If I’ve heard it once, I have heard it a million times. At least that’s the saying, and it’s close to the truth in my case. All my life I have heard “Your mom will never be dead as long as you’re living.”
Dad and me before prom–for a second I thought it was Mom
And it’s true. I look just like her. I even sound like her. From an early age.
One day many many moons ago as I was talking to someone, standing next to our vehicles parked along Main Street, a lady I didn’t know came up to me and asked, “Are you Amy Rutherford’s daughter?” I was shocked. When I affirmed that, yes, I was her daughter, the lady said, “I knew you had to be. You sound just like her.”
So not only did I look like her, I sounded like her as well. I’m sure I still do.
Mom isn’t the only person I resemble. There are many similarities in my dad’s family as well.
It’s interesting to me the way the gene pool asserts itself across the generations, on both sides of the fence so to speak, Mom’s side as well as Dad’s side.
So who do you look like in your family?
A small hobby of mine (meaning I’m not very good at it) is gathering information to fill out the big family tree. You know the kind: big, strong oak with huge branches all over, extending up to the heavens and as wide as the Mississippi River. The tree with branches starting low so a person can jump right into it and start climbing all the way to the top, looking out over the world below, seeing things from a different perspective.
That’s part of the pull toward genealogical searches, you know. That perspective thing, seeing family in a new way. Coming across the secrets of why such-and-such happened or becoming flabbergasted at a totally surprising turn of events that were lost in the story telling or deliberately kept under the rug. Appreciating the hardships of those who came before us, handing down their wealth of knowledge or monies or land or memories. Seeing in one face from decades ago the very face of a relative today.
These are four brothers, my dad and his siblings. Standing on the porch of the old home place, their farm. Dad is the tallest, the oldest. The last summer of his life the three of us — me, my sister and brother — took care of him spending days at a time. We looked through old photo albums, took rides down through the country where Dad grew up, talking to first one and then another, with Dad pointing out where this one lived and that one lived. Getting all sorts of information about his youth.
It was great until he pulled out the old army pictures one night. I think he went back in time, oblivious to the fact that his daughter was sitting there listening to him reminisce about the army days, commenting on the pretty pictures of the girls.
Just TMI (too much information)!!!
Over the years I’ve done a bit of genealogy. It’s interesting. Kind of fun to find out where your gene pool is from and what those genes acquired or lost or survived and when and how they died and who they became throughout the eras of life.
At this point you can decide to get in the scuba gear and dive in or just sit on the edge and casually peer into the clear, murky, fun, scary, pool of genes. They came from Scotland and England. Some could write; others used an X for their names. Some turned out just fine; some didn’t. None of them made a big splash in the money pool or the going-down-in-history pool, but nevertheless their ripples continue on down the centuries.
This is my mom and her sisters and brother. The time period is around the early 1930s would be my guess. My mom, the girl on the far left, was born in 1920. She doesn’t look very old here, so I’m guessing at the year.
From the left on the front row is Amy Anita, 1920, Emma Christina, 1906, Minnie Alleen, 1912; the back row is Mary Louise, 1914, and John Clifford, 1908.
As a child, I grew up knowing these aunts and uncles and their children. I stayed with each of them at some point or another, maybe a day at a time or a week at a time.
And I loved them all dearly.