My turn to read The Heretic’s Daughter. Which, by the way, I highly recommend even if the Salem witch trials aren’t your thing – it’s a very moving story. (I’ve been bawling my eyes out for the last half hour. And I’m not done yet.)
What kills me, though, is the descriptions of my ancestors. Little things – their physical descriptions, their love of storytelling and life (and booze and women…let’s call a spade a spade), even Roger’s heart condition – are so familiar to me. Because I knew their descendants. Because I am one. And now I’m left wondering how these people, who lived centuries apart, could be so alike…not just physically, but in all ways.
Roger did some shitty things. So did his son. So did my grandfather, my uncles. But there was good in Roger. He sacrificed himself so that his family wouldn’t suffer further. And there was good in my family, too. I missed it, though, because I was so busy focusing on the bad. And now they’re almost all gone, and it’s too late to connect with them.
My mother used to tell me stories about her family when I was young. Lately, I’ve been asking her to clear up some of the questions – to make the connections for me between the names and photos I grew up with. (It doesn’t help that they’re all named after each other, so I end up asking “Is Uncle Bob the same as the baby Bob in the albums?”) She made the comment that she’d better write everything down, because she’s the last to remember it all. I’m resurrecting this goal because I intend to help her – both so the story can be passed down, and so I can get to know these people as well as I can. So maybe I can have something of a family.
