Who Needs Me?

 

My life, my mind, and my heart have been in limbo for a while now, waiting for direction.

How do I feel about family history- something I’ve focused on intensely for over 3 years and have been working on since the 1980′s?

I’ve:

• written 133 posts about it
• spent a lot of time at the Family History Center as a volunteer director
• developed a system to organize beginners  and unorganized genealogy enthusiasts
• created a website that could really serve them
• joined the I ASK (International Association of Story Keepers) cause

…and I’ve seen the bottom drop out of all of it when my world turned upside down in April.

For the first time in 26 years I’ve had to work outside of my home to provide where my husband always had. I’ve been incredibly blessed to never have to worry about leaving my children. But I’ve had promptings for over a year to develop my online business so that I could support my family if needs be without leaving my home for more than a couple of hours at a time doing consultant (paid!) work.

But for a while now I’ve questioned the value of my gifts and if people really do need and want what I’m naturally drawn to –  the stories of a person’s life that is collected in documents and pictures, researched to bring out life’s lessons, and ultimately shared and archived in stories to share with family and friends.

The real question was: if nobody else was interested was I fulfilled enough to continue down that path? I was working with people so I knew there really were people who needed me, but what I wanted was a business partner, someone to pick me up when I doubted.

I thought the answer was no. My energy was wrapped up in survival and a multitude of distracting thoughts and emotions from sun-up ’til sundown.

Then the Universe conspired  to help me out and to teach me, or better yet to save me from myself.

I spent five hours on Saturday cleaning a 10 bedroom house on the ocean. I had time to reflect. Lots of it. And I was paid very well which presented a dilemma: work for money or find a way to get paid doing what you love?

I felt nothing as I worked. Sometimes that’s good. It’s wonderful to have the space where no emotions come to hijack your energy.

I was invisible to the people who were checking out the house - a house that slept 20 and was rented out mostly to wedding parties at $7,000. per week. Maybe it was $10k?

It struck me as funny that my whole life was wrapped up in making sure that people, the living and the dead, know that they are valued and NOT forgotten, yet there I was, serving people who, when crossing my path on the one day that life presented an intersection for us to meet and greet, I was the one who saw the opportunity.

I accepted the unspoken label of “the hired help”, and am old enough not to have been bothered by it. I work hard no matter what the job is, and this job was no different.

Then I came to the second floor foyer where there was a massive built-in bookcase that bothered me enough with its disheveled appearance to want to spend some time with it. I organized and righted beautiful, old books as I made my way from the top to the bottom of two, six-foot-long shelves that were filled with at least 20 photo albums of pictures dating back at least 70 years. The pictures hadn’t been mounted on acid-free paper and were browning and crumbling. I tidied them up as my thoughts drifted to the person(s) who’d valued them enough to organize them and put them in a book, and was saddened to realize that they had so much history in them that would be lost in a very short time if they weren’t digitized and put on cd’s and possibly online. Old and young walked by them every day as they were making memories of their own, too busy to stop, pull one off the shelf and appreciate the strangers living on their pages.

That was why I was there in that house. I knew it.

I was the only one whose focus that whole day was on the memories made in that house by generations of parents and children whose joy and laughter permeated the walls and floated in as effortlessly as the ocean breezes carried the curtains.

But Winter is coming.

Those windows will be shut soon to those memories.

Nobody will walk by those books, sit down, peruse the pages and open their hearts to the eyes that stare at them from the well-worn photographs. Eyes that plead to connect and have their stories told.

It wasn’t that nobody else would value those stories.

It was that I was going to be the only one to remind them to tell them.

Are They Worth a Thousand Words to You?

“Can you get me a graduation gift?” Madeleine asked me.

By the end of the night she’d have hers and would have unknowingly given one to me at the same time.

Gifts can come in unexpected packages.

Typically I spend Tuesday nights at the Family History Center working with people on their genealogy. Last night was Madeleine’s 4th grade graduation from grade school. Yeah, they do that now. I went through the motions of getting myself there, but my eyes were on the clock while we ate and waited for the ceremony to begin.

I could never have predicted what fate had prepared for me or how deeply I’d be touched.

And then the lights went out.

The music and the slide show started as my heart stopped and tears began to flow.

I wasn’t alone in my reaction. A man had pulled up a chair diagonal to mine to sit near his wife. He was a wreck the whole night. His wife rubbed his back and whispered, “Are you okay?” often in his ear. He kept nodding a “yes”.  But he was struggling to stay composed.

So was I.

Why the tears? It took a moment of pondering, but I finally connected the dots.

It was the pictures. And the music.

Snapshots of memories organized in a slide show with “My Wish”, by Rascal Flatts playing in the background.

Photos of my little girl riding her bike with her teacher and friends from the beach to the school every day.

Shots of her playing on the playground.

One of her by herself capturing her innocence and internal beauty.

I was so moved by the adults in my daughter’s life whose compassionate service connected all of those memories to a mother’s heart. They told a story of times and a world that she and I don’t share.

They didn’t have to do what they did.

Neither do you.

You don’t have to share the stories and photos of your loved ones and/or ancestors with your family. But I promise you that it matters. Photos add a valuable dimension of our experience and understanding of those we love or of those we want to get to know better. They tell a silent tale. They truly are worth a thousand words. Now you can even record a story with your photo at Legacy Stories.

I will be forever grateful for the reminder that it’s in the stories that we connect to people, both the living and the dead. We can’t be everywhere, experiencing life as is happens with our friends and loved ones. But the life captured in those moments is priceless.

Those pictures and the stories they tell are shared through sacrifice, thoughtfulness, time, and energy that could have been devoted to many other things.

What more can I say?

My wish for you is to share the photos and stories of your loved ones.

Someone like me will thank you someday.

P.S. I never made it to the Family History Center. I was joyfully centering my heart and mind on my living family history with my daughter. I think that’s exactly where my ancestors were, too. Enjoying Madeleine!

 

• Do you love sharing photos and stories? Do you have a good system of sharing them with your family?

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“Lyrics of “My Wish”, by Rascal Flatts

I hope the days come easy and the moments pass slow,
and each road leads you where you wanna go,
and if you’re faced with a choice, and you have to choose,
I hope you choose the one that means the most to you.
And if one door opens to another door closed,
I hope you keep on walkin’ till you find the window,
if it’s cold outside, show the world the warmth of your smile.
But more than anything, more than anything…

My wish, for you, is that this life becomes all that you want it to,
your dreams stay big, your worries stay small,
You never need to carry more than you can hold,
and while you’re out there getting where you’re getting to,
I hope you know somebody loves you, and wants the same things too,
Yeah, this, is my wish.

I hope you never look back, but you never forget,
all the ones who love you, in the place you left,

I hope you always forgive, and you never regret,and you help somebody every chance you get,
Oh, you find God’s grace, in every mistake,
and always give more than you take.
But More than anything, yeah, more than anything…

My wish, for you, is that this life becomes all that you want it to,
your dreams stay big, your worries stay small,
You never need to carry more than you can hold,
and while you’re out there getting where you’re getting to,
I hope you know somebody loves you, and wants the same things too,
Yeah, this, is my wish. Yeah. 

My wish, for you, is that this life becomes all that you want it to,
your dreams stay big, your worries stay small,
You never need to carry more than you can hold,
and while you’re out there getting where you’re getting to,
I hope you know somebody loves you, and wants the same things too,
Yeah, this, is my wish.

My Battle with Gremlins Where I Won!

Michael Earles Carlson US Airforce 1955-58

So, I’m carrying my laptop, microphone, and power cord, this photo (above), and some cookies,  walking up to the front door of my dad’s nursing home, and I’m wrestling with gremlins.

“This’ll never work”

“He won’t talk to you.”

“There won’t be a plug for your power cord, and even if there is he’ll freak out about the microphone.”

“He’ll get distracted and you won’t be able to refocus him.”

I really wanted to follow through with this new project-attaching a voice 0f  someone reminiscing while looking at a photo. A Talking Photo for my account with Legacy Stories. And I knew that if I succeeded with my dad, anyone after him would be a breeze.

I smiled at the receptionist, went up to the second floor, passed the common room where bingo was in full-swing, made my way around the nurses’ station, said hello to a lone woman in the hallway, slumped in her wheelchair, held my breath as some wonderful smells bombarded me, and announced myself to my dad and two empty beds in room #11, Nantucket Sound.

“Hey, Dad! It’s me, Betsy. I brought you some cookies.”

I jumped right in instead of explaining. I asked him if I could record his voice while I was already half-way through setting up my laptop, and he said I could. That was it. We were off and running in a few minutes. He wouldn’t stop talking! I learned to leave the recorder running because a few times he’d said he was done and then started a new story that I accidently recorded over as I scrambled to turn it back on. Editing can always be done later.

A lot of misinformation I’d believed for years was corrected, and I learned so much more than I ever knew about him. Most of it got recorded over, but now I know I can ask him to retell the stories and he will.

One that was lost was his year at the Adirondack School for troubled boys in upstate New York. “You were a trouble-maker, Dad?” “No, my adopted brother Peter was. He was already there. My mother sent me there when I was in the fourth grade.” When I asked why, he said matter-of-factly,” I dunno. I guess she had things to do. Maybe I was in the way.” My heart sank. He lived there for a year and never went home he said. We’ll revisit that experience soon. I want to know how it affected him. I know his mom wasn’t working. “She was loaded,” my dad told me.

When I saw my two boys out his window, back from the playground, I wrapped things up and promised to come back in the morning to cut his hair. I was curiouse if he would let me record him again, and he said that would be fine. We chatted about the Red Sox game that he’d turned off because it was too boring.

He then admitted that he’s bored every day.  That’s the first time he has said that.

And it was the first time I had to cut the visit short with so much more to talk about.

I walked out of his room and down the hallway, passing expressionless men and women in wheel chairs,  hoping to coax a smile out of them when their cautious eyes met mine. They were sitting at the ends of their roads with thoughts in their heads, most of them memories of happier times. And I wondered if they’d let me sit with them and record one of their stories for one of their loved ones?

I walked to my car happy and a lot lighter, a band of gremlins following forlornly behind. They’d failed in their mission to stop me from trying something new and connecting with someone I love in a meaningful way.

They’ll try again. I’m sure. They’re relentless.

I can’t adequately describe the transformation in our relationship as a result of this simple exercise. It’s more than showing a photo and recording memories. It’s about connecting.

Amazing that he has had all of these stories locked in a vault for the 50 years that I’ve known him, and I never heard one of them. Today I transferred them to a new vault that will not only preserve them but make them shareable with friends and family!

 To see and hear the Talking Photo click  here.  Keep in mind that this was my first try and I was thrilled that he was even talking! 

Family History Sunday Series 1:8 Military Records

“The nation which forgets its defenders will be itself forgotten.”
   - Calvin Coolidge

When I find out that someone that I’ve been searching for served in the military, I wake up. When I learn that they died while serving, my heart drops every time. Knowing that someone was probably far from home and friends and loved ones makes the loss harder. Imagining the news of the death as reported to next of kin brings me to that place where those who have grieved always arrive unprepared, sometimes kicking and screaming, and never leave of their own free will.

Searching military records is hard for me, but it’s also exciting and extremely rewarding.

You might not think so, but military records can be full of information that can fill gaps in some people’s history, making a more complete (not perfect or finished!) submission of a family tree to FamilySearch.org easier.

Remember to focus on your living relatives who served or are serving now, too. Recording their memories now will add depth of understanding to their life for future generations. Add their military photos, documents, and stories to your account at LegacyStories.org for family and friends to enjoy.

Links to some of my military related posts:

Tears in Heaven: He Could Have Been My Boy

Father and Son Stories

FYI: I’ve ordered records online (for my father), and I’ve found quite few on Ancestry.com. So as not to overwhelm you, I’ve only included National Archive links in this post.

From the National Archives Website:

1. The National Archives holds Federal military service records from the Revolutionary War to 1912 in the National Archives Building in Washington, D.C. See details of holdings.
2. Military records from WWI – present are held in the National Military Personnel Records Center (NPRC), in St. Louis, Missouri, See details of holdings
3. The National Archives does not hold state militia records. For these records, you will need to contact the appropriate State Archives.

Links from the National Archives 

Request Military Records

• Request records online with eVetRecs
• Other ways to obtain service records
• Learn about military service records (e.g. DD Form 214)
• Special notice regarding requests for copies of military records

Research Using Military Records

• What’s available online?
• Locate older (pre-WW I) military service records
• Using military records for genealogical research
• Other military and veterans records

Replace Lost Medals and Awards

Browse WWII Photos

Jack Loves #RushLimbaugh! Is Blind, and Has Stories to Tell!

Do you know how to draw someone’s stories out of them? Do you like to? I’m learning and am always surprised at how eager people are to be known. I’m also becoming more aware of how peoples’ stories teach me and wake me up to the beauty and blessings of my own life.

Two days ago I got a call from a woman who is visiting family on the Cape for a week . She’s here with her husband and sister. She wanted some help with her family history, having unsuccessfully searched for her would-be ancestors in the area.  We did a phone consultation so that I could figure out how I could help her and we agreed to meet last night at the Family History Center where I go every Tuesday and Thursday night.

“Betsy! We’re here!” I immediately fell in love with the three of them, Ginnie, Linda, and Jack, Linda’s husband.

Jack walked in carefully with a white cane, holding  one of Linda’s arms.  His eyes were clouded with a blue-grey film. He was blind. And I was uncomfortable.

We sat down at the computer where we could look at what I’d found for them. I taught them how to navigate the site so that they could continue where I’d left off, and then Linda and I switched chairs, putting me next to Jack.

Poor Jack! He was either going to love me or be very uncomfortable when I was done with him!

I just can’t help myself. I heard the words coming out of my mouth and wanted to kick my nosy twin who resides in my mind and often rules my tongue.

“How long have you been blind?” Did I say that? He’s more than his blindness! Couldn’t I have asked him something else? Something about his vacation? Why, oh why do I say such things without paying attention to that split second of a warning message that says, ” You might not want to know” ?

“Twenty-two years.”

And my overly inquisitive twin continued to dig deeper, ” How?”

Jack tapped his cane on the floor between his legs as he recounted his military service from Vietnam to the Gulf War. He thinks his blindness started after being exposed to chemicals which did their damage over a period of eight months after coming home. He was completely blind by Christmas that year.

I didn’t want to ask, but I had to. It was so obvious in his countenance and body language. “Are you bitter?”

Linda sat back in her chair. I didn’t know she’d been listening. “Yes! Very bitter!” And Jack nodded in agreement.

“Why are you bitter?” That question might seem callous or ignorant to some people, but for a moment, as I tried to immerse myself in his world I  wondered how I would feel being blind after being able to see? Was it hard to be grateful for what he did have?

Jack pondered the question and shrugged as if  there could be no other answer, “Because I can’t see anything.”

It was as if the air from an over-filled balloon had been released. The truth was out. Jack was ticked off. He felt what he felt and wasn’t apologetic for it.

Funny how the truth can set you free. Isn’t it? We had a great conversation after exposing and dealing with the elephant in the room. We talked about his service. He was in Special Forces and wanted to get copies of  his service records. We talked about my dad’s service records that I’d been looking at earlier in the day and how he could order his.

We laughed and enjoyed each other for about 45 minutes, talking about politics and Rush Limbaugh. and how Jack’s diabetes makes Braille difficult to read because he has barely any feeling in his finger tips. He admitted that he needs a new computer with software that would help him stay active in a seeing and feeling world. He has tried everything that I suggested. He really needs help getting to the next level. But he has given up. He’s tired. I get it. There are some things that people need to have done for them. This is one of those things. We’ll keep in touch and see what can be done ’cause Jack has stories to tell, and stories to read. He has an enormous spirit to share.

Jack is a real character. I could talk to him for hours. But my thoughtful twin reminded me that they were there to do some genealogy, so I excused myself and told them I’d be within earshot if they needed me. I hit Jack on the knee and said, “There! They are thoroughly addicted now! Good luck!” I almost felt bad enough to sit back down with him because the two women were engrossed in their searching and Jack couldn’t see what they were seeing. He needed a play-by-play commentary. But that would have been distracting, so I left.

An hour later Ginnie called  for me. announcing they were done. I got teary.  I walked them out after hugs and goodbyes and promises to get together when they come back to visit later this year.

They were so grateful for the help. I have so much more to share with them. They agreed that sharing what they’re learning with family is important to them. But it’s baby steps for now.

I. hate. goodbyes!! I’ll miss Jack. He reminds me of my dad. I’ll miss Linda’s gratitude, and Ginnie’s “Wows!” as new records were found full of new people to research.

I watched them step through the door into the twilight. The sky was so beautiful and the grass was a vivid green. Jack couldn’t see it.  For a minute  I was filled with gratitude that I could see what I saw. And I understood Jack’s bitterness.

I’ve heard it said that when we enjoy our lives we are a gift to those who can’t experience  it as we do.

Today I’ll turn on my radio and I’ll think of Jack.

I’ll look at my family and soak in their countenances, and I’ll remember that Jack has to rely on his memory of his daughter’s and wife’s faces. Ones he hasn’t seen in 22 years.

I’m grateful to have had the courage to get to know Jack, to listen to his stories, and to learn.

Happy Memorial Day, Jack!