If Your Momma Ain’t Intrigued, Ain’t NObody Gonna Be Intrigued!

(From The Princess Bride)

Inigo Montoya: “I do not mean to pry, but you don’t by any chance happen to have six fingers on your right hand?”

Man in Black: “Do you always start conversations this way?”

I love Inigo. He’s focused, passionate, and funny.

Intriguing,too.

Sort of like my new friend, Cathy. In just three meetings with me she has “completed” her 4-generation pedigree and is well on her way to filling in the details of the fifteen family groups.

I always give homework and rarely remember what assignment I gave. I should probably write them down? I’d be a fun teacher. My students would get away with a lot. But we’d also have fun learning, too. Exciting subjects drive themselves. Don’t you think?

Cathy has surprised me two times now by coming into the Family History Center having done hers. She’s amazing. She needs no reminders. We laughed about how tired she was. On Tuesday night we both left the Center and worked on some of her family history puzzles late into the night. She admitted that she had the next day off from work and spent the whole day looking for the link between two great grandparents with the same last name. That was the homework assignment she’d been given that she was so excited to share last night.

“You did?!” I squealed.

“Yup. I found them.” She started talking to herself as she fingered through her files, looking for the one with the goods in it while I peppered her with  distracting questions.

I switched chairs to sit at her right, explaining that I sleep on the left side of the bed, but I’m used to sitting to her right. My friend got a chuckle out of that declaration.

“You mean they were sisters?” I asked.

“That means that their great-grandchildren, one a boy and the other a girl, got married?” I looked at her, waiting.

“”They’re a few logs removed from the wood pile,” she said matter-of-factly, staring straight ahead at the computer screen. Oh, my! She makes me laugh!

 I had to get my cousins chart out to figure out what to call them. From now on it’s going to be hanging in the Center.”Cathy! Your mom and dad are third cousins!” No big deal, but really fun!

It was 8:30 and my ride  had arrived, so we wrapped things up and I went home . While unwinding on the couch, Kyle asked, “What do you DO with people there?” which he followed up with, “I have NO interest in that at all!”

To which I replied, “It’s in the stories, Kyle. You get hooked in the stories. We (Cathy and I) opened up a World War I draft registration record and found out this guy had three fingers on his left hand.”

Kyle just stared at me with a squinched up nose. Guys love blood and guts and action! The kind that Inigo Montoya delivers. I think my son was starting to get it, but he just laughed and shook his head.

But my mind was already off imagining about how it had happened.

‘Cause in the end, that’s what intrigued me the most. And if  Momma ain’t intrigued, ain’t NObody gonna be intrigued!

Ha! What intrigue have you found in your ancestors’ closets?

My Battle with Gremlins Where I Won!

Michael Earles Carlson US Airforce 1955-58

So, I’m carrying my laptop, microphone, and power cord, this photo (above), and some cookies,  walking up to the front door of my dad’s nursing home, and I’m wrestling with gremlins.

“This’ll never work”

“He won’t talk to you.”

“There won’t be a plug for your power cord, and even if there is he’ll freak out about the microphone.”

“He’ll get distracted and you won’t be able to refocus him.”

I really wanted to follow through with this new project-attaching a voice 0f  someone reminiscing while looking at a photo. A Talking Photo for my account with Legacy Stories. And I knew that if I succeeded with my dad, anyone after him would be a breeze.

I smiled at the receptionist, went up to the second floor, passed the common room where bingo was in full-swing, made my way around the nurses’ station, said hello to a lone woman in the hallway, slumped in her wheelchair, held my breath as some wonderful smells bombarded me, and announced myself to my dad and two empty beds in room #11, Nantucket Sound.

“Hey, Dad! It’s me, Betsy. I brought you some cookies.”

I jumped right in instead of explaining. I asked him if I could record his voice while I was already half-way through setting up my laptop, and he said I could. That was it. We were off and running in a few minutes. He wouldn’t stop talking! I learned to leave the recorder running because a few times he’d said he was done and then started a new story that I accidently recorded over as I scrambled to turn it back on. Editing can always be done later.

A lot of misinformation I’d believed for years was corrected, and I learned so much more than I ever knew about him. Most of it got recorded over, but now I know I can ask him to retell the stories and he will.

One that was lost was his year at the Adirondack School for troubled boys in upstate New York. “You were a trouble-maker, Dad?” “No, my adopted brother Peter was. He was already there. My mother sent me there when I was in the fourth grade.” When I asked why, he said matter-of-factly,” I dunno. I guess she had things to do. Maybe I was in the way.” My heart sank. He lived there for a year and never went home he said. We’ll revisit that experience soon. I want to know how it affected him. I know his mom wasn’t working. “She was loaded,” my dad told me.

When I saw my two boys out his window, back from the playground, I wrapped things up and promised to come back in the morning to cut his hair. I was curiouse if he would let me record him again, and he said that would be fine. We chatted about the Red Sox game that he’d turned off because it was too boring.

He then admitted that he’s bored every day.  That’s the first time he has said that.

And it was the first time I had to cut the visit short with so much more to talk about.

I walked out of his room and down the hallway, passing expressionless men and women in wheel chairs,  hoping to coax a smile out of them when their cautious eyes met mine. They were sitting at the ends of their roads with thoughts in their heads, most of them memories of happier times. And I wondered if they’d let me sit with them and record one of their stories for one of their loved ones?

I walked to my car happy and a lot lighter, a band of gremlins following forlornly behind. They’d failed in their mission to stop me from trying something new and connecting with someone I love in a meaningful way.

They’ll try again. I’m sure. They’re relentless.

I can’t adequately describe the transformation in our relationship as a result of this simple exercise. It’s more than showing a photo and recording memories. It’s about connecting.

Amazing that he has had all of these stories locked in a vault for the 50 years that I’ve known him, and I never heard one of them. Today I transferred them to a new vault that will not only preserve them but make them shareable with friends and family!

 To see and hear the Talking Photo click  here.  Keep in mind that this was my first try and I was thrilled that he was even talking! 

Jack Loves #RushLimbaugh! Is Blind, and Has Stories to Tell!

Do you know how to draw someone’s stories out of them? Do you like to? I’m learning and am always surprised at how eager people are to be known. I’m also becoming more aware of how peoples’ stories teach me and wake me up to the beauty and blessings of my own life.

Two days ago I got a call from a woman who is visiting family on the Cape for a week . She’s here with her husband and sister. She wanted some help with her family history, having unsuccessfully searched for her would-be ancestors in the area.  We did a phone consultation so that I could figure out how I could help her and we agreed to meet last night at the Family History Center where I go every Tuesday and Thursday night.

“Betsy! We’re here!” I immediately fell in love with the three of them, Ginnie, Linda, and Jack, Linda’s husband.

Jack walked in carefully with a white cane, holding  one of Linda’s arms.  His eyes were clouded with a blue-grey film. He was blind. And I was uncomfortable.

We sat down at the computer where we could look at what I’d found for them. I taught them how to navigate the site so that they could continue where I’d left off, and then Linda and I switched chairs, putting me next to Jack.

Poor Jack! He was either going to love me or be very uncomfortable when I was done with him!

I just can’t help myself. I heard the words coming out of my mouth and wanted to kick my nosy twin who resides in my mind and often rules my tongue.

“How long have you been blind?” Did I say that? He’s more than his blindness! Couldn’t I have asked him something else? Something about his vacation? Why, oh why do I say such things without paying attention to that split second of a warning message that says, ” You might not want to know” ?

“Twenty-two years.”

And my overly inquisitive twin continued to dig deeper, ” How?”

Jack tapped his cane on the floor between his legs as he recounted his military service from Vietnam to the Gulf War. He thinks his blindness started after being exposed to chemicals which did their damage over a period of eight months after coming home. He was completely blind by Christmas that year.

I didn’t want to ask, but I had to. It was so obvious in his countenance and body language. “Are you bitter?”

Linda sat back in her chair. I didn’t know she’d been listening. “Yes! Very bitter!” And Jack nodded in agreement.

“Why are you bitter?” That question might seem callous or ignorant to some people, but for a moment, as I tried to immerse myself in his world I  wondered how I would feel being blind after being able to see? Was it hard to be grateful for what he did have?

Jack pondered the question and shrugged as if  there could be no other answer, “Because I can’t see anything.”

It was as if the air from an over-filled balloon had been released. The truth was out. Jack was ticked off. He felt what he felt and wasn’t apologetic for it.

Funny how the truth can set you free. Isn’t it? We had a great conversation after exposing and dealing with the elephant in the room. We talked about his service. He was in Special Forces and wanted to get copies of  his service records. We talked about my dad’s service records that I’d been looking at earlier in the day and how he could order his.

We laughed and enjoyed each other for about 45 minutes, talking about politics and Rush Limbaugh. and how Jack’s diabetes makes Braille difficult to read because he has barely any feeling in his finger tips. He admitted that he needs a new computer with software that would help him stay active in a seeing and feeling world. He has tried everything that I suggested. He really needs help getting to the next level. But he has given up. He’s tired. I get it. There are some things that people need to have done for them. This is one of those things. We’ll keep in touch and see what can be done ’cause Jack has stories to tell, and stories to read. He has an enormous spirit to share.

Jack is a real character. I could talk to him for hours. But my thoughtful twin reminded me that they were there to do some genealogy, so I excused myself and told them I’d be within earshot if they needed me. I hit Jack on the knee and said, “There! They are thoroughly addicted now! Good luck!” I almost felt bad enough to sit back down with him because the two women were engrossed in their searching and Jack couldn’t see what they were seeing. He needed a play-by-play commentary. But that would have been distracting, so I left.

An hour later Ginnie called  for me. announcing they were done. I got teary.  I walked them out after hugs and goodbyes and promises to get together when they come back to visit later this year.

They were so grateful for the help. I have so much more to share with them. They agreed that sharing what they’re learning with family is important to them. But it’s baby steps for now.

I. hate. goodbyes!! I’ll miss Jack. He reminds me of my dad. I’ll miss Linda’s gratitude, and Ginnie’s “Wows!” as new records were found full of new people to research.

I watched them step through the door into the twilight. The sky was so beautiful and the grass was a vivid green. Jack couldn’t see it.  For a minute  I was filled with gratitude that I could see what I saw. And I understood Jack’s bitterness.

I’ve heard it said that when we enjoy our lives we are a gift to those who can’t experience  it as we do.

Today I’ll turn on my radio and I’ll think of Jack.

I’ll look at my family and soak in their countenances, and I’ll remember that Jack has to rely on his memory of his daughter’s and wife’s faces. Ones he hasn’t seen in 22 years.

I’m grateful to have had the courage to get to know Jack, to listen to his stories, and to learn.

Happy Memorial Day, Jack!

Family History Sunday Series 1:7 “Becoming Real for Always”~ The Living Legacy Project

 

Have you ever read the children’s story, The Velveteen Rabbit, by Margery Williams? It’s the tale of a toy rabbit’s quest to earn the love of his child-owner in order to become real like the other rabbits he met near the boy’s home in the woods.

I love the story because it’s about love and loss, and the desire to matter –  to be “real” to the rest of the world.

The rabbit is told by another nursery toy, the Skin Horse, “…once you are Real you can’t become unreal again. It lasts for always.”

Isn’t that what we all want? To become “Real for always?”

Researching and writing stories about my ancestors has made them “real” to me. I write the stories because I want my family to have them to read and to use as a tool to get to know them as I have.

But what of me and my personal legacy? How well am I doing leaving a record for future generations to learn from? How well are you doing? Do you consider how easily everything could be lost because of natural disaster, like fire and flood, and illnesses like Alzheimer’s?

When I reflect on the times I’ve sat with my children, watching their intrigue as I tell them  stories about my life, or when we look at old photos of me as a child and a young woman in college I feel the depth of the value of telling these stories to them.  We are bonded by the tales I tell them that come from my memory or that are triggered by a photo we find in an album or scrapbook. There is no happier family time than those times when we tell our stories.

“Tell us about when you were little!” they plead. As they listen I see their hearts transform and their minds connect to the new reality of human beings replete with strengths and weaknesses, hopes and desires, successes and failures.

But what happens to those stories and those photos over time? We told them often to our older children. Life has challenged us to remember how valuable those stories are to our younger children. I wonder about the risk I’m taking of having them lost forever to my children and future grandchildren because I haven’t digitized and archived them or the videos and photos that go with them.

Watch this short video and see what I found, or actually, what found me! It’s a miraculous project and I’m honored to be a part of it. We can do this!

Your ancestors’ stories make them “real”.

And you will be someone’s ancestor someday!

Click on the image to learn more. Register and start archiving your memories for free today!!

I Had a Geraldo Rivera/Al Capone Moment

The night of April 22, 1986 is etched on a lot of peoples’ memories.

Priceless! They found a stop sign, an empty bottle, and some dust! “Nothing”.

Last night, when my daughter discovered the mail my little boy had deposited on a side table in the kitchen earlier in the day, she started doling pieces out to everyone.

“England? Mommy, who do you know in England?”

For a moment I was Charlie in Roald Dahl’s, “Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory”. My heart was exploding with anticipation, carrying me outside to our deck, two of my girls following me screaming, “What? What is it Mommy?”

I paced, fanning myself with the envelope, hearing them and my heart pounding, knowing that the moment of truth had arrived. Breaking the seal, I held my breath, noticing how the new imperfection bothered me.

I sat down with one child beside me, the other standing in front of me, neither really understanding the emotional charge that the information or lack thereof was on the document that my shaky hands held. My mother had ordered the document hoping to learn a little bit more about her maternal grandmother, Ottilie (Lowrie, Schweigl, or Denonville?)

I started reading and jumped up, running to the other side of the deck, utilizing the energy released from a copy of a birth registration dated June 9,1899, Cheetham, England in the registration district of Prestwich, county of Manchester. Gaston Victor Schweigl, born March 23, 1899. (And I thought I was a procrastinator!)

Up until this moment I had my great grandmother’s married name and her supposed maiden name.

I knew she was Ottilie Schweigl on her 1901 marriage certificate to Frederick Lowrie. I assumed that Odilo Scweigl, one of the witnesses, was her father.

What I learned last night was that she had been married to Edward Schweigl when her first son Victor had been born!

Her father-in-law, Odilo Schweigl was a witness of her 2nd marriage!

But we’re not done, yet…

I read the tiny scribbles in the section labeled “Name, surname and maiden name of mother”. I threw my head back and screamed and laughed uproariously, scaring my children.

Ottilia Lewakowska

I had to call my mom! I couldn’t stop giggling. Lewakowska, Lewakowska, Lewakowska. I couldn’t get used to the name.

“What?!!” my mom asked me after a pregnant pause, loaded with shock and disbelief. We chatted as I promised to scan and email her the document. We hung up because life in the present was calling again.

I have had private moments in the 12 hours since opening the envelope. On my return trip from Nashua, after dropping my children off at 6am, alone in the car again, I wiped away tears from  the most recent round of mental images that had me in stitches.

You should all be as lucky to have at least one line of your family that is so easily amused. I know that I was the butt of their joke. I can hear the guffaws as I saw the name. The high-fives followed by knee-slapping and moments taken to catch their breath waiting for the next round of giggles to overtake them at my expense was deafening!

“She thought she was getting answers! Let’s see what she can do with THAT name!!”

This party is going to go on and on and on.

 And, yes, I’m their entertainment.

Happy to be of service!

• Have you ever had a moment like that?