What is it about the ancient things that draws us to them? The nostalgia of black and white photos is so alluring, so unreachable yet somehow so familiar. I look into the eyes of those who came before me and see the hopes and dreams I dare not deny, yet I cannot fully know them. These who once were living, breathing souls, full of hopes and dreams and passion for things far beyond their reach. Their blood flows through my veins now, though their breath has long ceased, their hearts’ last beat no longer remembered, the sound of their voice lost to eternity.

Yet still they live on. I see the dark shades of fire in my daughter’s eyes when she gets excited and her entire face is alight with emotion. The same fire that burned quietly in the eyes of my grandmother, even as an aging woman (as I was only ever able to know her), the embers were still there, burning quietly beneath years of wisdom. I can hear the sound of my great grandfather’s laugh when my mother shakes with joy, a sound that starts somewhere way down in her soul and bursts out of her whole body. I feel the strength of the men who came before him when my daddy, now himself aging in years, wraps me in a hug only a real father can give.

I am transported to a time when the world was different, more calm yet full of possibility and hope. I see things in black and white through these still moments they preserved, but oh how vivid the colors must have been! Ladies in their finest dresses, men in suits for all occasions; young couples who truly understood love and honor for one another and worked hard to create a life better than their own for the children they raised together. It is a painfully sweet longing I have to experience this life through their eyes; how odd it seems that they likely looked to the future and may have tried to imagine it through ours.

It’s not as if I am naive enough to think they had it all figured out or somehow things were perfect then; of course they had their struggles. Our society has made such leaps and bounds in medicine and wellness, what used to be an accomplishment of living to see your 60s and 70s is now nothing more than a footnote in an average life span. But if our length of life is the only thing that’s been elongated, and the QUALITY has little been improved, or in some cases lessened, have we really advanced at all? What legacy do we leave if it does not command the same level of respect and admiration as those who paved the way for us to do so in the first place?

There are precious few things I would not give to sit around the supper table for an evening with all of my grandparents, great grandparents and great great grandparents. The stories they could tell! The secrets to our family’s lineage I could uncover- not just the docile niceties of names and birth dates and when and how, but the LIFE behind those bits of information. The things that make us who we were, who we are now. Why are my fingers long and slender? Where does my love of writing come from? Who in our family was the most adventurous and longed to see the world as I do? How on earth did we end up in Ohio of all places? Which one of my matriarchs has given me my love for all things beautiful and rare? What did the men of our line do to possibly catch the eye and win the heart of the women the married? And for the love of all that is good, how did they raise so many babies and keep their sanity?

I’d love to know what life was to them…what was a Tuesday night like? Where were all the good places to eat (aside from their own kitchen of course)? What were their favorite things? What were they passionate about? What did they want to be when they grew up? All of these things may seem silly to you as you read this, but to me, knowing where I come from is the only way I believe we can ever figure out where we are going. I’ve traced my family lines back hundreds, some even a thousand years…yet it’s still not enough. There are still so many unanswered questions. There are pieces of me that are missing, and not a single ad has been placed by anyone else to find them. That is the grand adventure of this life, isn’t it? Figuring out just exactly who you are; moreover, finding a way to hold onto that truth with both hands and refuse to let the world take it away from you once you’ve found it.

After thirty five years (about 23 of those spent toiling away with this genealogy business), I’ve barely scratched the surface of myself, but I’ve learned more than most. I come from the strongest, heartiest of people on both sides of the ladder. My father’s family have always been hard working, tough and strong people (with a splash of drinkers, brawlers and “you-don’t-take-shit-from-anyone” for good measure); while my mother’s side were the family oriented, albeit old fashioned and slightly quiet-during-chaos type. My daddy’s Bennett’s came to this country in the mid-1500s and quietly settled a great deal of Virginia. A host of other long time American names pepper his branches in my tree. The strength from their old world lives has been honed and refined every generation dating back to the dark ages until finally settling upon my shoulders.

On my mama’s side of things reside the Germans, names like Himes, Graybill, Kramer, Oaks (along with their boisterous and hard headed natures) rest along the most colorful of them all- the Italians. The Saracino’s, Loudiana’s, Tolve’s and Montasano’s are the people I draw closest too in both looks and personality. Their often dark features and colorful expressions have clouded my character since I was a child. The warmth of their spirits fuel me to press on when life grows cold, reminding me there is good in the world.

All in all I am a good mix of all the good things one could hope for, and a far share of the darkest misgivings a human psyche has to offer. Perhaps that explains my propensity for writing, for creation and wanting to “leave my mark” on this world using something as ordinary as a set of 26 letters rearranged into endless combinations of words, all geared to help bring to life what is unspeakable inside of our hearts.

Everyday I look into the mirror and staring back at me are countless years of lives; all the hard work and sacrifice given up for someone they never met, a girl they will never get to know but who they know better than anyone else ever will. We are all the result of the love of thousands and don’t even realize it, but once we do, we can never forget it. The reflection in my mirror is not my own to criticize or critique, but rather one to be so thankful for, to admire, and to make proud.

Gratefully,

– KB (Kate “Saracino” Bennett)