Looking Back: Genealogy and Family History

I suppose you could say that I am my family’s historian. Much to my husbands chagrin, I have boxes and boxes of photos, newspaper clippings, and documents of various sorts collected over 4 generations. When it gets too much, I sort through them, weeding out a few items but keeping the vast majority of items intact. I know I don’t really need the name plate from my great grandfather’s office door, but I can’t seem to part with it either. For some reason, it seems disrespectful to discard the treasures of those who have gone before us.

This summer, I began sorting through papers collected from my mother’s home after her passing in 2015. I needed to reclaim my sunroom, so I promised myself I would sort through one box a day until the job was complete. What I found were photographs from the turn of the century. I was staring at the faces of  my great grandparents, people even my own parents and grandfather had never met. My grandmother, an only child, was orphaned in 1925 at the age of sixteen. Using the internet, I was able to find the exact location of the store they owned, and print out newspaper advertisements from 1903 to include with the photos. Among the other treasures were report cards from my father’s less than stellar academic career along with evidence that his brilliant mind was clearly not being captured by the classroom setting.

These documents from family history might not change the world as we know it, but as a history teacher, I can not help but think that in years to come, these treasures that for me connect me to my relatives who have passed in, will one day be the primary sources that historians might use to piece together the past. Will they one day read the letters and postcards referencing presidential elections, terrible wars, the moon landing, and so much more. Will they gather the printed pages from the internet that I attached to photos from the early 20th century? These are the real items that give history it’s humanity. These boxes in attics and basements are where real life stories are held. They are more than memories, they are artifacts.

So, I will keep sorting and researching, and trying to put this giant family puzzle together. I will both recall and imagine as I open each new box. This is more than just my family, this is my past. This is our past. It reminds us that life’s problems and joys are nothing new. It tells us that marriages occurred and babies were born and losses happened in every generation. It proves that wars come and go and businesses open and close, fashions change but love does not. It is the record of our collective memory as a people and the specific memories of a family. It’s worth keeping.