Family Story Matters

When I first developed an interest in genealogy research, my sole purpose was to discover where my family originated. As far as I knew, I was a southern mutt. I wanted to trace my ancestors back to the motherland ... wherever that might be. I ignorantly assumed I could complete this task in an afternoon. I registered for the Ancestry.com free trial offer and input my parents' information. I anticipated I would have my answer in no time. After the fourteen-day period, I realized my quick research was fraught with errors, and I was no closer to knowing my origin. However, I didn't care. I was hooked on the process. I purchased the monthly subscription and started over. This time, I was determined to analyze the hints closely and move methodically through each branch of the family tree. The Pedigree Chart We used to breed Labrador Retrievers. Submitting proper pedigree charts to the ASPCA was essential to prove bloodline. The first sixteen verses of the New Testament begin with J

  "They" say ... start your genealogy research by proving your existence. While this seems far less exciting than discovering a new ancestral line (after all, I already know I exist), it is good advice.  Locate your birth certificate (and while you're at it, scan into the computer for future reference) Do you have a marriage certificate? What about school diplomas? Perhaps you saved old drivers' licenses that showcase various places you've lived. While all this documentation is good to prove existence, my interest in genealogy goes further. These facts only tell part of my story. I desire to flesh out the daily routine as well as significant events. I'm interested in the emotional details. This is what transforms research from a boring textbook to a compelling narrative. I dream of discovering the diary of a long lost relative. What constituted their everyday life?  What did they worry about? What did they celebrate? How did they live? So far, I've had no

  I've always envied those with a rich, ethnic heritage.  In high school, I would relish the tales of my Irish Catholic friends as they recounted humorous stories of large family reunions. I romanticized the movie scenes of Italian-American families crowded around the dining room table which was filled with enough pasta to feed the neighborhood. Interestingly enough, I married an Italian (but that is a post for another day). My heritage, as far as I knew, was a southern mutt. Dad was born in San Antonio, attended high school in Houston, and graduated from the University of Texas (Austin). Mom was born in rural Robertson County, Texas, moved to Houston when she was a teenager and attended the same high school as Dad. They married in 1950, and I was born nearly ten years later. Dad's job transferred us to Connecticut in 1971, and my Texas relatives immediately referred to us as "Yankees"  While I have always had a deep desire to document immediate family history, it nev

When I first began preserving family memories, I started with scrapbooking. I was ashamed of the hidden photographs under my bed. I would dread my children's "all about me" week at school when we would drag out the boxes to search for a few choice photos to share with the class.  After attending my first Creative Memoires class, I knew this was the right organizational system for me. I wanted the pictures displayed in heirloom albums we could enjoy at any time. And I enjoyed the creative outlet. But I quickly discovered photographs only tell half the story. I also wanted to share the events leading up to the captured moment ... and to follow through with a satisfying conclusion. At times I wanted to delve deeper into other life events (not captured in photos): What was happening in the background that affected our thoughts, feelings, and responses. How did faith play a role in our lives? A few years ago I developed the concept of Patchwork Memoir :  Marry one image with

In my last post ( Why Write (another) Blog ), I referenced my ongoing battle with Impostor Syndrome. According to Wikipedia, the definition of Impostor Syndrome is... the inability of an individual to internalize his or her accomplishments, despite evidence of competence. It is accompanied by a persistent fear of being exposed as a fraud. Proof of success is often dismissed as pure luck or some other outside factor . Impostor Syndrome (whom I call Delilah) has remained a close "friend" for several decades. In high school, she told me I was not a real musician. Even though I maintained the first-chair flute position, it was not because of talent but luck. I became so nervous during auditions, I would hyperventilate.   When I maintained the My Cozy Book Nook blog for nearly five years, she never considered me a real book reviewer. After all, I never took a college literature class. How could I possibly know what I was talking about? Even though I taught high school English for

Why write another blog? At this point, I have over a dozen blogs in various stages of production (most of them defunct). Why do I think this time will be different?  My first foray into blogging was with My Cozy Book Nook . I began in 2009 and posted on a regular basis through 2013. At first, I enjoyed the limitations of a book review blog, and I met many online friends whom I still support today, such as Deb at ReaderBuzz , Candace at BethFishReads , Bryan at Still Unfinished , and JoAnn at  GulfsideMusing . But ultimately, I felt too confined. And Impostor Syndrome continued to remind me that my reviews were not good enough, intelligent enough, succinct enough (you get the picture). Subsequent blogs delved into the joys and challenges of Midlife. Stepping Stones ,  Revising Life After 50 , and Molly's Cozy Book Nook allowed me to connect with other women my age. I found comfort in learning I was not alone in my thoughts, experiences, or feelings. But alas, Impostor Syndrome remi