It usually begins with wonder. Wondering about the lives of those people who are related to you by blood, sweat and tears and laughter. How did they live? What did they love? What were their heartaches? And the questions continue to pile up. I have questions and basically, most of the people who would answer those questions are dead. Those who could fill in some blanks aren't talking.
I tend to look at most of it with a neutral eye, but there are some things that cause me to pause and "feel" an aching or some emotion of sympathy.
If not for the photos, I don't know that I would have ever searched for connections. The photos make it "real." And I look for familiarity--were they like me? Are we even remotely the same? It's like putting together a big puzzle of tiny pieces and then seeing the big picture. I like that. I always did like working puzzles.
How these two got together is a mystery of sorts. Obviously, my dad thought my mom was beautiful. He pursued her even though they were miles apart in values, upbringing and even geography/culture. She let him pursue. It helped that they were both young and hadn't thought about how these differences might clash at some point.
So, I guess I start this journey with my parents. I know many stories and actually lived with them. I knew how they felt about some things, sometimes by living, sometimes by stories and sometimes because they wondered too about their own people. I thought I knew more about my mother's people (Swedes/Norwegians and immigrants to America) but as I went along in discovery, I found out that I could find more about my dad's people. In fact I could go back hundreds of years! It was soul-satisfying to see.
