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_________________ Tuesday 6 February 2001 5 50 pm pst [ Ten days. ]
I must admit that I've talked to Henry once or twice. As I am walking into a Family History Library or perched in front of a promising website, I let him know, "I'm coming for you, Henry." I'm hoping one of these days he'll help me find him. Henry was born on 26 July 1859 in Wisconsin. His parent were Valentine (1805-1890) and Elizabeth (1821-1889), and they emigrated to the States from Germany on their honeymoon -- or so the story goes. Those two love birds have hundreds of descendents floating around; many of them still live in Wisconsin. Henry died on 22 December 1919. I haven't been able to find out much about his wife Elizabeth, whom he married on 23 November 1885. They must have been too busy having nine children to keep records. All I can think of is trying to send nine kids to college in today's economy... There must be a secret to Henry, standing so proud with what looks to me like a lawnmower.
I bet Henry never shaved that mustache of his. I bet his grandkids liked to tug on it. One of Henry's and Elizabeth's children was Joseph. Joseph married a woman named Agnes Bernadette Dolan, who was born in New York and adopted. They also had nine children. Seems like nine is a lucky number in my family. There is zero chance of me popping that many babies out. I can tell you're getting a little tired of hearing about Henry. You'll have to forgive me for being excited. I only learned all of this information in the past year. For several years of my genealogical research, this was the one branch I didn't have anything on. I didn't know how to get in touch with my grandma's siblings or their families. Ah yes, my grandma. I have been so interested in her lately. I am hopeful of getting at least some of her hospital records from when she was institutionalized. I've just sent away for a copy of her death certificate so I can make all these medical requests. "I'm coming for you, Grandma Ruth."
This picture was probably taken long before she got sick. Her schizophrenia didn't manifest itself after she had her fourth child. I called her sister Gloria today and introduced myself. I said I was working on the family tree. She said she had no interest. "Do you have children?" "Yes." "Would they be interested?" "No." I sent her a copy of the family history I had compiled anyway, suggesting that she might be interested if she saw how much effort I had put into it. I also called Ruth's youngest sister Karen and she said I could send her information but she wasn't very excited. Never has any family had less desire to know its relatives. I am beginning to wonder if Grandma Ruth's grandmother was also mentally ill, which would account for why her daughter was adopted.
I don't know what motivated me to go through the family photos today. I have been quite obsessive about my genealogical research lately, which I am sure was triggered by my grandfather's death last month. My mother has me worried that something is wrong with me because I haven't made up my mind about the future, but I think I'm doing ok. It's hard to tell when a passion crosses the border into something unhealthy, but I believe I'm not at that divide yet. I don't schedule my social life around my research. I don't spend too much of my money requesting vital records and social security applications. I'm sure I do, to some degree, use it to avoid doing things I don't want to. I know I stay up too late at night playing with my tree. Regardless, today I decided to go through the family photos I have amassed. I was looking at a family photo of my mom with her three brothers, both parents, and family dog when it struck me. "It can't be..." I said aloud. I left the couch and walked into my room to launch my family tree program and look up my grandmother's death date. Ten days.
Ten days. It's probably the last picture that was ever taken of her. It was on the occasion of my Uncle Lane's high school graduation. Now the story makes sense. Apparently, on the day she died, when my grandfather woke up she gave him a dollar and said "Send Lane to college." My grandfather saved that dollar bill for many years. Ten days. She got on a bus and got off at a bridge. Oh, forgive me for admitting to this, but I wondered today if she was lucid at the time. Was she aware that she was sick and did she think her death would be a benefit to her family, or was she in her own world following the instruction of god, who's voice she heard in her head?
And I have to admit to this too. I am drawn to her. I am drawn to search the contours of her smile. Can you resist studying her face? Does she call to you too? She hides her secrets well.
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May I introduce you to Henry? I know
he looks a bit silly, but I'm sure he was quite the dapper fellow in his
time. That big smudge above and to the right of his fine hat is a
fingerprint, which got printed with the photo onto this postcard.
Looking at Henry solidifies how much
more I identify with my father's 'Jews of New York' family than my
mother's 'Catholics of Wisconsin' family.
My mom likes to tell me how much
Grandma Ruth would have loved me. She always wore flowers in her hair and
she spent time rubbing lotion on her neck to prevent wrinkles and give her
the soft skin my mother remembers. I know my grandmother only through the
tiniest fragments.
This photo was taken ten days before
my grandmother took her life at 46-years-old.
Ten days.