We need these outlines and addresses, but they do not begin to tell the story. We are much more than birthdays, anniversaries, and deaths. I will attempt here to recall bits and pieces of these lives that may give you clues as to what sort of adventures your ancestors survived and what sort of imprint they made on this young mind.

With each marriage begins a new history. Our living itself tumbles out, or strides forth, becomes a story of discovery. Each child is born into dependence, desperately fearful at times, cries or screams, seeks comfort, reassurance; unaware of social forces that shape their parents responses. What is this all about? This breathing, the hot and cold, this hungry chatter, in the light and in the dark? Even when of grade school age I was not fully aware that my Father was gone for months at a time, living in cities where he found work “laying pipe”. I did not know until I was “grown” that cement poured onto him while down in a ditch injuring his back, may not have been an accident. As children we are aware of our own developing stories, but know little of the forces shaping the lives of our parents. We sit quietly through the church services, endure the intrusive questions of uncles – “What will you make of yourself?” Kiss our grandmothers, are excited by presents, eat the cherry pie, and roast pork, say, “thank you”, then depart to the playground where friendship is sought and conflict is met spontaneously. And we forget almost everything.

I loved sports. Football was a favorite. I survived the bloody lips, broken glasses… one neighbor boy facing me on the line had reached his hand quite deliberately to drag my glasses from my face and to step on them. I kept playing and “we” still won. His attempt to disadvantage me had failed!

I wanted to forget my history when my children were young, wanting to enjoy living with them, wanted to share with them my beliefs and discoveries, but more often wanted to discover with them the thrill and warm beauty found in being where the wild and untamed meets the civilized. I pushed buggies, pulled wagons, splashed through puddles, told stories while rocking them. I wanted every night to be a happy ending. I ran my fingers through their hair and tucked them into bed.

But whether a blessing or a curse our history follows us, alarms our children when they learn its details and the strength of its hold on us. Like “Mental illness in our family tree?” And “Why didn’t you serve in the military?” “You’re a pacifist? Doesn’t it bother you that three of your sons joined the military?”

Disappointment can severe ties that bind or lead a search for understanding.