Why bother? They’re dead. Who cares about the past, and what difference does it make? But here’s the thing: sometimes we do something for its own sake, for the challenge, or just because.
There was a five-year period from when I finished writing a memoir until I returned to it for editing and polishing. During that hiatus, I worked on my ancestry, compiling all the historical facts, pictures and stories I could gather about my parents and their families. I didn’t plan on dancing with the dead any more than I planned on having teenagers, owning a carrot juice company, or hanging out our family laundry, but things happen.
When I began, I knew little beyond my grandparents’ names. Then I came across pictures of Grandma Nellie Chatfield with her sisters, Ada and Mamie. How could I not know she had sisters? I nearly fell out of my chair, partly from realizing how clueless I was, but also how curious. That’s what started me on the hunt.
I spent untold hours on the computer (you’ve no idea) and tracked down other relatives to riffle through their memories, photos and letters. I now know my heritage. I carry traits and tendencies of those who came before me. I gained insight into my culture. I came away with a love of history. Embarrassed, I realized I didn’t remember much about who settled this country, about the Revolutionary and Civil Wars, or WWI and WWII. Did I sleep through high school history class? I know I had the books as I carried those weights back and forth every day. Apparently I hadn’t opened them. My ancestors were part of all that, and somehow I’d missed it.
My family, here for generations, has contributed to my very being, and if not for them, I wouldn’t even be here. I’m stunned I’m here at all. Truly, what are the odds? Is it fate? Predetermination? Or just a simple toss of the cosmic dice?
Not everyone is fascinated by genealogy, particularly someone else’s. I’ve been to events where speakers rhapsodized at length about their kith and kin; it was painful having them ramble on. There was also an “aha” moment. I realized we do all this work, and really, nobody else in the room gives a big whoop. And yet, oddly enough, there’s nothing I like better than sorting out my own. I love the quest and the satisfaction of having missing pieces fall into place. And gathering my kin also fulfills a need in me; it’s part of my yearning to keep my fractured family together.
I’m blessed to be a keeper of the lines, working alongside my brother who has been at it for years, as well as many near and distant cousins. Some I connected with were in their ‘80s and ‘90s; they generously shared their stories and pictures, and were thrilled to talk to someone interested in their life. They were grateful to have a calling forth of their past, and I’m glad to pass on their stories. I sort and compile our history to honor them and our ancestors. I do it for my family members who are still here and for those yet to come. And I do it because it’s important to me. That’s why I bother.
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