Cold and gray again today and last night it stormed up a witch's brew of wind and pouring rain, lightening and thunder. The power flickered on and off as I made cookies for Mr. Moon and Vergil to take hunting this morning and for Vergil to take home to his pregnant bride. Pregnant ladies need cookies as much as hunters, you know.
Anyway, yes, the storm and today's gray and I've been texting a friend this morning and we've discussed it all from genealogy to cooking and on from there and it's nice to have a friend like that.
Mr. Moon and I have taken to watching "Genealogy Roadshow" on the PBS and it is fascinating. Those people can find anyone's history! When we were watching the other night, my husband said, "I'd like to know your family history."
"Well, I would too," I said. "But I think everyone's family history is probably pretty fascinating at some points. Boring as hell in others."
I don't know. I just don't seem to have a great need to really know all the details about my family history. I think it's interesting but it doesn't change who I am or what I am. Might explain more of it. But isn't it all just a sort of crazy crap shoot? All the millions of sperm that get get sent out and the relatively few who hit the target and and then the resulting human babies who grow up to live their human lives? Some live lives of great adventure and are maybe even famous or infamous and some live lives of possibly quiet desperation or perhaps contentment, raising their own babies, feeding chickens, taking joy in the every day.
And really, those are the stories on the show that make me cry. The people born to former slaves who managed to grow up and raise huge families and support them and even buy property by sheer hard work and determination and who hopefully, passed on those hardworking, determined genes to their children and grandchildren and great grandchildren along with the houses, the land.
As to my history? Well.
I know that my mother said that my father was in the KKK at one time. Or maybe it was his father. I know that my many-times great grandfather was a plantation owner, i.e., slave owner. Can I be proud of that? Of course not. But they were who they were and their sex lives led to me being here. I have their genes and I am not a racist any more than I am a musician the way one of them was or a genius investor the way a few of them were or a brilliant lawyer the way some of them were.
And as to the women who I am just as related to- who knows about them? I feel certain that if I went back to census records and found their names they would be listed as "Housewife," because most of them were.
So am I.
The hog dogs are at it, barking fiercely. Luna, the outdoor cat is especially vocal in her bitchiness this morning, the chickens and ducks are doing what they always do. Here I am, my children are alive on this earth, my grandchildren too, one more coming. The lines continue, I think of Mr. Moon's own grandmother who was widowed early and supported her three children and doctored those of her community too poor to go see a real doctor, who wallpapered her house and collected beautiful china and made quilts to pass on, and Christmas cakes for so many that the batter had to be mixed in buckets. I am glad that her genes are part of some of my children's too. And that her son, my husband's father, was a part of all of my children's lives because it's not just the genes that influence the coming-up generations but the love and the examples set as well.
It's not just the pirates and the rogues and the kings and the queens and the rich and the famous who determine the future. It is all of us in a myriad of ways, some involving genes, some not.
At least that's what I think. I could be wrong.