For those not addicted to the Broadway musical Hamilton, the title is the name of the final song.  I’m kind of obsessed with Alexander Hamilton right now.  But that is not what this is all about.  The lyric just happened to fit my thoughts for today.

As many things do, this started with a dinner discussion with my daughter and her fiancé who were sharing the story of getting their marriage license this week.  Questions were asked of them to which they had no answers – for one, his father’s birthplace.  By way of a brief explanation, his father was not in his life for most of his life and there has never been a need to have knowledge of personal things.

Discussion turned to my late husband’s birthplace.  She said he was born in Ducktown, Georgia.  He was not. I explained he was born in Copperhill, Tennessee.  I asked her what she put down for me.  She replied, “Clarksville, Tennessee of course”.  I smiled and said, “Murray, Kentucky”.  We all laughed but it really made me think.  Watch out when I start thinking.

Genealogy is my passion.  Historical Records, such as marriage licenses, court records, birth certificates, death records, etc. are validation for researchers that one has the correct information.

It is also a passion of mine to tell stories about our family history.  I want my children and my grandchildren to know something about the people that came before them, both significant and insignificant.  We have family members that influenced American history, who impacted the lives of entire communities, and those that quietly struggled through their daily lives one day at a time and influenced only those directly related to them.  All of them are interesting and important and beloved.  And as long as I tell their stories, they stay alive in some way.

But who is telling my story?  And their Dad’s story?  And their grandparent’s?

So much of what we know about our family history, or any historical figure studied by writers or researchers, comes from stories and letters that were WRITTEN DOWN and saved by someone.  We don’t do that anymore.  We don’t write letters.  Few people keep written journals.  Everything is online or done through emails or text.

We do have Instagram and other social media that will give us what our ancestors did not have – lots of photos.  But what about the stuff going on in their brains and in their hearts?  I want to know about that stuff.  I know a great deal about relatives I never met because I have letters that were shared between them.  I learned of their hopes and dreams and fears.  I learned about their personalities and how they felt about their families and about themselves.  I feel like I knew them.  They are people I care about, even though they were born over 150 years ago and died over 90 years ago.  These things are really important to me.  But maybe not to my kids.  Or maybe just not as important as they are to me.

So what’s the answer?  I’m not sure yet.  My only solution right now?  To write my own story.  I need to figure out how to put aside some time to do that.  Maybe I will periodically do that here.  What have I left out in sharing stories of my childhood?  I feel like it’s well known but maybe not – do my kids even know WHY I was born in Murray, Kentucky?

It’s because my parents met in college at Murray State, got pregnant, got married, and had me there.  My brother was also born in Murray soon after I was.  Our parents struggled as young married college students with two kids but my mother was determined that they would graduate from college and would not drop out.  My dad joined ROTC because the small stipend he got monthly (I think they said $45 per month) would pay for married student’s housing.  My mother asked her father to go to the bank with her to get a loan, even after he told her she needed to give up on college and go be a wife and a mother.  Mom’s parents kept us during the week on their farm in Hopkinsville and we saw Mom and Dad on weekends.  They both graduated against all odds and my dad was obligated to join the Army.  Our family traveled the world and my dad retired as a General at the end of his long career in the Army.  Not what anyone planned but really, does life ever go the way we plan?

Why do I know those details?  My mom shared stories with me.  She wrote letters.  And when my grandfather passed away, she wrote down more details in a speech to be read by my father at my grandfather’s funeral.  She gave me a copy.  She was sharing stories of the type of man my grandfather was but she also shared a little about what kind of woman she became because of his influence.

I love those stories.  It says so much about the determination my mother had in anything she wanted to do.  And it shows the positive influence she had on Dad.  Mom had a quiet, respectful way about her until you told her she couldn’t do something.  But when she made up her mind, get out of her way.  She was the first person in her family to go to college.  And she eventually obtained her Masters Degree.

My story is intertwined with many others.  We all have both individual and a shared history.  We will see where this goes.  Maybe it is me who will Tell My Story.