So how does one become addicted to genealogical research? I’m certain many of my acquaintances must regularly whisper such nonsense behind my back. After all not everyone becomes ecstatically happy at the thought of visiting old cemeteries. Struggling through briars to raise a fallen tombstone that has long sheltered a bed of snakes isn’t a great Saturday afternoon for some with weaker constitutions. And spending 13 hours a day in a dark basement viewing old German church records might not be a perfect vacation for those born with a different genetic footprint. Of course for me those experiences produce a thrill beyond belief. Its difficult detective work with a twist. It’s the ultimate challenge for a Type A chronic over achiever.
My husband isn’t a good cemetery excursion driver. He would prefer to not be a part of my fun adventures. But when one makes a reconnaissance trip searching for family plots hidden in rural fields, one must have a driver in order to properly scope out the territory. The chosen chauffeur must drive extremely slow, allowing the rider to properly survey the surrounding countryside. A driver, such as my husband, who worries about what one’s fellow travelers think of our driving speed cannot properly perform his given duties. After all the speed limit posted is for the upper range of speed, not the lower.
Co-workers are won over at an uneven pace, some coming around quicker than others. The difficult process of uncovering their heritage always requires assistance from those of us who thirst for more mysteries to solve. This requirement usually places us in the uncomfortable position of having to continually correct them when they misstate a familial relationship. “No, she was not your gg-grandmother. She was the third wife of your ggg-grandfather’s third brother.” Get the idea?
But for those of us who have become addicts, each day brings marvelous new opportunities. Each new fact uncovered is a stepping stone towards the goal of rescuing family members who have been lost to time. Any moment in a library might be the one that breaks open a previously unsolvable family line. And there’s always a new path to venture down.
After all who are we but a composite of all those who came before? And how can I completely know myself without fully exploring the life experiences of my forefathers and foremothers? So give me bright sun, a digital camera, knee boots, and pruning sheers. And let the fun begin!