As Genealogist’s we place our focus on the past. We search for that elusive ancestor or record that will give proof of our lineage. Hours, days, months, years go by and we still press forward with hope and anticipation. This is our passion! Those outside the Genealogy community have no idea the elation we feel when we find those who have made us who we are today.
We spend so much time with the past that we sometimes forget to think of those who will remain after we are gone. We can tell our children stories about our lives. We can share our findings of our ancestors with them. But will they really remember all we have said?
The purpose of this blog is to document the stories of my life. When I am gone my children, grandchildren and great-grandchild will have the memories of my life written by me. I am excited to begin this journey.
Growing up it was made very clear that my mother did not like me. Her life was all about my older sister, Mary. I, however, was always an after-thought. I remember the first time I realized how she felt. I was 4 years old and my family was living in Tucson AZ. My mothers’ brother, wife and 5 children came from Missouri for a visit. All of us kids were playing in the yard, the 3 older boys were fighting and we 4 girls were playing in the back of my dad’s 1953 powder blue Ford pick-up truck.
My sister was 8 years old and she weighed over 120 pounds! She had a lot of trouble getting into the back of the truck. My dad had made a gravel driveway to park in and it was edged with 2 x 6 boards and she stood on these to boost herself up onto the tailgate. We were playing tag and running around the bed of the truck. We were laughing and having a great time. That is everyone except Mary. Within a few minutes, she was tired and out of breath. My cousins and I kept playing and Mary got mad because the girls weren’t paying attention to her. She jumped in front of me, stopping me from running by. Then she picked me up and she threw me over the side of the truck. I fell directly on one of those 2 x 6’s. I let out a scream and my cousins jumped off the tailgate and ran to get my parents.
My dad rushed and picked me up taking me directly into the house. I had broken my right arm in the fall. My wrist bone was protruding through the flesh. My aunt ran to get a towel and wrapped my arm and my uncle told my dad he would drive us to the emergency room. My mother was irritated because I had interrupted their good time. When she was told what my sister did she asked me, what I did to upset her enough to do that?
I ended up with 3 broken bones in the arm and it took over 8 weeks to heal. I was so little that a regular red handkerchief was used for a sling. I can still picture the saw the doctor used to cut off the cast. It was quite an ordeal. My sister never got in trouble for what she did. This incident opened the door for my sister to abuse me both physically and verbally for the rest of her life.
I am a professional genealogist, writer, photographer, wife, mother, and grandma. I have two books available on Amazon.com: Your Family History: Doing It Right the First Time and Planning Your Genealogy Research Trip. You can also connect with me via Facebook or Twitter.