Roots -- and Branches

Growing up as an only child, I was always fascinated by large families. My own was quite small and most of its members were rather shadowy figures to me. Some had died before I was born or when I was a child. I saw the others only a few days each year at the most. It wasn’t until I grew up that I realized that the relatives I did know were almost all from my father’s family.

Of my mother’s family, I had only a few facts, jumbled like a jigsaw puzzle waiting to be assembled. I knew that, though Mummy had been born in a town called Royalton, Illinois, she identified proudly as a Texan. Her family had moved there when she was a baby. I knew her parents had divorced when she was a teenager and she had an older brother. I had fond memories of Grandma whom we visited every summer until she died when I was about 12. I never saw Granddaddy, though I did meet his second wife, Nell, when I was about 7. We visited them in Houston, Texas because Granddaddy was ill -- too sick for a little girl to be allowed to visit him. I met my Uncle Marion for the first and last time the summer after Grandma died.

The only other relatives of my mother’s I knew were her Uncle Quincy and Aunt Cora. Until we went to visit them in Missouri when I was about 10, I’m not sure I realized that grown-ups could have uncles. I have vivid and pleasant memories of them – Uncle Quincy was a fascinating storyteller and Aunt Cora taught me to play cribbage. But we never saw them again.

When Mummy died 26 years ago, I found a couple from Illinois with her maiden name in her address book. I had no idea who they were but I thought I should inform them of her death. I assumed they must be cousins but, though I got an occasional signed Christmas card from them after that, I was never sure. Then, in 2008 I got a long e-mail. The writer identified herself as my mother’s cousin’s wife and mentioned children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren – over a dozen relatives whose existence I’d been completely unaware of. A year later I “met” one of her grandchildren on Facebook.

When I decided to visit my Lost Cousin  in California this summer, I thought it would be only fitting to give equal time to my mother’s family. And so it was, in late June, that I found myself on a train heading towards my roots.

There followed three days packed with discovery of previously unknown places, people and family history. I felt like I was in one of the family saga books I’d always loved. Only this was my family saga. I had cousins that lived on a road that was named for them – and my mother.

My mother’s cousin’s wife took me along a, to her, familiar road

to a private cemetery where every grave was that of one of my ancestors.

She showed me the site of my great grandfather’s home along an old Indian trail 

and the Old Home Place itself, moved, years ago to a different location 

where one of my second cousins still lives.

I saw the town where my mother was born,

the church that my granddaddy built there,

and, in the Royalton cemetery, his younger brother Oren’s grave (father, grandfather, great-grandfather and great-great grandfather of all the cousins I was visiting).

Finally, she took me to my own grandfather’s grave in a nearby, even smaller town.

The next day, my mind in a whirl at the end of a cousin-filled pizza party, I relaxed in a Southern Illinois summer evening,

and contemplated the complexities of families. In every one, there are wanderers and home lovers. I’m a third generation wanderer. My great-uncle Oren’s part of the family dug their roots in deep. I’m so glad they let me wander back this summer to discover them.