Every Picture Tells a Story Baby (send up to The Kinks)

Sometime around 1943, a young army Air Corp Sergeant stationed in Newfoundland is asked by his buddy to join him and his girlfriend and her friend for a night out. The young sergeant begs off. He really doesn't want to go. His buddy keeps after him. He tells him that his gal's pal is pretty. Maybe he used the term "a real looker." Whatever he said, he ended up convincing the young sergeant to go with him. They went to the USO for dinner, and then to a movie. He saw her again the next night. And the next, and the next. And thus begins a history, that somehow leads to me. I love the stories of how my grandparents met. I love the details. I want to know more! I love hearing what they wore, or the kind of car that they drove. I love my families history. Both my mother's and my father's. The story of my hungry Grandaddy courting my Grandmama. He wouldn't eat at her house because there were so many children and such little food. He would put a bisquit into his coat pocket before church and after church, he would make his way to my Grandmama's house, stuffing his mouth with cold bisquit because he didn't want to take any food from my Grandmama's sisters and brother's.

Both sets of my grandparents are from Kentucky. And while my parents have long since divorced, i crave the connection between my 2 families. I am amazed at how we come together. how we fit and who we are. I love to pour over pictures of my cousins and their families. It is so amazing, becuase even though we may not know each other well, we have a connection. Sometimes it is a very physical connection. Today, at my sweet grandparent's house I was looking at pictures. I found a very good picture of my GrandpaEarnie's late brother, Troy. I was completely amazed at how much I favored him. How strange. I have been feeling insatiable about the stories of my family lately. Maybe it's because this is the first time as an adult I have ever lived near them. I'm not sure. Whatever it is, I love how the family tree works down to me....and how I perpetuated it even further.

I love looking at photo albums. Any one who knows me knows this. If I have been to your house, I have more than likely seen your baby pictures and your wedding pictures and maybe even pictures of you having your children. The mystery of what makes us who we are is so fascinating to me. I saw a baby picture of my dad today. It was his first birthday. He is looking at his cake, but tucked behind his ear is a little curl. That baby is now my daddy, and my children's Grandaddy. But something about that sweet baby curl touched me. I am connected to that curl. To the sweet little chubby baby legs. That sweet, innocent baby boy became my daddy. The picture of my Mama sitting on the floor in a sunbeam holding a newspaper. I love to examine that picture for clues, looking for the girl, and the woman that my Mama later became. I will pour over baby pictures of my cousins looking for likenesses. Looking for connections. I am totally intrigued by connections. And by history. The history of what makes me, me. The sweet ancient pieces of my family, that slowly fall away with each passing year. Yes it's very sentimental. But each of those pieces of my own personal history have a story. And my god....do I love a good story. Thousands of little pieces of DNA all swirling around that helped create me, and I, in turn, helped create my own little pieces of history. My own curly-headed DNA that each have their own story. Life goes on. Sweet..............