Today, I had planned to talk about my newest children’s picture book I released in May… just in time for Summer and all the adorable flamingo goodies that are out there. Here is the Amazon link if you’re interested: https://www.amazon.com/Floria-Finds-Flavor-Tippi-Hickey/dp/B0F7FTR24P/

But what I really want to talk about—what’s been weighing heavily on my mind and heart these past several months—is family, family memories, and family history. And my seeming lack of.

Last December, my unmarried aunt passed away. I had been her POA the last several years as her health declined, taking care of the details so she could enjoy her final years living in the house her mother had built, surrounded by her beloved collections, and out in the quiet solitude of her rural home away from people. Then my task of settling her estate commenced. A huge part of that meant going through her house. The house my grandmother built just before I was born (so, just a few years ago 😜 ), which was large enough to tuck things away and forget about them.

I’ve unearthed three-plus generations’ worth of stuff while going through my aunt’s house. Framed photos, diaries, photo albums, Christmas and birthday and 50^th wedding anniversary cards and letters from people I never heard mentioned. Land deeds dating back to the late 1800s and even as early as 1810. The occasional random “momentos” such as Red Robin coupons from 2015 and canceled checks from the 1980s, in chronological order. But also the sketches of horses my aunt had drawn in high school, her binder of poems she’d written on work stationery, and “while you were out” notepads. My father’s baby clothes. And the Army decorations my grandfather, who passed away when my dad was headed to college, had earned as a Captain during WWII.

I’ve spent the past half year discovering my family and some of its history. And I’m bitter.

I’m going through the keepsakes and memories of people I never really knew. Many I didn’t know because they were long gone by the time I was born and no one talked to me about them. Or maybe I was too immature growing up to listen. But these are all strangers to me, even my aunt to an extent. This is a rich heritage no one ever felt was important enough to ensure the knowledge was passed along to me so I can pass it along to my own children. These are pictures of strangers.

Maybe it stemmed from the pragmatic attitude of being farmers. Maybe it stemmed from my grandmother being widowed and struggling as a single mother in the 1960s. Maybe it’s my own fault for not appreciating history until these past several years, when it was too late to ask anyone.

Whatever the case, I might as well be going through an antique flea market, for the emotional attachment I have with these items. And that’s sad; these treasurers should spark more than a simple “wow, that’s so interesting” from me. These people, their story, the items that were important enough to store for decades (but not important enough to store so that vermin and water wouldn’t ruin them), this heritage… most of it will fade away like a morning mist once I’m gone because I don’t have more than a smattering of family knowledge to pass along.

Fortunately, there are a couple of cousins who have more historical knowledge than me, and they are invested in documenting a lot of it. In fact, I’ve learned more about my own family from a couple days with them than I’d accumulated over a lifetime. Unfortunately, my own children are teens, and not at all interested in learning about family history. Hmmmm, sounds a lot like me when I was their age.

I urge you, if you haven’t already, to document your family history and share the stories and the people. Repeatedly. If we don’t know our roots, how can we truly grow?

Since I didn’t really talk about a book, I’ll give away a $10 Amazon gift card to a randomly-chosen person who comments.