- My father’s grandfather died years before I was born, and I only knew him through photos.
- A few years ago, I started looking at genealogy to better understand my family.
- I learned a lot about my grandfather, and while I will not know him personally, I’m so proud of her.
I have never met my paternal grandfather, but he has always been a greater figure than life in our family. Known with love by my older cousins like Grandpa Louie, he was born in 1919 and died in 1987, only a few short years before I was born. I often felt robbed of a relationship with him, though stories and photos fill some of the remaining holes from his absence.
Sometimes, if I try enough, I can almost imagine being the butt of his silly jokes, playing family games made with him in the front yard, or looking for tales of his life as a truck driver and his work with Teamsters in Flint, Michigan. It helps a little that my father and his six brothers separate many of his grandfather’s physical attributes Louie (the chief of brushes between them), but the feeling of loss remains.
When I decided to dive into the family genealogy a few years back, my goals were simple: I wanted to open the way that led my family to Michigan from the outside. I knew more about my grandmother’s backstage, but not so much for Louie grandfather. I enrolled in antcestry.com and Pigeon, uncertain if I would find anything interesting.
I never expected how it would make me feel.
I found a lot
Within days of the beginning of my search, I would discover treasures. There were photos of my grandfather I had never seen along with the military documents displaying his signature. I calculated his age at every step, finding a context for family history and drawing comparisons with my life. Years ago, I would list through a box of sweet love letters exchanged between my grandfather Louie and my grandmother while he served abroad. These felt like a beautiful presentation for grandfather. Genealogy approached me even closer.
I pigeon in my grandfather’s new years by humiliating newspapers from his little hometown, feeling shrewd when I would find his or his loved ones. Wonderful Mundanness captured my imagination: there were descriptions of eggs and farm trades for “good pigs” among my excellent uncles. A frequent topic on paper was reporting on the latest injuries and illnesses affecting my grandmother, Louie’s mother. And perhaps more adorable, I was prevented in a letter published on Santa Claus written by my grandfather at the age of seven.
I felt closer to him the more I found
The deeper I dug them, the closer I felt with this man who is such a part of mine, but I have never seen him in the eye. Through photos, documents and newspapers cuttings – some of which were never seen by my father or his sisters – I felt like Grandpa Louie, and I was working on a secret project together as if he were leaving me to find out throughout his life.
Even more so, I traced my grandfather’s mother’s line back to Ireland through my third grandmother, Sabina, who left the island of Achill during the potato starvation. Only 22 years old, she made the dangerous trip to Canada by boat and emigrated to the United States, where she was settled, married and continued the family line that allowed me to exist.
The objurities discovered during my genealogical journey included the locals’ stories about Sabina’s warm behavior, the hard work and useful nature for sharing the stories of her life in Ireland. Because she lived in the 1990s, I was lucky enough to find two photos of Sabina – such treasures and unexpected rewards in my search.
As I continued to track grandfather Louie’s life through the birth of 10 his children and his proud career as a truck driver, I inevitably arrived in 1987, the year he died of complications from leukemia. There were smells that listed the foundations of his life and death, yes, but there were also articles of newspapers that paid homage to his work.
Part of the Flint Journal described it as calm and with good humor, even citing some of Grandpa’s jokes. I don’t know what his voice looked like, but reading his words is a gift. Other post -death parts praised his dedication to the work of the union, describing it as an “institution”. I didn’t know how to feel such pride for someone you would never meet was possible.
Did not return again
My dives in the world of amateur genealogy did not return my grandfather, nor has it completely facilitated the widespread sadness, I think our paths never passed. But this has given me the gift of knowledge and the ability to connect with my grandfather like any version of myself-from the little boy who wrote the letter to Santa Claus to the young military man in the driver and father with a person greater than life.
There is peace to know that the seemingly everyday things we leave behind can matter to those who come after us. The documents we sign, the photos we present, the quick quotas we share with local reporters, annual books and letters. These small slices of personal history create a portal between us and members of our family.
It will always be true that I have never met my grandfather Louie. No quantity of research, photographs or sparkled articles can change it. But I am comforted to know that so many parts of it are still here, very alive, securely inserted into my genealogical findings files.