Historical Research Observations

I spent Good Friday--a beautiful, sunny, Michigan day--locked in the basement of the Manistee County Historical Museum, working on my National Register nomination. The box of research that was supposed to make my life easy this semster is still among the missing, so I tried to recreate as much of it as I could in 8 short hours. Sitting cross-legged on a rickety old chair with my laptop playing jazz softly in the background, I read through 80 years of building information for Manistee. I found out a lot about Portage Lake in Onekama, where my great grandfather once ran a boat livery, and about the businesses that started up in the downtown area of Manistee and were then rebuilt after numerous fires, but house information was scant. I even found an article about my brother's building on Taylor Street, which was an auto place even as early as 1916. Still, not much about the houses on Cedar St. and the people who lived in them. I could get frustrated and quit. I could...but I won't. Instead I'll relate a little of what I learned from my experience at the Museum.

For one thing, after seeing the basement of the A.H. Lyman Company, the site the Museum calls home, it's obvious why the curator can't find the box of information I need. I don't know how he finds anything at all. Nothing is cataloged really, except in his mind. It's amazing that he can find as much as he does, but that doesn't really help this poor researcher. I walked briefly through his "stacks". Shelves upon shelves of old photo albums, books, boxes of papers. It's an historian's dream and nightmare all rolled into one. The collection is amazing, but darn near impossible to use.

I also learned that local historical societies, at least this one, are much more lax in almost every aspect. I'm used to the Chicago Historical Society's rather imposing set of rules, no big binders, no bags, no pens, no food or drink, no photocopying things printed before 1900. There were no such rules at the Museum. I could photocopy whatever I wanted, though I was careful not to damage anything as I did so. I was allowed to have my bag with me and to use a pen to write. Heck, the other researcher with me in the basement on Friday was slurping happily on an open mug of coffee while reading papers from the 1800s! Talk about a disaster waiting to happen.

I think the most important experience though was merely going there. I had been to the Museum numerous times over the years. I looked at all the old stuff and marveled at it, but I never stopped to ask questions about any of it. Now I'm questioning...I'm putting the puzzle together and trying make it make sense. Names that had only been the names of streets to me as a kid now have lives, faces, and business, pasts, presents, and futures. They played intricate roles in creating and building the community I'm proud to call my home, each in their own way. It's unbelievably exciting to see the puzzle come together. Of course, then again, I'm a history geek and I enjoy that sort of thing :-)

Home Again

For the second time in two weeks or so I am going home, back to dear old Manistee, Michigan. I am spending Easter with my family after 10 years or more of celebrating it on my own, wherever I happened to be. Of course, this isn't just a family trip. I wish it was. Instead, on Good Friday, when I should be contemplating the Passion of Christ or at the very least enjoying generous helpings of shrimp salad, I will be locked in the Manistee County Historical Museum trying to recreate months of research in 8 hours. Ah, the joys of historical work.

In any case, I am more bittersweet about this trip. I love my family. They are really good people. Quirky, but good. My mother and I are like sisters...we giggle and laugh like school girls even though there's 32 years between us. I can talk about just about anything with her. There aren't many people who can say that about they're mothers. She's pretty hip for a 60 year old. Not many kids can taut that they're mothers listen to Aerosmith, Metallica, Wallflowers, and Eric Clapton, among others.

My dad and I are kindred spirits. He's obsessive about things, as am I. He's the king of procrastination (there is a reason why our front door handle hasn't worked in 12 years). I try hard (or rather don't try hard at all) to be just like him :-) He's a history buff with an intense need to know details about everything. He'll pick your brain for hours if you let him. He drives me crazy, and I love him for it. He is knowledgeable about the world in ways that I could only dream, and though he drives me crazy with is long lectures about various topics, I listen in the hopes of becoming half the person he is.

Then there's my brother. He's 5 years older than me and always my silent protector. We couldn't be more different though. I am a bookworm who still loves school (despite my protesting toward the end of each semester). He is a car nut who can't stand the thought of formal education. Where I can write a paper about a particular historical topic, sing a song in a bar, or edit just about anything, he can build cars, rewire a house, or upholster just about anything. How much more different can you get? He can't understand why I would want to live in a big city and I can't understand why he wouldn't. We don't fight though, never have, but we don't talk. We're strangers in a lot of ways, and I know that my life in Chicago is the reason for the distance both actual and figurative. As brother and sister, we share the common bond of being adopted, of having low self-esteem sometimes, and of being too sensitive for our own goods. We don't bond per se, but our respect and love for one another is there, if silenty kept. I don't tell him nearly enough, I am deeply proud him and what he's done with his life. I guess I hope he knows it.

And finally, my grandmother. She's 87 and as difficult as they come. She's kind, warm, and loving. She's also childish, manipulative, and slowly driving my mother crazy. I love her still, despite the goofiness she puts us all through. I know that when she is gone I will miss her terribly. She's my last link to the "Greatest Generation." When I can get her off the subject of her health problems and what her neighbors have been doing, she tells great stories about growing up in the Depression, dating my grandfather, moving to New York when he enlisted in the army, working in a shoe factory, and raising my mother, hellraiser that she was. We've discovered some of the stories aren't true, but the reality of who she is hasn't diminished my memories of her. She's a proud woman with a good heart. She's lived through some rough times, and I admire her longevity. I wish she was more active, more self-sufficient, but she is the embodiment of what women were supposed to be in her generation. I can't really argue with that. I just love her in spite of it.

I have a wonderful family, so why you might ask am I bittersweet about seeing them? There's so much going on in my head that I need to tell them, so many feelings that I need to sort out. But I have no idea where to begin in relating it all to them, so I end up telling them nothing. This weekend I will smile and tell them everything's OK when it's not. I will tell them that I'm happy when I'm not. Not because I enjoying lying to them, but because I feel like I have to. I don't know why. I wish I did.

Work

I'm so glad I came to work today. After having a frustrating research weekend at the Manistee County Historical Museum, I came back into work today only to find that the evaluation I was writing still isn't good enough (I don't spend this much time on research papers folks) and the page review meeting I was supposed to prepare for has been cancelled because the pages are "awful" (according to my boss). To top it all off, not one person has welcomed me back. It's like I don't exist. Happy St. Patty's day to me.

Racquetball!

OK, I usually don't enjoy getting my butt kicked in sports. My mom says I have this look about me when I lose, like if I could kill my opponent by looking at them I would. But last night was different. Last night I didn't mind that I only scored 1 point in a game that goes to 15. I had fun, and for the first time I was content with that. I'm no less competitive, mind you. I still leave everything I have on the court, but I'm much more good natured about it. Maybe because I've finally realized that my self-worth does not depend on whether I win or lose a game. It's nice to be able to relax a bit that way.

So, let me just say that I LOVE racquetball. I wasn't sure if I would, but I really love it. It's fast-paced and challenging and tiring, but is also one of the more enjoyable sports I've been involved in over the years. I can't say enough about it. And although my left arm feels weak and the rest of my body is aching in ways I didn't think were possible, I can't wait to play again!

Oh, and for those of you who are familiar with my propensity for spraining ankles and wrists...neither happened last night. Two hours of racquetball and no injuries. Yay!

Out of the Blue

My phone doesn't usually ring in the evenings, unless it's my mother. So, last night when my phone began its version of Pachebel's Canon in D, I assumed it was her. Without looking at the screen, I answered it. Only to be greeted by the voice of someone I have not heard from in several years. I receive her and her husband's monthly newsletter, but to say that I have actually spoken to her I think it's been at least 3 years. Gabi Tiessen is her name. She was Gabi Deckinga when we lived together our senior year at Hope College and when she was a bridesmaid in my wedding. I have a deep admiration for this woman. She is the only one out of the four of us roommates who actually did exactly what she said she was going to do when she graduated. The summer after graduation she left her family and friends behind and went to Azerbaijan to translate bibles. She is a wiz with language, speaking Spanish, French, and Russian fluently, and an extremely committed Christian. She's not the kind of Christian who tries to save your soul by pounding the word of God into your head. Rather, she shows you how to live a good life through her soft voice and generous actions. She is a deeply spiritual individual, and I admire that.

She's moved around a lot over the last few years, from Azerbaijan to Central Asia (Tajikistan, to be exact) to Russia to many smaller towns and villages in between. And what she's learned from all of that traveling and interacting with other cultures is apparent in everything she says. She's much more worldly and grounded in reality than I think most Americans are in their late 20s. She's seen what the world has to offer and has already figured out what's really important. She reminded me how much more I have to learn about life and what really matters.

She's been in the states now since Thanskgiving, catching up with her family and getting to know her husband Calvin's family a little better. They were here in Chicago for some training, which is why she called me. I would have loved the opportunity to have actually seen her, but a phone call was a great substitute. I got to hear about her new position with the organization she's been working with, what Calvin will be doing, and that they are returning to Azerbaijan on Thursday for the next 5 years at least. I filled her in on what's been going on in my life, which paled by comparison to what she's been doing with hers. It somehow felt selfish to talk about making money and doing theatre and singing in bars when she has devoted her life to serving others. Without even trying, she made me realize that I need to use the gifts I have to help others whenever I can.

We were on the phone for almost an hour, and it was a bittersweet good-bye when it came time to hang up. I never realized how much I missed her positive influence in my life until I knew I wouldn't see her again. I doubt that she will ever really return to the States again, and that makes me very sad. After we hung up I realized that I've never told her how proud I am of what she's doing or how much I admire her. I hope that she knows it anyway.

Touching the Past

As many of you know, my Irish heritage is a great source of pride for me. In part it connects me to the larger international Irish community, in part to my father's heritage, and in part to my biological parents, wherever they may be. It gives me a place to belong where I am unique, but not alone, and I embrace it wholeheartedly. When I started my graduate program, I had in the back of my mind a hope of finding my father's family, of completing his family history. Then, my mother's. Though not Irish (German, in fact), no less important. My dad was and is so proud of his fmily tree. He used to spend hours when I was a kid looking at the flimsy fax paper copies with me, having me read the names and dates, trying to figure out if he recognized anyone, and telling me stories about the ones he did remember. It was bonding time for the two of us, and those times were what originally sparked my interest in history. Well that, and my great grandmother telling me about coming from Kansas to Onekama, MI in a covered wagon. Pretty cool stf.

I guess I thought it would take a miracle for me to find them. Although we had information dating back to Ireland in the 1830s from my great uncle William's research, we had nothing really concrete, just family rememberances mostly. That was until I took a class in Irish history. Because I was a grad student taking an undergrad class, I had extra work to do...a 10-page paper on some aspect of Irish history. It was the perfect opportunity for me to use my father's to illustrate emigration patterns prior to the Great Potato Famine. Unfortunately, being the very private individual that my father is, he didn't want me to use it. I'm used to hitting roadblocks at libraries and historical societies, but not with my own family. It took some convincing, but he finally relented, and I was allowed to use it. I would have done it anyway--it was too good of a source not to use--but he didn't need to know that.

From William's research, I found that the family didn't actually come through the United States until much later. They actually settled in Canada first, Amherst Island to be exact. Apparently, this was not uncommon, given that Canada was still British territory then and travelling within the empire would be much cheaper than travelling out of it. In researching the island, I found a book, A New Lease on Life, written by Catharine Wilson. On a lark, a looked through the index and found "McGrattan." Convinced these couldn't be the same McGrattan's, my father's ancestors, I went to the pages and read. I went to the appendix and looked at the immigration records listed there. Unbelievably, these were the same people. Thrilled and in shock, I bought two copies of the book and gave one to my father with the pages marked where his family was, along with a copy of the paper I wrote. More fun bonding with my dad.

Yesterday, a new thrill occurred. A while ago, I had managed to track down a few of the people who provided source material to Wilson while she was writing her book, relatives of my dad's. And yesterday, one of his relatives came through. I received poetry written by my great grandmother's grandfather and photographs of him and his wife and some of their children. I can hardly believe that I can see them...they really exist. I can't wait to show my father what I've found. It will be a very special treat to present him with a binder containing the photos and emails I've collected since I started this. And I feel excited and honored to be a part of it. This is why I do history and why I will always do history, even if nobody pays me for it.

Reading Again

What a sad statement of affairs this is. Once I got to college, I lost my enjoyment of reading for the fun of it. After having spent most of my life devouring books--anything that I could get my hands on pretty much--academics took precedence. I haven't really read anything for fun since then. It's sad considering that I went to college for a degree in English Literature, to gain a better appreciation of literature as a whole, to do what I enjoyed. Then I added a History degree to challenge and reformulate my concepts of life and how we got to where we are today. This, of course, was accomplished by reading book upon book, journal article upon journal article, about various aspects of history. You'd think after all that I'd still be an avid reader, but I haven't been. Now granted, I am an editor and therefore read every day for my job, but that's not the kind of reading I'm thinking of. While nuts and bolts, light bulbs, welding, and kitchen sinks are all riveting subjects, I don't get a warm fuzzy feeling of curling up with my 4000-page catalog, a hot cup of tea, and a purring cat for an evening of pleasant reading.

So, my New Year's resolution was to get back into reading. So far this year, I've been pretty pathetic about it. I've read Devil in the White City, Jon Stewart's America, and the graphic novel Jimmy Corrigan: The Smartest Kid on Earth, but that's about it. That is until last week when I started The Subtle Knife by Philip Pullman. It's the sequel to The Golden Compass, which I read a couple of years ago. I couldn't put it down. That hasn't happened since I read Lloyd Alexander's Prydain series last fall. It felt good to devour a book again. I can't wait to read the last in the series, The Amber Spyglass.

This new-found excitement in reading has sparked me to create a list of books I want to read or should read. Here's where I need help. I have my own books that I haven't read yet, but I also have some seriously large holes in my literature repertoire. I'd appreciate any suggestions that people might have about good books to read. I don't want to limit my reading to one particular genre...I want to get as much exposure to a variety of subjects as possible. So, if anybody has any suggestions...Bring 'em on!