Putting Down Roots -- Adventures in Genealogy and other Storytelling Endeavors

This is supposed to be a writing blog, and as I look back at the last few posts, many of them don’t have a thing to do with writing. To be perfectly honest, there hasn’t been a lot of writing going on at my computer in the last few months. My time is being spent in a lot of other places, and while I may not have been writing, I am finding out a lot of different ways to tell stories.

Since graduation, I’ve started volunteering (and then working) at two different historic houses. One of them was built and inhabited by famous rich people and the other, built at about the same time about ten miles down the road, was built by non-famous, nonrich people. The purpose of both museums is to tell a story – for the famous house, it is a very specific story of a very specific person, while at the other, the story is supposed to be more general, a picture of what life would have been like for hundreds of families working on farms in Northern Illinois in the 1890s. 

But in both houses, the object of giving a tour is to tell a story – using objects in the home and facts about daily life. The tours I give for both houses are vastly different, but I believe one of my strengths as a tour guide comes from my knowledge of story-telling – having the ability to draw people in with objects or events that are of interest to them, and bringing to their attention parts of the houses’ story that they can connect with. At the big house, I had to give a tour yesterday to a group of fifth grade boys. I skipped talking about the influential women in the house’s history (and they were all characters, let me tell you!) and focused instead on the military service of the man who left us the house.

The other project I’ve been working on a lot in the past several weeks is my family genealogy. Unfortunately for me, my family (both sides) does not seem to be one who believed in saving photographs or death records or anything material that would help me learn about the kind of people my great grandcesters were. All I’ve been looking at are digitized census records, but, when read in chronological order, they form their own little black and white narrative, playing out like the best reel-to-reel melodrama. Every ten years, there is an update to their lives. What children have moved out of the house? Have they finally paid their mortgage? Has someone’s job situation changed? 

As strange as it sounds, I feel like I know these people now. I mourned for the women who listed '3 children birthed, 1 surviving' on the 1910 census return. I practically stood up in the library and cheered when I found naturalization records for my great-great grandfather and his two brothers. After twenty years of living in the United States, they were finally citizens. They owned their houses. Their children were thriving. Three young men who came from Bremen, Germany, to the port of Baltimore in 1886 and 1889 with nothing more than a piece of luggage each were making their way in the world.

In many of the stories I write, as well as the stories I read, a great deal of emphasis is placed on family trees – on where people have come from, what their parentage and connection is. I don’t have anyone famous or well-connected in my family tree – my grandcesters were carpenters and masons, seamstresses and cooks, farmers and textile mill workers, mothers and fathers. But the fact that the story is there – and that I can find it, and read it, and share it with my family – is comforting. I’m proud of my great-great grandfather the carpenter and his wife with no occupation except raising her 12 children. To me, they are famous – I want to tell everyone all about them! I come from the library and tell my parents all about these relations of ours like I just sat down for coffee and got an update from them on how the family’s doing.

Another one of my projects in the coming days is to make a new skirt and shirtwaist for my costume for the non-famous house museum. As I’m making it, I’ll be thinking a lot about the stories I’ll tell while wearing it, but I’ll also be thinking a lot about the women in my family who would have dressed similarly while going to their own jobs. And in a small way, even though they lived hundreds of miles and a hundred years away, I’ll be telling their story, too.