across Galkin Road as I neared the Martin Luther Cemetery. I pulled my car through the partly open gate and gave the dust from the dirt road a moment to settle. Once again, I had come to northern Wisconsin’s Lincoln County to take stock of the old Latvian immigrant colony.

Outside in the dry heat, I was greeted by flies of the pesky horse and beautiful dragon varieties. Looking up the slight hill, I saw that things had not changed much from the last time I was here. The reddish-brown monument to the Latvian pioneers, who dedicated the cemetery in 1903, still stands. A number of graves are decorated with flowers, some perhaps left over from Memorial Day. A few gravestones are still hidden in clumps of overgrown greenery, forgotten by relatives.

Down to the right of the entrance, close to the dirt road and out of sight of the folks on the hill, the pagānu kapi looked pretty much the same, too. It’s here that people who were not members of the Martin Luther congregation were buried.

The few Latvian ancestors who still live near the unincorporated village of Gleason, as well as members of the Latvian Ev.-Lutheran Church of Milwaukee, had made plans to mark the 100th anniversary of the cemetery’s dedication on July 27. The Rev. Lauma Zušēvica would lead the kapu svētki service.

At the home of George Mondeik, conversation was interrupted by questions from extended family members about what food to bring, where to be when, and whether the grass in the cemetery should be trimmed one more time.

Mondeik, born in 1928, is one of only about four local Latvians who still recall the old days of the colony. His father, Jānis Mandeiķis, emigrated about 1895 from Žagari, near the modern-day Latvian-Lithuanian border. Like other Latvians, he was eventually drawn to Lincoln County by the promise of good land and the potential of creating a new Kurzeme in America. The Lincoln County colony was marketed by the Wisconsin Valley Land Company and promoted by Jēkabs Zībergs, editor and publisher of the Boston-based newspaper, Amerikas Vēstnesis.

Latvian settlers founded the Martin Luther congregation in 1900, the same year they got hold of land for a church and cemetery. The first Latvians were buried there in 1902, according to church records, but the cemetery was not dedicated until 1903. In 1906, the first church ever built by Latvians in the United States was erected in the cemetery.

Historians such as Osvalds Akmentiņš, who documented the colony in the Minneapolis-based magazine Tilts and in his 1958 book Amerikas latvieši, claim that upwards of 2,000 Latvians once lived in Lincoln County. Mondeik said he’s doubtful about that number, but allowed that maybe 750-1,000 may have once been in the area.

The Martin Luther cemetery certainly is no guide. Only about 125 people are buried there. Quite a few, according to cemetery records, are in unmarked graves.

In part because of religious and political conflicts within the community, Latvians also chose to bury their family and friends in other area cemeteries. Many are interred in the Gleason town cemetery. Others are in a cemetery in Merrill, the largest nearby city.

But the Martin Luther cemetery also reveals some of the hardships faced by the veclatvieši. For example, one family lost three children in three years. Minna Eglit, born May 22, 1903, lived only three days. The year before, Adam Eglit, survived three weeks after his birth on July 19, 1902. And Emilie Eglit, born Sept. 22, 1904, lived until January 1905.

By the 1940s, Mondeik said, regular church services “petered out.” In 1956, the church board adopted a resolution dissolving the congregation. The church itself was demolished in 1961.

A few years ago, the responsibility for the cemetery was passed on to Mondeik. Cemetery plots, bargain priced at USD 100, may still be purchased, he said.

Thankfully, the history of the Lincoln County settlers has not been forgotten. Mondeik has done his part, rescuing photographs and tape recording his memories. In recent years, the Milwaukee Latvian church has reached out to Lincoln County. Church member Artūrs Mundeciems of Waukesha, Wis., has done much to gather the history of the Martin Luther congregation.

Yet the story of Lincoln County goes beyond the old church and the cemetery. In fact, Lincoln County was a microcosm of the Latvian immigrant experience, with people of differing religious and political leanings trying—but failing—to coexist.

For the moment, it’s good just to be able to walk among the gravestones of the Martin Luther cemetery and to imagine what might have been.

(Editor’s note: Some research for this article was supported by a grant from the Latvian Foundation, with research assistance provided by Amanda Jātniece.)

When the 1901 census of England and Wales first became available online in January 2002, it proved so popular that within hours the flood of customers had managed to make it useless.

These days, the Web site run by the British government’s Public Record Office is operating much more smoothly. And for Latvians seeking to uncover their family history, the 1901 census might even reveal a lead or two, although historical accounts of Latvians in the United Kingdom in the early 20th century suggest that few will be found.

A quick test of the online service uncovered at least some names, such as Gothard Ohsolin (Gotārds Ozoliņš), August Upmal (Augusts Upmals) and Alfred Putning (Alfrēds Putniņš).

Detailed data from the 1901 census only became available after a 100-year restriction on the release of information expired. The Public Records Office transferred the hand-written census logs into a database and created digital copies of the original pages. Entries for the 32 million residents of England and Wales are now easily searched.

But be prepared to pay if you want any details about your ancestors, or if you want to see a digital version of the page on which your ancestor’s name appears. The online service charges a minimum of GBP 5 for each 48-hour session. A temporary account is easily created by providing credit card details.

Before using the service it helps to have as much information about your ancestor as possible, as well as to remember that Latvian surnames in 1901 usually were spelled without the use of diacritical marks and that they may well have been spelled differently once immigrants arrived in their new homes.

For example, Ozols and Ozoliņš are common Latvian surnames. But searching for those names yielded no results. Using the “wild card” asterisk symbol and searching for Osol* and Ohsol* uncovered at least two individuals: Gothard Ohsolin, 45, an able-bodied seaman aboard the Janow, and Adam Osol (Ādams Ozols), 40, an able-bodied seaman aboard the S.S. Olivia.

A handy function of the database allows the user to see who else was living at the same address on the evening of March 31, 1901, when the census was recorded. In the case of ships in port, details are offered on who else was aboard a particular vessel.

And so, for example, also aboard the Janow with Ohsolin was at least one other Latvian, 26-year-old August Upmal.

It can only be assumed, based on their surnames, that these individuals were Latvians. The 1901 census information often is incomplete or vague. Ohsolin and Upmal are listed as having been born in Russia, but specifically where is not revealed. In this case, census information about the vessel, the Janow, helps reduce uncertainty. The Janow, according to the record, was a 198-ton vessel based in Pernau, Russia (modern-day Parnu, Estonia, north of Latvia).

Similarly, a search for Kalnin* turned up Rembert Kalning (Remberts Kalniņš), a 30-year-old master aboard the Catharina. He was joined on the ship by six other men, including 21-year-old mate Alfred Putning. And the Catharina, the census records show, was a 223-ton vessel based in Rīga.

Apparently missing from the census data are entries for some Latvians whose presence in Britain has been documented elsewhere. For example, socialists Ernests Minka and Ernests Rolavs, who helped publish the revolutionary newsletter Latviešu Strādnieks in London, can’t be found, although both should have been in England when the census was taken.

According to the 1995 book, Latvieši Lielbritanijā, by the turn of the 20th century, only a few Latvians were living in Great Britain. In the port at Cardiff, Wales, ships from Latvia were frequent visitors. In 1900, according to the book, the Rev. Konstantīns Ūders began serving a congregation of Latvians and other ethnic groups. But the online census records also don’t seem to hold information about the minister.

Many more Latvians emigrated to Great Britain after the failed 1905 revolution in Latvia.

The online 1901 census records only cover England and Wales. The census records for Scotland and Ireland are not available online.

Many years ago, my parents took me along on a vacation to Nags Head, a small town in the Outer Banks region of North Carolina. For a young boy, it was place where history became cool. Pirates used to roam the Atlantic Ocean off Nags Head. To the north is Kill Devil Hills, where the Wright brothers experimented with flight. And to the west is Roanoke Island, site of the mysterious late 16th century “Lost Colony.”

And though I didn’t know it at the time, it is also the place where Latvian sailors became legends during World War II.

Latvians in America had for years known about the story of the Ciltvaira and seven other Latvian merchant ships (the Abagra, Everagra, Everalda, Everasma, Everelza, Ķegums and Regent). Upon learning that their country had been overrun by the Soviet Union, their crews refused to return to an occupied nation and instead volunteered to help the Allies. Not all the mariners were Latvian.

On Jan. 19, 1942, just weeks after the United States had been dragged into the war, a German submarine torpedoed the Ciltvaira off the coast of North Carolina near Nags Head. Two of the 32 sailors died, but the rest were rescued.

Five more of the ships fell to torpedos that year: the Everasma on Feb. 28, the Abagra on May 6, the Regent on June 14, the Everalda on June 29, the Everelza on Aug. 13. Only the Everagra and the Ķegums survived the war.

Their story was detailed in a series of articles appearing earlier this year in Chas, a Russian-language daily newspaper in Rīga. Because few in Latvia knew the tale, the series saw broad interest, even earning a commendation from Foreign Minister Sandra Kalniete. The Latvian-language daily Diena published a version of the story in its Sestdiena magazine. And the Associated Press carried the story around the world.

Back in the United States, the tale of the Latvian sailors took on special meaning for two communities. One, of course, is Nags Head, where for many Ciltvaira perhaps was no more than a name on a street sign. And the other community is the New York Latvian Ev.-Lutheran Church, whose archives revealed that many of the sailors of the Ciltvaira and other ships had been members of the congregation during World War II.

The two communities came together May 8, when cermonies honoring the sailors were held in Latvia and in North Carolina. At Nags Head, local officials, staff from the Outer Banks Sentinel newspaper and members of the New York Latvian church gathered by the Atlantic Ocean to pay their respects, complete with a 21-gun salute.

The night before, the Nags Head Board of Commissioners adopted a resolution honoring the crew of the Ciltvaira.

For the New York church, the event also serves as a reminder of its own history.

A 1944 biography of the Rev. Kārlis Podiņš, who served the New York church for decades, notes how in 1942 the congregation held a special summer service to remember the fallen Latvian sailors and to bolster the spirits of those still living. “Having received their blessing and communion, they returned to the fight with twice the strength and courage,” wrote Austra Truce, who compiled the minister’s biography.

Before and during the war, the arrival of a Latvian ship in the port at New York had been a big event for the congregation, according to the June 1954 issue of the church newsletter, Baznīcas Ziņas, sent to me by Ēriks Niedrītis, a member of the church board.

“Our sailors attended events and came to church,” the article reported, “(and) there were parties in homes and receptions aboard ships.”

But the loss of Latvian lives and ships during the war changed the atmosphere. “The sacrifices of the war at sea brought great losses to Latvian sailors and cut deep into our active membership,” the article continued. “With that, to a great extent, our celebration of the sailors was quieted.”

If you vacation in the Outer Banks of North Carolina, take time to appreciate the history of the region. Read about the pirates. Visit the Wright brothers museum. See the theatrical production of the “Lost Colony.” And if you walk along the beach, pause a moment to remember those Latvian sailors.