I’m back from visiting my grandparents and I have tons of family tree information, along with pictures of photographs (he wouldn’t let me take his albums so I improvised by snapping pics with my phone), hours of taped conversations, and pages of notes. I also came back with the comforting knowledge that Yes, I do have family roots. And boy do they have stories!
Foolishly, I’ve always compartmentalized my family. Dad and Mom have their roles as parents; Gigi and Grammy have their roles as grandparents. And they’ve seemed happy to let me think this way. Until recently when my grandfather asked me to write his life story.
He spoke to me like an equal for the four days for which I showed up chronically late each day. He referred to himself as Pete, not Gigi, and referred to Grammy as Mary. My dad was called David in our talks. Slowly this person emerged and presented himself to me via jokes, stories, and photographs. Pieces of an elaborate puzzle floated without an anchor.
How did he get from the youngest of thirteen children (a fact I’m still trying to verify since he couldn’t remember all of their names. Regardless, there was at least ten of them); to the smiling, carefree sailor posing with family before shipping off; to wearing a kilt (yep, the Navy promised he’d go places and one of those places was Scotland); to this tall, handsome man in a suit standing in front of his newly built home that he built himself; to a dad who adored his children (the proof is in the pictures); to a grandfather who seemed so stoic only to shed a few layers and reveal a dark humor similar to my own?
Those four short days I spent in a time machine, in a place that isn’t quite the past, but definitely not the present. Not only did I learn about my family tree (which I never imagined to be so large and so full of life), but I learned more about the people who have had a hand in shaping my life. In doing so, I am beginning to learn more about myself.