For years I have been delving into genealogy, especially after my maternal Grandmother, Hazel, died and I was gifted with a box of her research that none of the family wanted or understood. The box was large and heavy with binders, notes, photographs, and treasures that made my heart sing and set me on my journey toward researching my maternal family lines. Sometime later, I was also gifted with two volumes of rich well-written stories of my grandparents’ lives during the early 1900s, as told to one of my aunts. The truth is, I always knew more about my maternal side than my paternal, but I had a mystery to solve.

Grandma Hazel was the family historian for many years but she was never able to find information regarding Grandpa Marty’s mother who died when he was three years old. In those days, before the internet made family research commonplace, it was difficult to get your hands on essential documents unless you made a trip to the building where the information was stored, or you wrote letters and waited for weeks for a response. In the quest to find my great-grandmother, I easily picked up where Grandma left off.

Grandpa’s mother’s name was Johanna “Hannah” Buetow Bauman. For hours each weekend, I worked on Ancestry dot com looking for information to piece Hannah’s young life together. After digging, I found a census record showing that she lived in Minnesota in the late 1800s until her death. After I pinned down a city and details about her father. I finally found some online newspapers that led me to both her and her father’s obituary! However, I was not able to access the information due to a paywall that I could not afford. As I was about to give up, I contacted the appropriate newspaper to see how I could get the two obituaries for less than a subscription price. By providing details that I already knew from family stories and from my own research, I was offered the obituaries via email at no charge!

So, here is the story of my great-grandmother Hannah Buetow who passed away in 1919 at 27 years years young, leaving behind four children ranging in age from six down to two years old. Grandpa Marty was three years old when Hannah died, and his heart never forgot her.

The headline in the newspaper reads in big bold capital letters: MOTHER OF FOUR DEAD.

The subtitle reads: Sad Death of Mrs. Hannah Buetow Bauman in Itasca County – HERE FOR BURIAL – Two Weeks Earlier she Accompanied Family to New Home.

The obituary tells the story of a young mother with hour children who followed her husband to a small claim he held in the wilderness of Itasca County, 20 or so miles from Deer River. He had gone ahead to get the house everything ready for the family, and two weeks after Johanna and the children- Alvin, Harold, Martin, and Elise- arrived she was dead with Diphtheria. With the plethora of obituary details, I was able to strengthen Hannah’s branch to my family tree, and I was able to see what type of person she was- kind, caring, and very loving.

This type of experience is what I love most about genealogy; searching for detailed information about ancestors so that I may get an idea of what type of person they were, what they cared about, and how they went about their daily lives. I

Next time, I hope to share the story of my paternal great-grandfather who died very young. In the meantime, fruitful searching and happy writing!

It’s been two years since I’ve written on my blog, simply because I did not make myself sit down and write. Oh, I tried, I swear I did!  I occasionally put my butt in the chair, but I could not make the words come. I thought about writing but could not make the words come because they chose to stay in some dark place, stagnant, without a journey.  Instead, I chose art as a mode of expression.  I took art classes and learned how to channel whatever was going on inside of me onto paper and canvas.  

That was before fact-based science and ridiculous conspiracy theories splintered the world, then shattered it, while a pandemic pushed us into a state of emergency.  Some of us—yes, me too—listened to the science and sheltered in place.  I delved more into my art.  I became depressed and worried.  I participated in National Novel Writing Month and got about 15,000 words of a story written.  I created more art but my well of words seemed to run dry more often than not.

The truth is, I can’t figure out what happened during this whole pandemic. I am lucky to have been  working from home since mid-2017, so the pandemic did not change my physical life much, except I could not longer go to the gym or sit at the local coffee shop and chat with friends on my lunch break.  I was also blessed to have my husband during the pandemic, not to be alone like so many other people were.

The pandemic also showed me a whole viewpoint that I was not aware of before. I found myself intolerant of people who touted conspiracy theories about the pandemic, or politicized or religicized (yes, I know this is not a real word) Covid, or simply chose not to follow health guidelines.  Now, in my own community, I have no interest in those businesses that did not respect others during the pandemic by wearing masks and following health guidelines.  I felt like I was ultra-focused on what was going on in the world instead of the stuff that I wanted to get done in my own life.

Now that things are starting to return to normal, I’m feeling more motivated to write. I recently continued working on a short story and I have been researching magazines to send my already completed stories to. I have opened a “shelved” novel and considered the ways that I can revise it or utilized parts that can go into another story.  I have actually starting put in the work required to be a writer.

The pandemic has brought to light that my belief has been that motivation is a motivator when it’s really just an excuse not to sit down and write. For me, motivation is another word for procrastination or laziness, or not taking the time to work on my stories but adding hours of guilt for making that choice. 

So, this is it—to be a writer I must write. I must take action  It might just be working on this blog today, but tomorrow it can be working on my current short story.  And the next day I might not write anything at all, or I might revise my novel. 

Words on paper equal writing. 

Writing is one percent inspiration, ninety-nine percent sitting down and writing.  Like I have done now. 

Every year in early November we look forward to an olive picking party where there is the harvesting of olives from hundreds of trees in a vast orchard. While out picking, sometimes the conversation is humorous and lively, other times serious and introspective, but one thing is for certain; when the voices cease the only sound is the rhythmic thump of olives landing onto tarps and into buckets—like beating hearts working together toward a common goal.

While an olive is an olive, the people who attend this party come from varied places and lifestyles. As a community, we pick from late morning to lunch, share in a fabulous midday meal, go back to the orchard and continue harvesting, then head back inside for supper and dessert. Once our bellies are satisfied, we gather in the living room where musicians play guitars, mandolins, and other instruments, and several join in the singing of age-old songs.

This year, the olive picking party was bittersweet following life-changing events—the May 2017 passing of Marilyn, the matriarch of the family holding the event, and the aftermath of the October fires in Lake County and the surrounding counties. Even with such loss, the unspoken consensus was that death, whether human or nature, encourages new life and opportunity for growth.

With fondness, we laughed about how Marilyn, even well into her eighties, facilitated engaging and outright fun charades. She had the special gift of seeing the good in people, of making each of us feel as if we were the most special person in the room. In fact, I’m sure Marilyn was present in spirit that night to enjoy the conversations about her!

With compassion, we shared how the fires affected us directly or indirectly. Some of us had been evacuated and talked about how we dealt with the fear of losing our homes, and about family and friends who lost everything in the Santa Rosa fires. Others were not in the fire zone but helplessly watched from afar, and listened to the news, not knowing what to do or how to help. No matter what our experience, it was clear that everyone felt a deep gratitude for what we had in that very moment.

Now, with the olive picking party in distant memory and Christmas and the new year quickly approaching, my hope is that I will continue to live in gratitude and pay forward to my community the many blessings that have been given to me.

Happy holidays to all.