It’s done. Well. It’s done for now.

I’ll put chunks of it up for you to read for the parts that are okay, once it starts to wander – in true NaNo unedited style – I will spare you.

My drive for writing this particular story is that I’m so invested in the history of my family – to me, anything resembling theology isn’t the point, it’s just the means to get me the setting I need. I have spent so much time collecting names and dates – but I wanted to humanize the stories. So, things like the names and births and deaths that you’ve read so far – that happened, that’s all real – I just don’t know the stories behind them, but I can imagine…

I’ve learned a lot, just from taking the time to do some simple math.

Like I didn’t realize that my great great grandmother Ellen was 15 when she married.

Or that another spent a span of 23 years more often pregnant than not.

Or that my great great grandmother Abby had her first daughter die while she was pregnant with her second, and that her husband died 16 days before she delivered her fourth daughter.

I’ve always known of these women in my family because their photos were on our walls, and most of my mom’s side of the family is buried in 2 cemeteries within a couple of miles of each other – I’ve always known these names.

DNA passes from mother to daughter and from father to son. There’s a lot of to-do about genetic DNA testing to find halotypes to match family genealogies. Which this has really brought to my attention that I am the last female in my mom’s family – the DNA of several women terminates with me – I am the end of a branch of the family started in 1866 with the birth of my great great grandma Abby. Things end with me. The feeling of being in a matriarchal family, filled with strong women – I am the last – It’s the thing that makes me second guess not having any more children.

I wanted to get to know these stories better. To find the humanity. It was going well and then …

My great great grandma Ellen had a boy named Sheridan – I knew he died young, but I did the math – and none of this was fun anymore. Not for now. Sheridan was 7 months old when he died. Which didn’t seem like anything … I kind of already knew it … he was a baby, he died … okay … lots of babies died back then. It didn’t hit me … It wasn’t personal … I couldn’t relate …
But … now … Alex is 7 months old. I know what Alex does – I know how he crawls and laughs and smiles at me – I know what his voice sounds like – I know how he eats – How he pulls up, how he wants to see every. thing. I. am. doing. I know how he’s daily more of a little person – his own little person. And now I know that little Sheridan mattered. He wasn’t just another number – he was his own little person too – and …

I have no words. I got what I was looking for – I found the humanity – I’ll do more with the story at some point, but for now I’ve done what I set out to do, and I need to set it aside – I think I got more than I bargained for. And it kind of hurts.