Friday, May 8, 2020
Yes. Yes, it Has.
That is the answer, of course. The question would be: "Has it really been nine years?"
Throw in a few leap years—three, to be exact—and tack on today's entry as the start of a new cycle, and that makes 3,289 daily posts since A Family Tapestry launched on Mother's Day, May 8, 2011.
I blame my mother. She just had too many stories of family to not pass them along. And I'm afraid I got her writer's gene, too—that compelling urge to write, no matter whether anyone else would have been interested. It's a way of creating history in its own right—leaving some breadcrumbs scattered along the trail with the hopes that, eventually, some hungry someone would come along and notice.
Encouragingly, people have come along to take a look—get in touch, even. Those of us who really want to know about our family history have a way of finding each other, even if it is only virtual and transient. The ability to reach out and touch someone is infinitely easier, now that we have the Internet to deliver our messages—and Google to sort them all out.
Whether there will be another nine years in this blogger's future, I can't guarantee, though I am fairly certain that the research will always continue. There is something so fascinating about learning other people's stories. Maybe it's an offshoot of learning how to empathize. "Junkman Froggett" taught me that lesson, only a few days ago.
Whether I manage to discover how to tie up the loose threads in my current research dilemma—whether the Rileys I found in Indiana are the same as the Rileys I discovered, back in their old home in Tennessee—I can't yet be sure. That's one hazard of blogging under the alternate persona of the Genealogical Guinea Pig. Taking one day to celebrate one's existence, plus a weekend to recuperate, may, or may not, enable me to come up with the answer by next Monday.
Above: Every time I review blog posts from that initial year of writing, the first item I see is the post containing this painting, a 1898 oil on canvas by German artist Lesser Ury called "Woman at Writing Desk." It struck me that, when I am seated, I have always sat exactly in that fashion—perched at the very edge of the chair, focused on work. Even though I seldom even sit when working now—I use a standing desk—the place where I work is situated much like the room portrayed in this picture: the piano behind me, and the screened-in double doors leading to our front deck wide open to let in the light. Perhaps what draws us to others' work contains a factor of what we appreciate the most, ourselves.