Scraps of Family History

A pile of books about family history scrapbooking waits patiently on my desk. I've become obsessed with creating a written and photographic record for my descendants.

What a celebration there would be if I discovered a diary written by my great-great grandmother! Or a photo album compiled by a long lost great-aunt. Heck, I'd be happy to see brief notes my ancestors had written to one another, wouldn't you?

The books I'm reading encourage me to start by preserving one story, one event, or one photo and the tale it tells. How excited I would be if any one of my ancestors had done this for me!

Some stories are in the here and now; the first big snow of 2010 with pictures taken while running from falling tree branches. Others are in the past; tales of a much beloved pet who now resides in cat heaven. The one I'll share today spans the past, the present and possibly the future.

When I was a kid we had a 20 foot flagpole in our front yard. My dad was uncompromising about the care of the flag that flew from sun up to sundown everyday. In the morning, one of my sisters or I would hold one end of the flag while Daddy hooked it to the cord and raised it by a pulley. In the evenings we would lower the flag and fold it width-wise twice. Then starting at the striped end, we made a triangle fold 13 times, one for each colony.

My parents divorced and my mother had the flagpole removed. Folding the flag was relegated to Girl Scouts and parades, until last month when my dad was laid to rest at Fort Snelling National Cemetery.

Uniformed volunteers folded the flag that had been draped over Daddy's casket. With a 'thank you' for the service my father gave his country, they placed the flag in my stepmother's hands. Pastor said a few more words and the crowd started to thin. In a moment of immeasurable generosity, my stepmom turned to me and said, "You should have this." Then she handed me the flag. And returned the memory of my dad holding his end as we moved closer to each other with every fold.

Today the framed flag resides next to a photo of more than a hundred uniformed men, one of whom is my husband's late father. The stories of our veteran dads have merged and will be told to our grandchildren as one. The future will tell which of them will take ownership of the treasures and the stories. Perhaps the first to erect a flagpole in their front yard.

Who Do You Think YOU Are?

For decades, I thought I was Swedish and German. Never mind that my maternal grandfather was somehow English. I'm not sure how we overlooked that bit of information, but I continued to believe I was 50% one ethnicity and 50% another long after I should have known better.

I started my genealogical exploration with the Swedes. It was my Swedish great-grand uncle's safe deposit box that gave me the push into a "hobby" that has taken over my life. The Swedes are a fascinating group and I attribute many of my personality quirks to them. In terms of record keeping, you can't ask for a better ancestor than a Swede. Every move is dutifully recorded in the church books and one can follow a family back more generations than there are Andersons in the phone book.

At some point, I realized my gene pool had more swimmers than just Swedes. My dad is Swedish too, and we all correctly believed, German. But that oh-so German-sounding surname actually belonged to a Swiss ancestor. Hmm. A little reframing of the picture, but we're all okay with our "new" heritage. We started reading books on the history of Switzerland and dreaming of a vacation to the Alps. Before I finished winding my Swiss watch however, I learned my direct-line ancestor from Switzerland married a woman who immigrated to the United States from France. A French woman, mind you. From France.

Okay. So I'm not just Swedish and German. I'm Swedish and German and Swiss and French. This seemed a bit much for me to digest at one time. So I returned to the comfort and safety of the Swedish church books. And I researched one line after another, making the connections between Sweden and America. Until I learned one of my direct-line Swedish ancestors married a man from Norway. A Norwegian man, mind you. From Norway.

This is okay. I understand and accept I am no longer just Swedish and German. I'm Swedish and German and Swiss and French and Norwegian. Oh my. Maybe this isn't okay. After all, I'm so enamored with Sweden that I have celebrated St Lucia Day for, oh dear, could it be 20 years now? Will I ever love a Swiss holiday the same way? Can I embrace my French-ness as enthusiastically? And Norwegian ~ didn't Sweden once rule that country?

Oh, but I mustn't forget Grandpa who is somehow English. Is it even possible to add another country to the display on flag day? Some of my grandfather's personality traits, in particular his dry sense of humor, were always attributed to his English ancestry. So it was rather interesting when I learned my grandfather isn't English. His father immigrated from the Isle of Man. Which means....

I'm Swedish and German and Swiss and French and Norwegian and Manx. And finally, after getting to know the ancestors that contributed their DNA to my gene pool, I'm okay with that.

But there's more! Another surprise may be lurking on the horizon. I traced one of my direct lines to 18th century Maryland. For all we know, he may have crossed the ocean from England or Ireland or Scotland...

I’d better start shopping for another flag pole.