Ancestral Origins

Last Wednesday was St. Patrick’s Day, which usually can be relied on for at least one person asking, “Are you Irish?”

My confusion in answering first begins with the tremendous localness of my ancestors. My grandmother on my dad’s side has done extensive genealogy research on our family and as far back as she has traced, most of my ancestors were born right here in the United States.

In the 1780s, one of my ancestors was born in Ireland before coming to America and marrying. That’s it. Just one. Everyone else in that genealogical study was born here, some even fighting in the Revolutionary War.

For those, like me, not so great with remembering historic dates, that war began in 1775 and ended in 1783. That’s a long time to have been in this relatively new country.

On my mom’s side of the family, we have no history with which to answer this question. She was adopted when she was a baby and we don’t know her background at all.

Disconcerting? Yep.

If I have to answer the origins question, I guess my answer is that I’m pretty much plain American with the tiniest percentage of Irish and a whole lot of mystery.

Living in the Moment

I nearly missed some wonderful memories with my stepson simply because I had a plan in my head for how my time would be spent.

Do you ever do that? Have you turned down a game or walked away from spontaneous fun because you had something else you "had" to do?

Remember, our lives are for building memories, not for checking off to do's.

Read more about living in the moment at my Working Mother blog.

Overcoming Fear of My Own Family

One thing I learned in January is how important it is to find the good in what feels like an otherwise bad time.

When I lost my grandpa three weeks after losing my dog, all I could think is what next? How much can I take? What is the universe trying to tell me?

What I learned is that my family isn’t as weird as I envisioned and I am not a disappointment. That is a monumentally huge step for me.

Let me explain. I spend a lot of time worrying about other people. I worried about seeing family I haven’t seen a while, mostly about whether they would see me as a failure. A failure for taking too long to finish college, for already having a divorce behind me, for being in a second marriage already (with a stepson), for not going to church every Sunday, for the photo I sent at Christmas time which prompted a letter from my grandpa about having “breasts more modestly covered”- talk about humiliating. It’s an unbelievable amount of baggage I carry to any family meeting.

My family is quite spread out, so I don’t get to see everyone very often. It had been 5 to 10 years since I’d seen some of them. It’s almost like getting together with strangers.

The thing about going to see my family after grandpa’s passing is my mind was more absorbed with shock and grief than it was with worrying about my own insecurities or past “proof” of my ability to disappoint. (It seems almost laughably harsh as I write it now.)

My first stop (with my dad and stepmom) was to my uncle’s house, the one I hadn’t seen in 5 years. Entering their home I immediately felt comfortable. It felt safe. There were no pretenses. My aunt was the strong, welcoming person I remembered. My cousin, who I hadn’t seen in 10 years, was now a full-grown man with quiet sarcasm.

It was my uncle, though, that I really connected with. He was with my grandpa when things took their sudden downturn. Throughout lunch he tearfully explained what happened and what he was thinking every step of the way. Before we left I thanked him for sharing his story and for being with grandpa in his final moments.

At my grandmother’s house were my other uncles, aunt, and half of my cousins. The rest of my cousins, my stepbrother, and my stepsister arrived the next day and for the first time in at least 10 years, all of our family was together in one place.

My mom happened to be visiting my other grandma a few hours away. My two grandmas had been good friends until my one grandma moved. My mom offered to drive up one afternoon (seven hours roundtrip) so that she and grandma could be there for me and my other grandma.

I was touched at that generosity then worried about my parents being in the same room. Would it be awkward? Would my dad’s family want my mom there?

There was nothing to fear. Everyone got along. My mom talked to my aunt and my stepmom for more than an hour while my two grandmas visited. My cousins on my dad’s side talked about how great my grandma on my mom’s side was. It made me wonder what I really thought would happen.

I spent a lot of time with my family in those five days. I talked to all of them. And listened. Really listened.

We found camaraderie. My church-going cousins relayed what clothing had “gotten them in trouble” with grandpa and grandma. It wasn’t just me. There is nothing wrong with me.

We consoled each other. We caught up with each other. We laughed and we cried together.

We communicated in facial expressions and subtle eye movements, a language my husband affectionately named Martin speak. I never thought about it until then, but we all do that. A raised eyebrow from across the room is unmistakable.

One night as we talked, my uncle shared a sentiment he had read during cancer treatment a few years ago. He said, “You can’t stop misery from coming, but you don’t have to give it a chair to sit in.”

That’s exactly what I’ve been doing- letting misery sit and stay. My own worries have kept me down. The things I carry with me as permanent battle wounds can (and should) be shaken off.

It has taken me 32 years, but I realize now what an extraordinary family I have. I am not an outsider, nor am I a disappointment. I am a Martin. We fit just fine.

Saying Goodbye to Grandpa

Just when I thought I was fitting back into my day-to-day routine, life threw me another whammy.

My grandpa died last week. It was a complete shock because he hadn't been having any serious health issues. I'm still stunned and finding it hard to believe he is gone.

Grandpa was still really active. He just turned 86, yet he had recently been helping a new neighbor with some home renovations. He had fixed the church organ which hadn't worked in years. The church thought it was a lost cause, but grandpa spent many hours taking it apart and reconstructing it until it played better than ever. He was singing in the church choir and standing at the door to greet the congregation every Sunday. He worked and he gave until the very end.

Last Wednesday he was helping my uncle with a project. He was fine one minute and the next minute he sat down on the garage floor saying he wasn't feeling well. My uncle took him to the hospital right away. From there, he was transferred to another hospital for tests. The next morning he was being helicoptered to a heart hospital for emergency surgery on an aortic aneurism. A few hours after surgery he died.

I'm heartbroken. He was a wonderful, funny, and kind man. He and my grandma just celebrated their 63rd anniversary. That kind of love doesn't happen often, but it happened for them.

I remember visiting them every summer when I was growing up. When I was still in elementary school, I slept in a little side bed in my grandparents room. One visit in particular my grandma snored the whole night and I asked my grandpa the next day how he could sleep with all of that snoring. He said, "Well, I kind of like it. It lets me know grandma is still with us."

Grandpa always had an answer for everything and that one has stuck with me for 25 years now.

I had just taken my husband and stepson to meet my grandparents last summer. I'm so glad that we made that trip. If we hadn't, they never would have seen his big, goofy smile and witness grandpa's love for his family.

My grandpa was a devout baptist. He loved his family and he loved his church. I have no doubts that he made it to those pearly gates.

I miss him.