Skip to main content

Gems in a Sea of Stones: Part I

Can you find the raw ruby in this picture?  Take a look; it’s right there.  Still don’t see it? It’s the one with the roundish, but jagged sort of edges. Maximize the photo if you still don’t see it.  Go ahead.  I’ll wait here.  Did you find it? Look again. It’ll be the one with rich-red hues.

Okay, I lied: there’s no ruby - raw or cooked - in that picture.

But searching for a gem in a sea of stones is kind of what it’s been like piecing my family tree together. 

I knew my maternal ancestors were from a small Missouri town, and I even have a rough idea of their ages.  I used that information to conduct my search…and generated records for about eight billion people with the same last name from that same small town. Okay, that’s an exaggeration. But there were a lot more than one or two.

One of the records belonged to a person with a name that I had heard my mom and aunt mention numerous times while they were having conversations that kids are too bored to be bothered with. “Is this the guy?” I thought.  And who did they say he was? My cousin? A great uncle or great-grandfather? …why didn’t I listen better when I had the chance?

I rolled the dice and did what everyone does when they don’t know what to do: I Googled him and that small Missouri town just to see what would happen.  What happened was that he appeared in newspapers stories from around the country from 1901, he was in collegiate history books, referred to as part of what inspired an essay by Mark Twain, but most interestingly a newspaper story from 1991.

This couldn’t be right.  Or could it?

By then, I couldn’t let it go. I needed confirmation – I needed someone to help me piece together whether this guy was a relative and if so, which one. And now I needed to know the story behind all the stories in cyberspace.

It wasn’t like I was going to find information from immigrant ship manifests and I knew I needed a black ancestry historical reference, so I emailed one of Milwaukee’s black historical resources for help. They emailed me back very quickly, and even pointed me toward an African American Genealogical Society here in Milwaukee that I didn't even know existed.

Then, on a lark, I figured, why not email the guy who wrote the article in 1991? Through some cyber-stalking, I found him working at a Missouri newspaper. I scribbled a note, asking if he had additional information or whether he could point me to someone who did. One nervously sweaty finger pressed “SEND.”

That was in the morning. As I was telling my friend the whole long story on the phone that afternoon, an email showed up in my inbox.

It was from the newspaper guy in Missouri. “Oh my gosh, this is him” I said, grammatically incorrect and interrupting whatever my friend was saying. “It’s really him.” I swallowed hard and noticed that my palms were all sweaty again and babbled “Should I open it? Can I open it with you on phone here with me?” Now I was breathing hard. My long-suffering friend said “Yeah!  Do it! I want to know what it says too!”

I took a deep breath. “Okay. Here we go…”


The message in that email will be in my next post. That’s why this one has “Part I” in the title.

Comments

  1. OK, that's just mean!.....I HATE suspense!

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. HAH!

      Well, at least this lets me know that people actually read this stuff. :)

      Delete

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

What 6 Christmas Songs Got Wrong

After Thanksgiving, a birthday party last week, another birthday party this week and Christmas coming up next week, I am officially overwhelmed. It'd take more time than I have to explain what yet needs to be done and if you're like me, you're probably overwhelmed and don't have the time nor inclination to read it all anyway. But even with an overflowing plate, I still love the Christmas season -- from setting up the Christmas tree that we got two weeks ago and decorated only yesterday, to lighting bayberry scented candles, to every Rankin & Bass Christmas Special, and the music. Oh, the music. Songs have a way of putting you in the Christmas spirit, warming your heart and next thing you know, you're hugging a stranger in the elevator. Okay, um...maybe that's just me. But alas, all songs are not created equal; and the following Christmas songs inspire and awaken anything but peace on earth and goodwill to men. 1. Christmas Shoes : This song makes my

Racism & Prejudice: Brothas from a Different Mother

Next week I’m attending  a seminar on defining racism. Should be interesting because: 1) I’ve been living in the skin I’m in for nearly 43 years and I’d like to hear about any advancements on the topic; and 2) back in college, some class I took defined racism as movement, advancement or otherwise being prevented and/or restricted based upon race .  Embedded in the definition was that racism took two parties – someone in power (the racist) and someone whose rights were being violated. So according to that definition, racism is an action , not an attitude . One is a disabling trespass while the other is prejudice . I tend to agree. It’s my belief that Martin Luther King and the thousands of civil rights fighters stood up against racism . They stood up against actions that prevented people from the pursuit of happiness – whether that meant voting, drinking from a common bubbler, or not ending up as Strange Fruit on a Poplar tree when all they wanted to do was get from P

The Moments That Are Given

Mom! It’s graffiti! It’s art... on a shoe ! I have to try it on. Please...can I? It was my 12 year old’s first foray into heels. A big moment in our little lives. Working full-time when she was an infant had stolen other big-little moments from my camera’s eye -- the first time she rolled over, the first time she sat up unassisted...the first firsts. Newly, gladly and willfully unemployed for the first time in 15 years, I took a picture. The picture wasn’t as much of an attempt to catch up on lost firsts, but rather a net to capture a butterfly’s moment of the moment; because if history skips a generation and the math holds out, there are more years behind me than ahead. My mom died at 63. Her mom died at 47. I’m 46. I’ve checked all over my person for a stamped expiration date, from the flabby inside parts of my arms, to the backs of my knees and other parts of my anatomy that shall remain nameless here.  There is no such date. Yet, there is a possibil