I haven’t done a Wayback Wednesday post in a while and I miss doing them So I will start again. Here is a photo of who we think is my Great Grandfather, Wilfred Boucher. I have been thinking a lot about him, especially since I visited his grave last year. The man has a lot of secrets. And I kind of want to find out what they are.
The day before yesterday a young man approached the Reference Desk asking for books that would teach him Gaelic. I found him some books and we chatted for a bit. He mentioned that he wanted to learn more about his Irish heritage. I asked if he planned on visiting Ireland soon. “Someday,” he said. I totally understood his need to get in touch with his roots, because I have felt it too.
Later that evening I went to my friend’s house for dinner. She thought that we should do something to honor the changing of the season, so she did this ritual before dinner in which she lit a candle and we thanked our ancestors. She was very eloquent in the way she spoke about this but I can’t really recall all that she said because in my head I was going, “WTF universe! I can’t believe she is talking about this!”
Ever since I went to Paris I’ve had this insatiable need to learn about my genetic roots. When I was in France I, weirdly, felt like I belonged there. In a way I have never felt anywhere before. I felt a deep connection. Rafael looked around at the people and said, “Monica, you totally look French.” And, indeed, when I looked around I could see that also. Even the short time I was there I felt like I understood myself a bit better. My quirky way of being seemed to make sense in France.
It is possible for your genes, for your body, to feel a sense of connection to a place? I don’t know how else to describe it.
The thing is, I don’t have a strong connection to my cultural heritage at all. My step-dad was Irish and that Irish pride runs super deep with Irish Americans. Crazy deep. But this isn’t really the case so much with people of French descent living in America. In fact, I almost feel weird telling myself that I am of French descent. I want to also attach “Canadian” to it because my ancestors migrated to Canada from France in the 1600’s. It seems super far-removed to say that I am French in any way. I know very little about the history there, and I don’t know how to speak French at all (I’m learning though!). Yet I still felt a connection to the place when I was there.
So there she was, my friend at dinner, talking about connecting with our ancestors. And it was awesome. And so, in my head, I thanked Pierre Boucher, my ancestor who migrated from France to Quebec with his father in 1635, for being my ancestor, for providing me with these genes.
Me and my older brother again. This was taken in January of 2000. Raf and I had just moved into our apartment in Santa Cruz. The one down the street from the beach. I just started my job at Santa Clara. My dad and brother stayed at our house while they went to a basketball tournament at Santa Clara.
This photo was taken the same week as these photos. 1997. 28 years old. I was meeting my niece, Elizabeth, for the first time.
A few months ago I had a conversation with my niece on Facebook. It was her 21st birthday and, apart from that making me feel old, I was remarking on how long it had been since I had seen her. I recalled that the last time I saw her was in 1997 when I was visiting Spokane and the family took a day trip to Lake Pend O’reille in Idaho. It was a fun day. I recalled such details, down to what I was wearing and what I was reading. I was about ready to start my American Literature degree at UCSC and was preparing myself for a class by reading one of the books. It was terrible. The Sorrows Of Young Werther was the name of it. Regardless, I remember being very happy that day. The future was full of promise and happiness and it seemed like I could feel it.
I found the photos from that day at my mom’s house a few weeks ago!
The camera that these were taken with was interesting. It was made by Kodak. You had to buy special film for it and could choose between three sizes of prints. The choice was made on the camera. One of the choices was panorama.
Here are some other shots from the day:
My big brother and me. I am not sure why we are all dressed up. I think it might be his first communion. We both look so serious. I must be very proud of my purse because I am holding it in front of me to show it off. Totally love that I am wearing sneakers. I hope I wore them to church. I probably threw a fit to wear them.
Looking at these old photos has me thinking a lot about the square format. I will write more about it tomorrow.
A month ago this newspaper clipping mysteriously appeared attached to my locker at work. From this article I learned that the Sandy Historical Museum has taken over the care of the Cherryville Cemetery and they hosted a cleanup day last Saturday (Read this post and this post for background on this family mystery/saga. Preita has some nice photos of it on her blog, too. ). I was so incredibly stoked! Unfortunately I had to work that day. I was seriously sad about that because I feel like I have some kind of family duty to the care of that place (having cousins buried there). I think I will see how I can get involved, though, in the restoration. It’s an important piece of local history that was almost swallowed up by the Oregon wildness. How sad!
One our way home from our (kinda depressing) hike yesterday we decided to stop by the cemetary to see how the cleanup went. I was rather skeptical that they would get anything done with it. That place was seriously in need of major work. A simple cleanup in which people bring their garden tools wasn’t going to do the trick.
I was so wrong!
They did an AMAZING job! It looks really good. It’s not completely cleared out, there is still ivy growing all over the place (that I tripped on, of course. The oregon forest is trying to kill me.), but you can actually walk up to the grave sites. I am so pleased!
A nice ending to the day!