I’m hooked on genealogy and have been for a number of years. I put it away for a long time but last year, after watching Who Do You Think You Are? on Friday nights, I dug out my disorganized notes and records, joined ancestry.com and started searching.
Genealogy is addictive. I struggle between writing fiction and wanting to devote all my time to writing my family history--at least, a few personal family stories like the one below.
Me and Grandma
I was closer to Grandma than her other grandkids. Maybe because we lived right across the pasture and I saw her every day. When I was little, I stayed with Grandma while Mama worked. I watched her wring the necks of chickens, slam them to the ground and laugh while they flopped to death. There was something a little scary, yet fascinating about watching my old Grandma, long grey hair knotted at the base of her neck, killing chickens.
When I got older, I’d still hang out with Grandma. I thought she could teach me something school books, and my own mom, couldn’t.
Being at Grandma’s house always felt right.
But this story isn’t 100% true. I wasn’t any closer to Grandma than the other grandkids; I did live across the pasture. And I did stay with her when I was little while my mom worked but once I started calling my panties 'drawers' and the front porch a 'gallery', Mom put me in a kindergarten. I did watch Grandma (I really called her Mamaw) wring the necks of chickens, and she did twist her long hair in a knot. She laughed too. Yes, she fascinated me, so is the story a lie?
I wonder what keeps people from 'elaborating' their family history, stories about their ancestors?
John Henry Roach is 18 years old. Mattie Mae Smith is 16 years old. Too handsome and beautiful to be wringing the necks of chickens.