This week, I got an email from Baruch Amsel, who lives in Queens, N.Y. His web site features famous Jewish rabbis, including photos of their grave sites. You could call it a Find a Grave for rabbis.

Baruch asked if I had a photo of the grave of Rabbi Tobias (Tuvia) Geffen, whom he referred to as “Chief Rabbi of the South back in the day.” I’d never heard of Rabbi Geffen but I offered to find out where he was buried and get a picture of his grave. There is a photo of it online but it’s not very clear. I also wanted to find out what made Rabbi Geffen so special.

A Google search fixed that. Rabbi Geffen was responsible for ensuring that Coca-Cola was kosher! Now that’s a considerable accomplishment. I wanted to know more. An article by Adam Mintz was very helpful. I also located his grave at Greenwood Cemetery, which is Southwest of downtown Atlanta.

Rabbi Geffen was born in Kovno, Lithuania in 1870. He and his wife, Sarah, moved to the U.S. sometime after 1903 due to the anti-semitic unrest in Eastern Europe. After deciding that the cold winters of Ohio were too much, they moved to Atlanta. In 1910, Rabbi Geffen became the leader of Shearith Israel Synagogue (which still exists today). When the Geffens arrived in Atlanta, the Jewish community was relatively small. About 4,000 Jews lived among a population of 150,000.

So how did Rabbi Geffen get involved with the “is Coca-Cola kosher?” debate?

By the 1930s, American Jews (like many people) were enamored of James Pemberton’s revolutionary beverage, Coca-Cola. Problem was, nobody knew exactly what was in it. The formula (which is still locked up in Atlanta’s Sun Trust Bank) was a well-kept secret.

Rabbis were being asked by their congregants if the soft drink was kosher enough to consume during the Passover season. Some said yes, others said no.

As early as 1925, Jewish rabbis wrote to Rabbi Geffen asking if he knew if Coca-Cola was truly kosher since he lived in Atlanta. Rabbi Eliyahu Kochin, rabbi of Pittsburgh’s Orthodox Jewish community, said in a letter, “Many of the people are drinking Coca-Cola without proper rabbinic certification and claiming that it is kosher. Please clarify this matter.”

By the 1930s, two prominent rabbis had stated their belief that Coca-Cola was kosher. Rabbi Shmuel Pardes (a Chicago rabbi) said he’d visited a Coca-Cola plant in his city and had seen no non-kosher ingredients being used. He shared his thoughts with Rabbi Geffen in letters.

Rabbi Geffen decided to make it his mission to find out whether or not Coca-Cola’s formula contained any items that would cause it to be non-kosher. But how was a Lithuanian rabbi who spoke Yiddish better than English going to do that?

Rabbi Geffen knew someone who had access to the secret formula. He’d met Coca-Cola attorney Harold Hirsch not long after Hirsch attended the high school graduation of Geffen’s daughter, Helen (who gave the valedictorian address). Hirsch was so impressed that he paid Helen’s tuition to the University of Georgia, his alma mater (and mine!).

Hirsch, who was active in the Atlanta Jewish community, introduced Rabbi Geffen to Coca-Cola executives. The rabbi explained the concerns of Orthodox American Jews wanting to be true to kashruth (Jewish dietary laws) while remaining loyal Coca-Cola consumers.

Coca-Cola executives agreed to help and Rabbi Geffen became one of a very small group of people allowed to see the secret formula. The only stipulation was that he could not get specific on the matter if his fellow rabbis wanted to know the exact ingredients.

Once Rabbi Geffen saw what went into Coca-Cola, he needed help deciphering exactly what those ingredients were. Daughter Helen, majoring in chemistry, told her father that there were two ingredients that conflicted with kosher laws: glycerin and grain kernels (corn).

While the amount of glycerin in Coca-Cola was small, it posed a problem because it was made from meat and fat tallow from non-kosher animals. Rabbi Geffen suggested (with Helen’s advice) substituting vegetable-based glycerin. Coca-Cola executives were okay with that and contracted with Proctor & Gamble to provide it. Concerning the grain kernels, sugar beets or sugar cane were a suggested substitute. That idea was also approved.

Pleased that Coca-Cola’s ingredients were now all kosher, Rabbi Geffen issued a response in 1935:

“With the help of God, I have been able to uncover a pragmatic solution according to which there would be no question nor any doubt concerning the ingredients of Coca-Cola”, he wrote. “It is now possible for the most stringent Halachist to enjoy Coca-Cola”.

This change did make some waves. Nazi sympathizer Karl Flach, who manufactured a German rival to Coca-Cola called Afri-Cola, returned from a trip to the U.S. carrying Coca-Cola caps stamped “Kosher for Passover” on them. A picture of the caps appeared in Nazi propaganda to fuel the belief that Jews had too much influence in the U.S. The director of Coca-Cola’s operations in Germany pushed for Hirsch to be removed from Coca-Cola’s board but Coca-Cola stood by Hirsch.

Today, Coca-Cola uses high fructose corn syrup in place of the sugar cane that Rabbi Geffen asked for. But during Passover, Coca-Cola produces the sugar cane version that the kashrut demands. It’s recognizable by the yellow caps on the bottles. Non-Jewish Americans who love the old taste of the sugar cane variety of Coke snap them up as well.

In 2012, Coke directed its suppliers to change the way they manufacture caramel to reduce levels of the chemical 4-methylimidazole (4-MEI) after California listed it as a carcinogen. The company said the new caramel process has since rolled out nationally to streamline its manufacturing process. But outside California, it’s still using the previous caramel process so that it can continue providing kosher Coke for Passover.

Coca-Cola is still working on a method to make Passover Coke that meets the standards of the kashrut while avoiding the caramel issue. So California Jews must purchase their kosher Coke elsewhere for the time being.

But it’s comforting to know that in the 1930s, an Atlanta rabbi was looking out for his fellow Orthodox Jews to ensure they could enjoy Coca-Cola during Passover. I found his grave at Greenwood Cemetery on a beautiful fall day and took this photo for Baruch.

A sheynem dank, Rabbi Geffen.

There are plenty of famous men buried in Georgia, but the ladies often get overlooked. This week, I am featuring a handful of those enterprising women. Some you may already know about, but a few of them may surprise you. Rome, Georgia is home to Shorter and Berry Colleges. Class A minor league baseball team the Rome Braves draw plenty of crowds. But did you know a U.S. President’s wife is buried there?

President Woodrow Wilson’s first wife was born Ellen Louise Axson. The daughter of a Presbyterian minister, she grew up in comfortable circumstances. Her parents believed in the importance of a good education for both sexes, so Ellen became an intelligent, observant young lady who eventually studied art in New York City. She enjoyed painting throughout her life and even spent time at an artists’ colony. Ellen met the future president at her father’s church long before he entered politics. After her father died and Wilson was offered a teaching position at Bryn Mawr College, the couple decided they were financially prepared to marry. They eventually had three daughters together. Sadly, Ellen’s tenure as first lady was brief. Having suffered from Bright’s Disease (a deterioration of the kidneys) since the birth of her youngest child, Ellen died in 1914, only a year and a half after her husband was elected president. Her body was taken back to Rome for her funeral. She is buried at Myrtle Hill Cemetery.

One acclaimed Hollywood actress buried in Georgia was tops at the box office for years. Born Edythe Marrenner in Brooklyn, N.Y., Susan Hayward arrived in Hollywood in 1937 to do a screen test for the role of Scarlett in Gone With the Wind. While she did not get the part, she went on to star in films like “With a Song in My Heart”, “I’ll Cry Tomorrow” and “I Want to Live” (for which she won her only Oscar).

After a failed marriage to actor Jess Barker, Susan met wealthy Southern real estate developer Floyd Eaton Chalkley in 1957. His Southern charm won her heart and they were married not long after that. They lived happily on their large ranch (which they called Chalk-Marr Farms) in Carrolton, Ga. for several years. Locals often saw them together around town. Chalkley died in 1966 of hepatitis. Always a heavy smoker and drinker, Susan learned she had brain cancer in 1972. She died in 1975 and is buried with her husband at Our Lady of Perpetual Help Cemetery in Carrolton. On their shared memorial plaque, she is listed simply as Mrs. F.E. Chalkley. A smaller flat stone with her name is placed off to the side.

Life at the turn of the century in the Deep South was far from easy for African-American women. Gertrude Pridgett knew this first hand growing up poor in Columbus, Ga. The product of a musical family, she eventually hit the vaudeville circuit, which was a booming business in a river port city like Columbus. In 1904, Gertrude met and married minstrel show manager William “Pa” Rainey. Together, they toured the country at various shows and with tent performers. That’s when her fame began to grow and she took on the name “Ma” Rainey that would stick with her for life.

Ma enjoyed a successful recording career with Paramount Records for five years. She collaborated with other well-known musicians such as Joe Smith, Coleman Hawkins and Louis Armstrong. But just as she was getting to the top of her game, Paramount dropped her, claiming that her rough around the edges kind of music had gone out of style. She retired to Columbus and died there in 1939. She is buried in Porterdale Cemetery. I have a special appreciation for Ma because unwittingly, I crossed paths with her past in my younger days. As a member of my high school chorus, I performed on the same stage she did at Columbus’ Springer Opera House. A year later, I had the good fortune to attend a Broadway production of the play about her life, “Ma Rainey’s Black Bottom.”

Perhaps the most well known female Georgian is author Margaret Mitchell. A headstrong young woman, she loved hearing stories about the Civil War from Confederate veterans. She dropped out of Smith College after the death of her mother in order to run her father’s home where he and her younger brother still lived.

During her first rocky marriage, Margaret began writing for the Atlanta Journal’s Sunday magazine to make ends meet. After her divorce, she married former suitor and editor John Marsh, and left her job to recover from a series of illnesses. While convalescing at home, she wrote the Pulitzer-prize winning novel Gone With the Wind in 1936. The book and eventually the movie made it financially possible for her to support a number of philanthropic interests for the remainder of her life.

Margaret Mitchell was killed in 1949 when she was hit by a car while attempting to cross at the intersection of Peachtree and 13th Streets in what is now Midtown in Atlanta. She is buried with Marsh at Oakland Cemetery, where thousands of visitors trek to visit her grave every year.

These four women made their marks on the world in many different ways. But in the end, they all chose to make Georgia their final resting place. While I’ll never be famous like these female icons, I hope to do the same some day.

I spend a LOT of time in cemeteries. They are usually older ones with stone markers, not the modern ones with bronze plates flat on the ground so the maintenance crew can mow around them more easily. I do visit a few of those for Find a Grave. Over the past two years, I’ve noticed another difference between the two.

Old cemeteries often have a lot more graves for infants and children. And it’s truly sad.

One of my favorite haunts is East View Cemetery, which has a number of children’s graves. Two of them always tug at my heart and feature little shoes and socks on top. To find two of them in the same cemetery is rare, so I think they may have been created locally by the same stone mason.

I’ve wondered if little Brenda Darlene Starr had the nickname of “Twinkle” because of the Brenda Starr comic strip that started in the 1940s. In it, top reporter Brenda Starr had a child named Starr Twinkle, with husband Basil St. John. I don’t know why little Brenda died but it’s clear she meant a lot to her family.

There’s another style of children’s grave that is no longer common but when I see it, I am always struck by it. Some call it the “baby on a half shell” style because it involves a carving of an infant or a child resting inside a seashell of some kind. The style was popular from the 1870s into the 1920s, and Sears and Roebuck even offered them in varying sizes in their catalog. Annette Stott wrote an excellent article about them that goes into further detail.

Where did this shell motif come from?

During the Victorian era and into the turn of the century, the image of childhood was an innocent, fragile one. Artists such as Margaret Tarrant, Jessie Wilcox Smith, Walter Crane, and Randolph Caldecott used playful images of children, babies, fairies, and elves to illustrate nursery books and children’s tales. So it seemed a natural progression to use such images in gravestones for these little lives sadly cut short.

The sad reality was that children often died during this era with surprising frequency. In 1880, almost 22 of every 100 children born in the U.S. died before they reached their first birthday. Ten years later, that rate was 15 percent. In 1900, more than one in every 10 infants still died before the age of one, not including stillbirths.

Another popular gravestone style is the figure of a child as an angel or a cherub. Pictured above is Mary Ruth Britt, who died at the age of four for reasons unknown.

However, the most common symbol by far on the graves of children and infants is the lamb. It signifies the innocence, purity and sweet nature of childhood as few other images can. To some, it also signifies the Lamb of God, Jesus Christ. You can still see them today on many graves, some being more elaborate than others.

Sometimes the lamb is carved into the stone itself, as you can see in Mary Nell Driver’s grave below.

Sometimes I do come across some unique child/infant graves that tend to defy the usual symbolism. That is definitely the case at Magnolia Cemetery in Charleston, S.C. Blake and Rosalie White had eight children but five did not make it past childhood. Little Rosalie Raymond White was one of those five.

Another child’s grave that I came across also features a casting but it is of the child’s hand, not his face. I think the simplicity of it is touching. It’s also made of white bronze (zinc), which is a style and material I admire. I have never seen one like this before or since.

Unlike most of the others, I was able to find out a little bit about Louis’ family. His father, Louis S. Johnson, was the second mayor of Largo, Fla., and was a successful businessman. He owned the Largo Hotel. Son Lloyd Johnson was born in 1918 and went on to become a CPA, and one of the original city commissioners for nearby Indian Rocks Beach (where we were vacationing when I visited this cemetery).

There are a number of other styles of child/infant graves but these are the ones that I’ve come across in my almost two years of cemetery hopping. Some are more elaborate than others, while some are small and simple.

Regardless of style, they remain a poignant reminder of a life that never had the opportunity to reach its full potential. A whisper of what might have been.

Today’s entry is a re-post of a piece I did in May 2013 about a 1964 triple homicide in Gwinnett County, Ga. It was a heinous crime that rocked the county for years. Since I first posted it, I’ve talked to a number of Gwinnett residents who still remember it well and how shocking it was at the time. It remains so today.

Remember the saying “like looking for a needle in a haystack”? Sometimes cemetery hopping can be like that in reverse. Something rare is sitting right under your nose and you weren’t even looking for it.

As part of my Find a Grave efforts, I took on the task of photographing many of the graves at Sugar Hill Baptist Church Cemetery in north Gwinnett County. Most of the graves are already documented because of my dedicated Find a Grave friend Wesley, who referenced the cemetery book that lists everyone who is buried there (along with the dates). However, his wife is in a nursing home now so photographing graves is not something he can do. I asked if I could take it on for him and he gave me the green light.

Sugar Hill Baptist Church Cemetery is a large, well kept cemetery situated across from the town’s impressive city hall complex. A small park with a gazebo is across the street and a community center is next door to the cemetery (where I parked my car). Close to 1,500 graves make up the cemetery. I’ve made several trips to take pictures but I’m not quite done. Eating lunch at the nearby Home Spun Restaurant (a meat and three) after these photo sessions makes visits even more pleasant.

It was during one of these trips to Sugar Hill that I photographed a very simple flat stone marker with the name Ralph K. Davis on it. His death was on April 17, 1964. It was located in a decent sized gravel square with the Davis monument behind it. It is rare for me to find a family plot with only one grave in it so as usual, I got curious and began digging for information.

It didn’t take me long to feel my breath catch in my throat.

Ralph King Davis was an officer for the Gwinnett County Police Department. Today, the county is a sprawling mass of homes, businesses and interstate highways. The population is incredibly diverse. But back in 1964, Gwinnett County was a rural backwater somewhat trapped in time. Catching moonshiners was still a going concern for law enforcement. To make matters worse, some lawmen were known to have gotten their hands dirty by taking part in such crimes themselves.

On the evening of April 17, Davis and his partner, Jerry Everett, were giving a ride home to an ill fellow officer, Marvin Jesse Gravitt. En route, they got a suspicious activity call at a home on Arc Way, which was a dirt road connecting Beaver Ruin and Pleasant Hill Roads at the time. What started out as a routine response quickly became something that would make headlines across the country.

Retired former Atlanta police officer Mackie Carson recently wrote a book about it called Judas Deputy. He kindly gave his consent for me to quote from it.

People think chop shops (garages where stolen cars are “chopped up” for parts that are then resold) are a modern phenomenon but not so. In 1964, a number of car theft rings were operating in Gwinnett County for that very purpose.

Thieves would purchase a car from a salvage yard, then steal a similar car and strip the stolen car of its parts. The parts then would be put into the salvaged car — which had no “hot” vehicle ID number.

According to Carson, the “finder’s fee” for stealing a car was $25, and rose to $100 if you took it out of the county. As a result, it became a very tempting crime to commit.

It was this kind of activity the three officers stumbled upon that April night. They found three men beginning the process of stripping a stolen Oldsmobile for parts. One of the thieves, in an attempt to flee, threw the Oldsmobile in reverse and sped back down the road only to be blocked in by the police car. When Everett was examining the inside of the Oldsmobile, the other two thieves came into sight. They were armed and took fatal control of the situation.

The next morning, the bodies of all three officers were found in the nearby woods, handcuffed together with their own handcuffs. They had been shot dead execution style with their own weapons. The Oldsmobile was nearby, torched to destroy evidence.

The ultimate irony is that one of the killers was one of their own, a former Gwinnett County deputy sheriff named Alec Evans. He had even been an ATF agent at one time. The other two, Venson Williams and Wade Truett, owned a garage together in South Carolina and had helped Evans steal the Oldsmobile the previous day.

Gwinnett deputy sheriff Jerry Griswell was one of the first to arrive on the scene the next morning. He never forgot what he saw. “A waste of three fine men,” Mr. Griswell said in a 1989 Atlanta Journal-Constitution article.

According to many witnesses, Evans swore he would find the officers’ killers, even going so far as to visit the Everett family more than once to assure them the murderers would be caught.

Later that year, with no one yet suspecting his role in the murders, Evans was arrested for running illegal moonshine and sent for a short stint in a federal prison in Michigan. He was eating lunch with the other inmates when he was informed he would be going back to Georgia.

Evans, along with Williams and Truett, was arrested for the murders. Evans was convicted and given a death sentence that was later commuted to life in prison. At age 86, he is still incarcerated. Williams (now deceased) served 25 years and was paroled. Wade Truett, also now deceased, was given immunity for his testimony against Evans and Williams. He served no prison time. Carson says Truett was the only one of the trio who did not shoot the officers.

Jerry Everett, only 28 when he was killed, came from a strong law enforcement tradition. His brother, Kelly, was the former Norcross police chief. Another brother, George, was a Doraville police officer.

Brothers Randall and Roger Everett owned and operated Everett’s Music Barn in nearby Suwanee and the store is still a magnet for bluegrass music lovers. It has roots in the tragedy. Those paying condolences to the family would return to hold impromptu bluegrass jam sessions on the Everett family’s porch. The brothers and their friends felt the music was a form of therapy amid their grief. Randall and Roger have since passed away, but the legacy of their music continues.

While many living in Gwinnett today have no idea what took place on a dark country road in 1964, memories of the triple murder linger. Long-time residents remember three police officers being cut down by a gang of thieves, one a wolf in sheep’s clothing. They walked blindly into a crime in progress and paid with their lives.

According to Carson, Ralph Davis’ neighbor, George Kelly, remembered his last conversation with him. Davis told Kelly that he was seriously thinking of leaving law enforcement because of the danger involved.

Sadly, he never had a chance to do so.