A Journey Through Time in Lucas County, Iowa
On a recent road trip with my father, we took a detour through memory lane—quite literally. Our destination was Chariton, Iowa, but first, we made a meaningful stop in the quiet mining town of Lucas County, where my dad spent his early childhood in the 1940s.
We wound our way down narrow gravel roads, bordered by simple homes and rolling hills, in search of the place where he once lived. Though the original house was no longer standing—replaced by a newer dwelling—the landscape around it remained uncannily familiar. As if time had paused for his return, everything was just as he remembered it: the home of his childhood friend Donnie Stover still sat just below, and the old schoolhouse still stood, silent and dignified on the hill.
Driving through that small town with my dad was like watching a sepia-toned reel of his youth come alive. It wasn’t hard to imagine a young Jacky Brower running barefoot on those gravel roads, walking to school, or playing near the railroad tracks. His stories took on new life as we stood in the very spots they once unfolded.
Dad lived in Lucas until around 1956, when his mother, Edna Lois Lovell-Brower, and his brother Mack (short for James Howard McClelland Brower) moved the family to Des Moines, Iowa—a new chapter in a life already rich with small-town adventure and close-knit community memories.
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| Photo of young Jack Brower (photo enhanced) |
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| Donnie Stover and Jack Brower (photo enhanced) |
A Sacred Stop at Arnold Cemetery
One of the most meaningful moments of our road trip through Lucas County, Iowa was visiting the Arnold Cemetery, the final resting place of several of my ancestors. This small, quiet cemetery sits tucked away off a long gravel road branching from 170th Avenue, near Liberty Center, bordering the edges of Lacona.
Surrounded by rolling farmland and open sky, the cemetery feels both secluded and timeless. As we stood among the stones, we paused to pay respects to my grandmother, Edna Lois Lovell-Brower, who rests there. It was a powerful and grounding experience—being in the same land where generations of my family lived, worked, and laid down their roots.
Behind the cemetery, the open land stretches for miles—land that once belonged to Isaac Mills and Lydia Ruble, who lived and farmed there many years ago. According to the 1912 Liberty Township Plat Map of Lucas County, their farm was located near what was then known as Thompson Cemetery, now known as Arnold Cemetery.
Being there—where history, memory, and legacy intersect—was a quiet but profound reminder of where we come from, and the lives that shaped our own. It brought my family's story full circle, from past to present.
If you didn’t already know where to turn, you’d likely miss the narrow gravel road leading to Arnold Cemetery, hidden just off 170th Avenue, near Liberty Center, Iowa. Thankfully, with the help of our cousin Frank Crooks, we found our way. He guided us to the place where so many of our ancestors rest—on a quiet hilltop surrounded by the most breathtaking rolling hills of Chariton.
As we turned in, I was struck by what I hadn’t expected: the cemetery is nestled on a rise, its gravestones scattered like sentinels along the hill, looking out over miles and miles of uninterrupted countryside. The wind carried the scent of rain, and the sky above was stormy, which only deepened the emotion of the visit.
At the very top of the hill stands the tombstone of Elias Mills, surrounded by the resting places of his immediate family. Some of the smaller gravestones nearby are gently hidden beneath overgrown brush, but they are still there—quiet reminders of lives once lived. Elias was the brother of my second great-grandfather, Isaac Mills, who married Lydia Ruble and farmed the land that lies just beyond the cemetery’s edge.
There is something sacred about this place. Despite the wind and the gathering storm clouds, a deep peace settled around us. Acres and acres of lush green hills stretched in every direction—nature’s own tribute to those buried here and the loved ones who once stood in mourning, saying their final goodbyes.
My grandmother, Edna Lois Lovell-Brower, is laid to rest near the end row of the cemetery. Just beside her is my father's headstone—though thankfully, he is still very much alive. Seeing his name already engraved beside hers added a surreal layer to the moment, a reminder of life's circle.
Without a doubt, this is where I, too, would want to be laid to rest someday—beside my grandmother, among generations of family, on this peaceful hill. But hopefully, not for another 50 years or so!
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| Dad (Jack Brower) and cousin Frank Crooks paying respect to relatives buried here. |
On our way out we made a stop to view what once was the James Brower and Sadie Brower (Mills) farm, which property use to be owned by his mother in law, Lydia Mills (Isaac Mills wife) in 1912, or perhaps J.B. Curtis.
Today's Google map shows the old James Brower farm occupied next to the creek.
The Red Barn on 170th Avenue
As we left Arnold Cemetery, our path took us further down 170th Avenue, past sweeping green hills and quiet farmland. Not far from the cemetery—just across 570th Avenue and a short way down the road—sits a property that holds deep significance for our family. On the left side, nestled among the rolling fields, stands a home…and the old red barn.
The barn still stands proud, weathered by time but lovingly preserved. Years ago, during a restoration by the previous owners, a single board was discovered with the initials “F.A.C.” carved into the wood. When Frank Crooks, our cousin, visited the site, he immediately recognized those were his own initials—Frank A. Crooks—engraved during his childhood when he used to play in that very barn. The new owners, touched by the story, chose to keep the board with the barn, a tribute to the history held within its walls.
As I stood gazing at the barn, I couldn’t help but feel a mixture of wonder and sorrow. It was here, in this very place, that my great-grandfather ended his life in 1920—a tragic chapter that still echoes through generations. I thought of my great-grandmother, Sadie, suddenly widowed, left to run the farm and raise her children—John Howard Brower, Mae Brower, and Anna Brower—on her own.
The hardship she must have faced is hard to imagine. And yet, despite the heavy past, the land itself seems to radiate strength and peace. These hills are among the most beautiful I’ve seen in Iowa, stretching out like a patchwork of endurance and grace.
The farm, passed through time and hands, now belongs to new owners, but the spirit of those who came before still lingers in the quiet rustle of the wind and the sturdy red barn standing watch over it all.
A visit to Goshen Cemetery
Our final stop was to Goshen Cemetery—this quiet resting place where our Brower family originally settled in Iowa in the mid-1800s. The cemetery lies just beneath the old Goshen Church, nestled peacefully in the rolling hills.
As I made my way to Jeremiah Brower’s tombstone, I passed the graves of the Stumbaugh family. These were the same Stumbaughs who traveled by covered wagon alongside my 2nd great-grandfather Jeremiah Brower, eventually settling on a neighboring farm. Also nearby rests Sarah’s uncle, James Quincy Buffington. Sarah Woods, Jeremiah’s wife, was the sister of Barbara Woods, wife of James Stumbaugh. Their mother, Susanna Buffington, was the daughter of Joseph X. Buffington and Chloe Harvey—another thread in the fabric of our ancestry.
Finally, I reached the tombstone of Jeremiah Brower. To my surprise, and contrary to the digital images found on websites like FindAGrave, there is only one tall, shared monument for Jeremiah John Brower, his wife Sarah Jane, and their daughter Eliza. Each side of the stone is engraved, and Jeremiah’s age is clearly marked: 71 years, 7 months, and 6 days. In old photos, this detail is hard to see, but in person, it’s perfectly legible.
Next to Jeremiah’s marker is a very small stone that simply reads "Mother." I can only assume this marks the resting place of his wife, Sarah Jane Woods. The small stone lies between Jeremiah’s monument and a standalone tombstone for their daughter Martha.
The most touching moment came when I watched my father gently clear moss from Jeremiah's stone—a quiet gesture of connection across the generations. A priceless moment.
If only Jeremiah could speak from the grave , may he would tell us who his parents were!
