The other day, I was trying to remember just what exactly happened to me that turned me into a genealogy freak. It was only a few years ago that I wasn't even interested enough to join a party visiting the local cemetery at a family reunion, for which I now severely chastise myself.So, I mentally tried to backtrack through the last three or so years, finding the stream from which this 'magnificent obsession' bubbles. I think I found the headwaters, at least the ones above the surface.
My husband, Mark, was and is interested in all things with motors and wheels. He had been looking at motorcycles, and we were trying to determine what sort of bike my father had ridden back in the 'day.' For some reason, I had in my mind that he had owned an Indian cycle. All I had was this picture to draw from, so we went on an internet hunt for a cycle that looked like the one on which my father was perched in this picture from his post WWII road trip. The evidence we were finding was that this machine was a Harley, not an Indian. I decided to get some help from my dad's brothers, and asked if they remembered my dad's bike. They refered me to his cousin, Dick, who actually made a road trip from Minnesota to Yellowstone on motorcyles with my dad, a friend and another cousin. Dick confirmed that my dad's bike was indeed a Harley and also graciously shared some other memories with me. He told me tales of my fun-loving father as a kid and as an adult friend. Somehow, this took me somewhat by surprise. I realized how much we assume we know about our parents - and how little we actually see them as completely separate human beings. How many stories we have totally made up to fill in the gaps in our actual knowledge of them!
I recalled sitting at my maternal grandmother's funeral, a woman who I felt I knew so well, and finding out how limited my knowledge of her really was. The way her friends remembered her, I was humbled and saddened by how much I missed by not being present to the reality of who this woman really was. I realized that my own daughter naturally assumes so many things about me that are only an interpretation of a small part of my story. A shift in my perspective began. I felt like I had been seeing only a reflection (darkly) of my family members, and suddenly I swiveled around and took a look at them right in front of me. It was almost like they were standing there, surrounding me, waiting for me. Asking me to SEE them, to embrace our intertwined history and biology, to become part of the stream of time and story, to carry on the oral and written history begun by others. It seemed like something outside myself came and pointed at me, announcing, "You! You are the chosen one, get busy!" It was irresistible. This is the biggest adventure of all.
