My sister Beverly is the family genealogist. She started some 60 years and has stayed with it ever since.
It is not exactly an obsession, but she has converted a bedroom into her office, complete with walls lined with shelves, and the shelves filled with several hundred binders full of her research.
Her focus is the vital statistics: names, dates and other information, including copies of old photographs. So far she has reached as far back as the 12th century.
Much to my disappointment, she hasn’t found a vacant castle with our name on the deed, nor some hidden vast fortune. Then again, she discovered we are a direct descendant of an Italian composer whose son and grandson became the Marshal of Music for Kings James I and Charles I and II of England. That and $5 will buy a cup of coffee.
She also discovered we are a direct descendant of the Sheriff Nottingham. No, not the sheriff associated with the tales of Robin Hood, but his predecessor. This fellow was so wicked and corrupt he was hired by Richard the Lionhearted, then consecrated the Bishop of Bath and Wells. I think it says more about church and state than anything else.
And she discovered a very low rank title from Wurtemberg, Germany that no one bothered claiming. I did, thanks to some quirky English laws. Not that it is of any use in this country, but it is the proverbial ace up the sleeve for getting dinner reservations in Europe.
What she did discover was that our family has generations of ordinary, maybe dull individuals who lived very ordinary lives. They would be completely forgotten if not for her research. Worse, I suspect that when my sister falls off her perch and all her work is boxed up and shifted off to the local history center, they will slide further into obscurity.
Come to think of it, that is probably the way I’ll end up: a notation in some genealogical records, on a shelf in the archives department of a small, unimportant museum. That will be the likely outcome for most of us.
Her interest is in vital statistics, mine is in their story. I don’t press the issue by saying I’m right and she’s wrong, even though she is.
Four generations ago my great-grandfather and his brother immigrated to the U.S. and led very ordinary lives. One became a journeyman stonemason, the other a journeyman cooper. Both decided life was better in America than the old country, so they moved. In time, they settled in southeastern Minnesota, each buying an adjacent quarter section of land a few miles west of Rochester.
Minnesota was still a territory then and the citizens wanted to make it a state. Statehood meant a lot of paperwork and a minimum number of citizens.
One day the postmaster rode out to see them, as if they were planning on staying, and when they said yes, had them sign a Letter of Intention. That was all it took to go on the voting rolls and vote in the next election. “For the right man, James Buchanan,” the postmaster instructed them, warning there would be trouble if they didn’t.
Long story short, these two immigrants and their families built their homes, barns, pulled stumps, plowed the land and began farming. By the time they took up permanent residence in Oakwood Cemetery they each owned a section of land and had several other streams of income.
Their sons and grandsons continued that tradition of hard work. Hopefully, all of them and all of us learn to find that sweet-spot balance between work and play.
Recently I have been listening to an unusual podcast called “Russian Mafia.” No instructions on how to kill someone, rob banks or take over small companies. Rather, it is a series of the life-lessons the author has learned that led him to become more mentally and emotionally stronger.
He always ends his brief program with the words, “Be honorable.” One time he pointed out that strong people honor their ancestors and family. “They are your source of strength. If you do not honor them, you are weak.”
I went for a walk to think over this podcast and about some of my more-recent ancestors. For years I have known the list of things they did — immigrating, working near Cincinnati to save money for a place of their own, moving from Ohio to Minnesota, the homestead and more.
I knew about my grandfather who was in real estate and took off for a few months to go to northern Minnesota to prospect for copper. Or my father and all he did during his life.
Add to that my great-grandmother who endured the hardships of life on the frontier and buried two children who died of diphtheria; a grandmother who raised eight children, my mother who was the financial brains behind much of the work Father did, raised two children and was deeply involved in her church, the Scouts and more.
I started reflecting over the attributes it took to make all it happen. Instead of inheriting a castle or vast fortune, my heritage was a large collection of wonderful and honorable attributes.
The old Russian Mafia don was right on the money. One’s ancestors are a true source of your strength. They deserve to be honored. The best way to do so is apply their best standards to our life and follow in their footsteps.
As I wrote earlier, there is nothing unusual or special about this family tree. Most of you reading this column might say much the same.
There is one other important factor, particularly for the last four generations. They were optimists and once they learned about the United States and wanted to move here. One of the attributes they embraced, and which is still ours for the claiming, is that we live in a country where we can fulfill our potential.
Sometime soon, take a few minutes to reflect over your family tree and come to some conclusions on how you can best honor those who went before you. What can you do to make their dreams become a reality, not just for you and your family but for all of us?
