I did not know on August 11, 2003. Nor did I care. Not even
so much when my cousin Sue commented at the old dinner table in front of the
wood stove, “Around this table we always tell the same old stories.” Now Sue is
gone. I’m dedicating my booklet to her memory. I’m gathering the stories. I’m
reaching out to people I don’t know, the distant cousins who share my genes,
introducing myself and asking them questions. I’m compiling their stories. I’m dressing them up in active sentences,
hoping the words will make our ancestors dance like drops of water on that hot
wood stove. But did I have a single moment when I knew? I do believe it was
more a series of first steps that I took, each one defining my purpose and
turning it into a passion.
My Uncle Jim died in May of 2003, and his family returned
his ashes close to his birthplace on August 12. After the brief memorial
service, my Aunt Phyl was the first to turn her back and walk away, alone. I caught
up with her, talked with her, remembered with her. We, my cousins and I, went back
to the farmhouse where Uncle Jim was born, and sat around the old table. We
reminisced and reacquainted. We rambled around what was left of my Grandparents
and Great Grandparents’ farm, rooting in closets and drawers, chuckling over
our finds, laughing at our childhood memories. We opened the desk drawer in the
parlor and took out the old photographs. Karl asked me to scan them and send
him copies. I stepped into the early 1900’s world of photography with scanner
and photo editor, and I was hooked. I’d glanced at those old photos from
another era many times. It was my first step in my historical journey. I took
those photos to my mother and learned who those people were, all dressed up in their
funny clothes, unsmiling, looking directly at me: daring me to tell their
stories.
I was a latecomer to the internet. My husband and I visited
his sister and brother-in-law in Long Island, and I sat down in front of their
computer and began to play. Scared, I was, afraid to break it, to introduce
some virus, to get lost in some place and time where I could not get back.
Timidly I approached the search engine and typed in a name. My father’s name.
There he was! Donald Malcolm Moore. He married Mary Margaret Holmes on July 2,
1949. Of course I knew that, but there it was in print for all the word to see!
I typed in more names: my grandparents’ names, my aunts and uncles. I had to
have it, this internet highway, to travel places I could not literally go. I
brought it into my own home and took my first genealogical step when I
downloaded my family tree program. In a few short days I proudly showed off
hundreds of my ancestors and their siblings. I started off blindly, with no
proof, but names, names, names from many diverse sources. I stepped into the
world of genealogy via the internet, almost tripping over my ignorance in my
excitement.
The unveiling of an artist's depiction of my great-great
grandparents from cabinet photos. Artist is cousin Jean Fogg Brock, and my
cousin helping with the unveiling is Brett Nolte.
|
With the thrill of the novice in new terrain, I began
planning a family gathering. I began small. I invited our local cousins to the
farmhouse for a potluck luncheon. We gathered round that table where my
grandmother and great-grandmother used to feed their children. My appetite was
hearty, both for the food we placed on the table and the stories that they
shared with me. It was my first step into organizing our reunions, and then, on
my birthday in June, 2005, I received the call. It woke me up. “He’s gone,
Peg.” I hadn’t the heart for a reunion that year, with no Dad in it. But I was
awake. And I’ve gathered them back to the farmhouse several times since, more
and more of them.
It was not a moment, no; it was a series of first steps that
led me into this ancient world of my family history. Like the day when I took my
first baby first steps, I teetered and tottered. I fell and pulled myself up
again, and I took another, and another. I learned with each timid step. I grew
stronger and braver. With each step came a joyous discovery. Sometimes I came
to the end of a road, with no fork in it to choose from. Sometimes I found
obstacles to climb up, over or around. I found many trees to climb as my little
genealogical legs became sure-footed. These steps lead to the party to
celebrate the 200th birthday of my great-great grandparents, the bewhiskered
Daniel and the fan-waving Charlotte of the era of cabinet photographs. In 2014,
we will gather together, my cousins and me, in the area of the country where
they raised their children almost two centuries ago. It is my task to gather
them in, begun with my first few steps into the world of my family’s history.
Peg exploring near her Grandparents homestead |
You can find Peg at her blog that she shares with her Holmes family at http://oldpostroad2014.blogspot.ca/