on genealogy

There are many things you may not know about me, my dear reader. You may not know perhaps, that I collected rocks and marbles as a child, and that I still have them, stored away at my parent's house in my dad's old plastic electrical boxes. You may not know that I have every stitch of paraphernalia associated with the American Girl, Kirsten, including boxes, hangers and yes, the tissue paper. To just wave my nerd flag further (and proudly) I am totally in to my family's history. The pieces of which are scattered across the oceans and several languages. I'm not a full-on ancestory.com member. Yet. But I do dabble. I love old family photographs and old stories. I love letters and I love history. I am the keeper of the keys for my side of the family's past on a very broad and yet shallow level (I even have a prehistoric, in the technological sense, computer program for tracking). Birth dates and names. Who married who. Etc. And I also keep some artifacts I have unearthed during this move. 

I used to be quite the penpal. I loved the act of writing and receiving letters. When I was in middle school I wrote to my Great Aunt Anna, my grandpa's sister. She would indulge me with old stories and put up with my adolescent's questioning. She was always kind and sweet, encouraging my little doodles, telling me someday I could be a cartoonist. But mostly she told me stories. Stories about her parents, Letteria and Francesco, and their life together. Not a lot. But just enough. 

And to represent my mother's side I found an envelope full of old photographs of my poppop from all his world travels. Also included? His driver's license from the war and a stack of post cards sent home to his wife later in life. Mundane topics like commenting on the flight or the weather. But I'll cart them all from house to house, because that's what one does with history. 

Yup. My poppop called my Grammy "snooks". You saw it here first.